At the pop of the ice machine
I turn, startled,
and bring my fingers to my collarbone.
Then, laughing in spite of myself,
I return to brewing tea.
I stay up late to catch myself
in the mirror,
barely glimpsed as I pass
and stop short because
for one second I am only a shape,
and then I am only me,
standing wide-eyed in the doorway.
No matter how deep into this night
I sit waiting,
I cannot trick the foundation settling
into footsteps on the stairs
nor turn the rain that trickles
down the windows into whispers.
"I love you" is the genesis
of every ghost story,
when absence becomes
some tangible thing,
like the soft warmth
of your apple-cinn
I realized recently—
I talk to myself
almost every second I'm alone.
It's how I get most of my thinking done:
conversing
with an audience
in an imaginary lecture hall
or over make-believe lattes
in memories of coffee shops.
Sending dispatches over dead air,
hoping somebody will hear.
Some time ago it occurred to me:
what I do for a living
is sketch the outline of a monster.
I download data
from its so many eyes
and study the intricate patterns worn
in its so many teeth.
Each day a new set of messages
scrawled by its multitude of fingers,
thunder
of its fusillade of footsteps.
I trace its contours
so people will see
It is early August humid, and even in the morning
the day's regime is rising to its oppressive height
and the sun-darkened child is visible well before
the sidewalk underfoot crumbles and sprouts weeds.
He twirls in lazy circles, arms outspread
and bouncing his black halo of hair with each step,
turning away periodically to glance at a huddle
beside a low and rusted storage unit.
When I draw closer, the concrete uneven
in the looming shadow of a converted factory,
I see the clutch of limbs where a woman sits
and cradles a man’s bald, nodding head.
His body is a snapped wire, and she gazes at me
over his shoulder, steady and leade
six days into June
and it coated the city
in inches of grey
slush that looked like snow
but smelled of sulphur
and she was looking out
over frosted trees
curled up on her perch
at the bistro table
by our small round window
with a mug steaming in her hands
and the slate sky
reflected in her eyes
What happens next?
she asked
and I was standing
by the stove and staring
at the cabinets
and thinking about running
water in the sinks
and in the bathtub
I shrugged and said
I don’t know
and setting down her tea
she said
Whatever it is I think
I don't want to see it
and I went on,
checking the door locks
and the window insulati
The Last Most Beautiful Thing by ArcticSix, literature
Literature
The Last Most Beautiful Thing
Specters haunt the night sky,
flicker dimly
and whisper,
across the vacuum
of thirteen billion years,
that time is light
and void is darkness—
that I am a ghost
and you are a memory.
On this rock outcrop,
I gaze across
a short span
of the past
into your eyes
alight like nebulae
and feel fire.
Cinders flutter upward
from the skyline’s
distant glow,
illuminating huddles
of naked humanity
writhing
on the riverbank.
We listen
wait
and watch
for a hush
to silence tides,
a mountain
to stand upright,
a light
to darken suns.
We dangle our feet
in dangerous air,
kiss despite
infinitesimal distance,
and await the sensation
of the las
Learning to Speak the Language by ArcticSix, literature
Literature
Learning to Speak the Language
I am learning to speak the language,
to perfect my accent
and my articulation,
to know when to sweep upwards
in seductive questions
or declare intention
boldly with a line.
I am learning to speak the language,
to keep my tone light
on the outside,
to keep the darkest further in,
and not to speak
in the thick drawl
of an impostor
or a signal of my thin confidence.
I am learning to speak the language—
a vernacular caste
forbidden
by my accident of birth—
to know the little differences
like telling "base" from "foundation"
and how to use them
to approximate a native.
I am learning to speak the language,
although my diction tremble
my wet eyes glisten in the pit
and they are damp like the walls are
damp
and i watch the pale light grow
and i trace it with my fingers
from the murk where i grow
like a shadow at sunset
and i change my shape
like a shadow at sunset
and i watch and i wait
and i want to cast my own
shadow
but now i only watch
and i am all eyes
(or i am mostly eyes)
and i want to taste the air
and i am mostly teeth
(or i am all teeth)
and the pale light draws closer
and my wet eyes glisten
and my wet teeth glisten
and i grow like the
light
i trace with my so many fingers
and i am hungry for the world
and it will be so
dry
and i will see it soon
In the pearlescent haze
of a late autumn morning,
barren blacktop snakes along the bank
between a brown brick canyon
and a ribbon of silver river.
Green trees squat
beside the buildings,
and below them,
a long bright line
of cars that sparkle
blue, white, and red
like a party banner
strung across
a silent room.
This is what they never tell you—
that a cold this deep
will stretch your cellophane skin
and make you conscious
of your every throbbing bone.
that in the deep abyss
your face becomes glacial,
mapped out in how your muscles
shift and groan and creak.
—this is what they hide
behind the thin-lipped pitch,
all teeth and angles,
words that writhe and curl
in oily wisps of sentences
like smoke.
At the pop of the ice machine
I turn, startled,
and bring my fingers to my collarbone.
Then, laughing in spite of myself,
I return to brewing tea.
I stay up late to catch myself
in the mirror,
barely glimpsed as I pass
and stop short because
for one second I am only a shape,
and then I am only me,
standing wide-eyed in the doorway.
No matter how deep into this night
I sit waiting,
I cannot trick the foundation settling
into footsteps on the stairs
nor turn the rain that trickles
down the windows into whispers.
"I love you" is the genesis
of every ghost story,
when absence becomes
some tangible thing,
like the soft warmth
of your apple-cinn
I realized recently—
I talk to myself
almost every second I'm alone.
