Poetry

Medea

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 18:03:34 -0700

Medea

What mother has not thought

in the secret passges

of her mind

"flee for the hills

or kill the bastards.

any way to be free"

the brothers are fighting again

“Mermeros got the fat

and I got none”

“Phereses ate the eyes

and I got none”

these little Jasons

want to conquer her body

breasts and arms

to snatch all the meat

from the soup-pot

she can scarce breathe

in the cave's close heat

she is hungry

she is a single mother

in hiding

taking the blade

she slits their throats

in their afternoon naps

she prays their final dreams

are of a joy

unrelated to conquest

moments later

a fist in the uterus

a limb cut off

she will regret

what cannot be undone

prop them up again

and they fall over

stitch on the heads

it will not work

her healing is done

riding a dragon

rising over princely burial mounds

she will rise

to the moniker

given her

Wiced Medea,

who has no home

but will always have a name

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

7/2008

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Please Welcome Erc!

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 10:13:06 -0700

Dear Neighbors,

Please join me in extending a hearty welcome to Erc http://erc675.vox.com/. His poetry is excellent! Please pop over to see his work. His Kindergarten poem is particularly lovely. I'd publish his work were I an editor.

Lucy, who enjoyed the Seattle thunder showers

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terrible?

nobody@vox.com(rebecca.) — Mon, 12 May 2008 17:19:10 -0700

Songbird Sounds

His girl is a sooty hearth;
Igniting her jaw, he wishes her well.
Her teeth less restrained than the soil that chokes him,
She'll move to sedate him until rage screams, far pent.

But she'll claim a mountain for him,
Turning fingers to fists at lowly peaks.

She blows grains from the hourglass;
He skips 'round the clock.
He hums, a mother at wit's end;
Her linens soak salty as lines entice her ear.
His story obscured, electrical, sullied,
He'll wander the mountains, writhe with song.

But he'll vow a garden for her,
Then swallow the earth that preserves her pulse.

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this guy is good.

nobody@vox.com(rebecca.) — Wed, 21 May 2008 19:22:47 -0700

Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note
By Amiri Baraka

Lately, I've become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus...

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter's room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there...
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands

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evolution

nobody@vox.com(Lucy) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 11:06:32 -0700

Evolution

the gecko curls his feet

in fetal bliss

wax-worm-fed

eyes shuttered against the light

like when he sat in his egg

content in warm goo

dreaming nothingness

and then a light

cracking through

calling him

to break the shell

and struggle out

a hungering

you too passed through ages

in mother's womb

floating in bliss

a lumpy egg

lizard-tailed

pig-snouted

you looked like swine

before you assumed

your primate shape

little skinny monkey

wrinkled

pale as an onion

or the moon

depending on mother's

hormonal moods

Lucy Simpson

Seattle

7/1/2008

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Sasquatch

nobody@vox.com(erc) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 06:42:57 -0700

He is the man few have seen.
He works alone
in stockrooms or as a night watchman
guarding unwanted things.

He is never behind the counter
nor in the kitchen.
He is the man
who has the social skills
to fill containers and racks.

Occasionally
he is found in defunct depots
that have long since
been depleted of function.

Inexplicable sightings
in forgotten corners
give him a mythical life,
a twilight existence
that leaves

foot shaped shadows
where it has crossed
our small-minded paths.

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3 pieces of writing:

nobody@vox.com(qualia) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 15:24:47 -0700

written on the wall

no popular subroutine
of the cafe crowd culture
not looking for the
connectedness
ones and twos
books & computers
headphones over streaming
radio sounds
radial nouns
point to the center
then figure it out.

work from a perspective and feel around.
can't start to detect it until you've spun
dizzy fell and looked up swelling winds
blowing thoughts around
recognizing on the rise
that these are my feet and voice
the next word i sing/speak:
running rhythm to the night

the choice to collect
to draw the map
the technocrat escalation
digging in and dancing in
the sunlight
the interconnected
unconcious
collective
resonantly agreeing
to blank page narration

seeing dreams from dreaming
judging and perceiving
from one body to another
(wear it on your collar)
open and hopeful

we can run the numbers
we can describe the scene
most of all we can say,
we, you and me,
we did what we could
it's still okay to think big...

***

word(s)

he doesn't think it good.

she doesn't think it kind.

who has to say it before

we leap in

just some () people

and no one else,

okay?

***

untitled lyrical

the tower where you work
isn't yours, no, not even close,
and the neighborhood where you
reside isn't your home.
that's still a long time ago;
so you think how did it get
this way? born into a maze
without solution or anyone
keeping track except the
other rats and furry animals
that don't believe in maps--
the streets just latest developments
on a hook for you to buy-in
and save!

on the first wash of the season,
when your block looks
so convincing of their
freshest threads and product:
hair, skin, eyes shimmering;
would it be better to think up
diversions, or speak your thoughts
out, out loud. say enough into
coffee cups and weekend pints
of hops, the new american theme.
pack the streets with our mission:
to make a neighborhood
out of houses and a group
right out your dreams--
alright, alright.

