Onanistic

Now

noreply@blogger.com (No. Nonono.) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 05:20:00 +0000

little blue gems

no blue-green

cyan

ovoid, overlap.

thirty minutes no

sixty pause

unsure.

constricting closing

dry dry dry shut.

wake

strange. unknown.

wake

sun.

Blues

noreply@blogger.com (No. Nonono.) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 05:18:00 +0000

1:36 with the moon in sight and
the silence is rhyming to
the beat of my heart. ParrUMP.
ParrUMP. Rolling the R,
Struggling up and sinking
back down for a moment in the
LA-Z-Boy recliner.
Overexerted. Overextended.
And now the birds tone up at
1:38. They hear the rhythm,
provide the tune: t
                             w
                               e
                                 e-TRRRRRR!
Sliding down, landing hard.
Twigs cry.
1:42, sopranos head home.
Hear here the lazy
bass line of the silence.
1:46.
ParrUMP.

Home

noreply@blogger.com (No. Nonono.) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 05:12:00 +0000

You see the sand on the television.
Vast and foreboding;
sun-raked.
Expanses, picturesque.
Hillocks, mountains, arranged
and rearranged
by scorching furious winds.
Hollow men, prickly pear, pushing.
Pushing, pushing, dead.
But my sand -
my sand. Littered with
dirty sex and fallen in
the name of drink.
Iceplant blooms too hardy.
Too pink. Too small. Too large.
Too easy.
My sand.
My sand.

Observations

noreply@blogger.com (No. Nonono.) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 05:02:00 +0000

There's a lucite cube in our curio chest
housing a dead posed butterfly. I
only ever remember this when
I drag out the rags and spray to
exile dust, that powdery grit
of dirt and small things as
gone as the winged beam
on the bottom shelf. So I clean
the walls, translucent fairy tale. And
I polish and replace
that six-sided prison,
permanent inmate locked; forgotten
until my father's sneezes prompt me
to take rag in hand and confront once more.

Ice Cream Man

noreply@blogger.com (No. Nonono.) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 04:57:00 +0000

My mother said she
wanted to be an ice cream man.
It sounds romantic, she said.
Let me sweep you off
your feet, soft serve swirls,
licking sticky from
palm canals.
Astros pop, starburst.
Sticks to drum.
Buzzing, buzzing.
Ice cream, she said.
She said, it makes sense.

Using Stars

noreply@blogger.com (No. Nonono.) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 04:50:00 +0000

Can she spend the night?
My little-girl question.
An interesting question.
Is it hers to spend?
Indigo currency
to be payed at dawn?
If the answer is yes
then she may buy the sun.
If it is no
then she is welcome to stay
but cannot use the stars.