It's how I get most of my thinking done:
conversing
with an audience
in an imaginary lecture hall
or over make-believe lattes
in memories of coffee shops.
Sending dispatches over dead air,
hoping somebody will hear.
Some time ago it occurred to me:
what I do for a living
is sketch the outline of a monster.
I download data
from its so many eyes
and study the intricate patterns worn
in its so many teeth.
Each day a new set of messages
scrawled by its multitude of fingers,
thunder
of its fusillade of footsteps.
I trace its contours
so people will see
It is early August humid, and even in the morning
the day's regime is rising to its oppressive height
and the sun-darkened child is visible well before
the sidewalk underfoot crumbles and sprouts weeds.
He twirls in lazy circles, arms outspread
and bouncing his black halo of hair with each step,
turning away periodically to glance at a huddle
beside a low and rusted storage unit.
When I draw closer, the concrete uneven
in the looming shadow of a converted factory,
I see the clutch of limbs where a woman sits
and cradles a man’s bald, nodding head.
His body is a snapped wire, and she gazes at me
over his shoulder, steady and leade
six days into June
and it coated the city
in inches of grey
slush that looked like snow
but smelled of sulphur
and she was looking out
over frosted trees
curled up on her perch
at the bistro table
by our small round window
with a mug steaming in her hands
and the slate sky
reflected in her eyes
What happens next?
she asked
and I was standing
by the stove and staring
at the cabinets
and thinking about running
water in the sinks
and in the bathtub
I shrugged and said
I don’t know
and setting down her tea
she said
Whatever it is I think
I don't want to see it
and I went on,
checking the door locks
and the window insulati
The Last Most Beautiful Thing by ArcticSix, literature
Literature
The Last Most Beautiful Thing
Specters haunt the night sky,
flicker dimly
and whisper,
across the vacuum
of thirteen billion years,
that time is light
and void is darkness—
that I am a ghost
and you are a memory.
On this rock outcrop,
I gaze across
a short span
of the past
into your eyes
alight like nebulae
and feel fire.
Cinders flutter upward
from the skyline’s
distant glow,
illuminating huddles
of naked humanity
writhing
on the riverbank.
We listen
wait
and watch
for a hush
to silence tides,
a mountain
to stand upright,
a light
to darken suns.
We dangle our feet
in dangerous air,
kiss despite
infinitesimal distance,
and await the sensation
of the las
Learning to Speak the Language by ArcticSix, literature
Literature
Learning to Speak the Language
I am learning to speak the language,
to perfect my accent
and my articulation,
to know when to sweep upwards
in seductive questions
or declare intention
boldly with a line.
I am learning to speak the language,
to keep my tone light
on the outside,
to keep the darkest further in,
and not to speak
in the thick drawl
of an impostor
or a signal of my thin confidence.
I am learning to speak the language—
a vernacular caste
forbidden
by my accident of birth—
to know the little differences
like telling "base" from "foundation"
and how to use them
to approximate a native.
I am learning to speak the language,
although my diction tremble
my wet eyes glisten in the pit
and they are damp like the walls are
damp
and i watch the pale light grow
and i trace it with my fingers
from the murk where i grow
like a shadow at sunset
and i change my shape
like a shadow at sunset
and i watch and i wait
and i want to cast my own
shadow
but now i only watch
and i am all eyes
(or i am mostly eyes)
and i want to taste the air
and i am mostly teeth
(or i am all teeth)
and the pale light draws closer
and my wet eyes glisten
and my wet teeth glisten
and i grow like the
light
i trace with my so many fingers
and i am hungry for the world
and it will be so
dry
and i will see it soon
In the pearlescent haze
of a late autumn morning,
barren blacktop snakes along the bank
between a brown brick canyon
and a ribbon of silver river.
Green trees squat
beside the buildings,
and below them,
a long bright line
of cars that sparkle
blue, white, and red
like a party banner
strung across
a silent room.
This is what they never tell you—
that a cold this deep
will stretch your cellophane skin
and make you conscious
of your every throbbing bone.
that in the deep abyss
your face becomes glacial,
mapped out in how your muscles
shift and groan and creak.
—this is what they hide
behind the thin-lipped pitch,
all teeth and angles,
words that writhe and curl
in oily wisps of sentences
like smoke.
I would dive into the trenches
of an ocean yet unknown
if only to breathe freely
of your depth and all your blue,
and never seek the surface
if the bottom held your smile.
I will swim your darkest waters
If you'll free me from the sky.
Juliana, you could drown the sea
within your eyes.
Current Residence: Cincinnati, OH Favourite genre of music: Punk Rock, Post Punk, Folk Favourite style of art: Macabre/Fantasy Operating System: OS Lion MP3 player of choice: iPod Video 30GB Favourite cartoon character: Rocko Personal Quote: "When God gives you lemons, you find a new God."
Good news: I was just accepted into the University of Cincinnati with a full scholarship and a job!
Bad news (potentially): Graduate school is a huge commitment. Expect my poetry to drop off sharply after August.
I do have new content to add, I just need to sort through it and decide what is too personal to post and what I should probably redraft a couple hundred more times. My current repertoire of new work touches on some familiar themes with several new love poems, a few poems about space, and some fairly new subject matter in a couple which deal with fate. I'll post them as I decide on the right ones to present.
I believe the poetic flair came back into my mind just recently, and maybe it will stay long enough to write something. Expect an update sometime soon.
I have to say, reading over some of your older works that I used to follow avidly- wow, it's getting to be years ago- I must admit, your poetry meant a lot to me.