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Kinder

nobody@vox.com(erc) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 08:06:49 -0700

http://metaphorsandwings.googlepages.com/kinder

Often I feel like the youngest
in an eternal kindergarten, then

an ancient oak tree will turn toward me
suddenly as windswept and familiar
as a younger brother.

Old men smile like children;
their faces are snapshots of my son
as a boy, a teenager, a man.

Any mother could be my mother
or daughter depending upon stance, glance,
the way kindness is sheltered or exposed
in her bosom.

A cat warming itself in the sun
looks like an old flame---still not out.
A groundhog reminds me of a roving uncle
a black sheep coming home.

Parents come back as offspring
friends as small birds
that sing of things too great
for small birds to understand.

I look upon my cousin Mort
being led by a child
down a street on a leash.
I look upon this nursery for giants
and I know
that I have read this story before.

It is the tale of the kinder.
The wide eyed kinder
who rear us every day as their own
while we live among them
as strangers.

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Unconditional: I wrote this before I was a member of Vox. Afterwards miracles happenned.

nobody@vox.com(BLUESTARLET) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 15:04:00 -0700

The unidentified tears for love makes it obvious
That everything is gonna make its way to what’s gonna happen anyway
At times when nonsense things cause to run in my mind in a sincere manner
I make up a lie just to let them say ‘ No it’s not that way’
Finally they stop speaking
And I am a lier right at this point
Duma Duma Dum
Da dan dan dan dan
I am in a state of ignorance at the beginning
I mean they’ll post me poetry
No
It’s not that way.
Like it is in the instant mails
Are we reading it the moment it’s written
After midnight
In the time tunnel
I can not create a series of beauties that doesn’t seem to fit in my mind
What if someone who will sigh that poetry
Gets the slice touched by a lie
I would not be nonsense if I named something nonsense as nonsense
The evidence of the ones who left boredom would tire out
Turning a sigh into a suffering life style
Poisoning the beauty
Before taking a big step into a pleasent dream
Not to choke inspiration with a quarrel
I write
I don’t know who’s voice this is
Not to break a nice moment with a vileness
Keep on
Although mercy is a shelter
It is not conditioned to being merciless
Like this is the treating aside
If I could cover a good moment
Out of the game
I will return to life and tell
He is like that
He is not ignorant
He only wrote an ignorent one
With respect to knowledge
And ignorence that knows respect
I’ll send myself into such a situation that doesn’t raise difficulties of possession with it’s liberty
After the affections of rented marriages asking one another
How did you get so destitute
Joy found without the connection of suffering or cure
Hopes
If I swallowed already what’s hard to digest
I will hardly digest
Thank you

I will have difficulty in effortless information
Rebel is of my nature
The ones that know no shame
And our morning joy the news papers
If I thought of all this before I read
For no reason in such manner
How many writers
If I invited them to the game before I wrote
How many would write, how many writers
If I mentioned less
The ones that do not insist on knowing about what’s speculative
How many writers
If I don’t fall into an invented trap
How many
If I’m indepted even with my own dreams that I enjoyed
Run away
Runaway
Although a nonsense thing can prove itself to a good alternative
It is not dependent on a good alternative
It just treats itself slowly
How I don’t say everything that I need to say
Although a word does not make a great difference
We can not ruin our springs
It may be summer
Right on this time
We will not estimate the weather
When spring is blowing fall
We are closed to wrong estimates
When countless ants walk in my head
I nourish feelings to ants to
These days I smile while watching them
Sometimes I guide all these feelings to the queen ant
All of a sudden
Beautiful love stories
Why not
As a matter of fact it shoud cause a good reason
So improvised courages are full of love and lovers
How I do not say all that I will say
Baseless ascriptions
What an armour
Give my share of words
Without getting the love in me fainted
The more you say nonexistent
Nonexistence exists here
Neither greed
Nor anger
Neither revenge
Nor damage
Utility
On its own
Pure
Utility
Like in the dictionary
While reaching to differences of meanings
From resemblance of words
Unconditional acceptance to be
A slave of happiness

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Button Mushrooms

nobody@vox.com(erc) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 07:28:32 -0700

You can hear
them being delivered
on cloudless evenings
or at first light when the grass
is confined and wet.

Their creaking growth
a crèche of mycelia
branching out
into choral swellings
fantasia’s of earthy flights.

Under the mulch
and above the cow pats
chitinous hyphae hum together

shaping clean white moons
out of slime.

They appear glowing-
fat with light

like new babies
in the endless labor
of the mud.

(C) Eric Ashford June 08

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