A prose poem about a girl

There is a woman in there I know I’ve known in time long past she doesn’t remind me of someone she is someone there is a girl in there I’ve seen I’ve seen her before but she doesn’t seem to know she seems to know me better than I think sometimes but worse for the circumstances I’m not ready for this kind of thing this kind of thing I’m not ready for the reality of the situation seems a bit too real but there is a woman in there I know there is a girl in there who knows me too well she sees inside what I put outside but try to cover up with itself but here is a man in here she knows there is a woman who sees a man she knows I can tell I’ve known her before but she doesn’t know what I see in there there is a girl in there I can see she doesn’t show me a girl outside but I know there is a woman outside who looks inside with a girl inside who knows a man when she sees one there is a boy outside who knows a woman he’s never met but sees the girl inside he knows there are women and men who pretend to know and see but they’ve never met before but outside and inside I see a girl I know and a woman I’ve seen with the eyes of a boy who’s been here before and the wealth of a man who knows what he sees and is terrified to be left alone.

A short story, but first...

Due to my current problems with posting poetry, I have decided to add some fiction to the blog. I hope it is enjoyable as I hope my poems have hopefully been to all you non-commenters.

This city stinks. The air is thick with the scum. As I walk down the alley I can see them all. Soggy newspapers, cardboard boxes, heaped blankets covering the filthy maggots. These people represent all that’s wrong with life in the city. During the day they roam the streets asking for money and cigarettes so they can get their next fix. Come nighttime they huddle together in dark back-alleys preying for warmth and rocks to get by. They don’t even consider making an attempt at joining proper society.
A pile of rags sags and heaves, sags and heaves. As I approach, the stench thickens and the bile rises in my throat. Even to perform my righteous task, it makes me sick to get so close to such a derelict cesspool. The pocket of my trench coat is heavy with silver. Silver meant specifically to help this junky on the ground. I provide the necessary assistance for the less than human to move on from their pathetic ways of living.
Closer now, almost within arms reach, preparing myself for the one moment that makes my journey worthwhile. My chance to do my part in making this a better city to live in.
I put my hand on his shoulder and gently stir so as not to startle him. Wait…it’s a woman. Almost makes it easier. For God’s fairer creature to let herself slip so low. A more blasphemous crime against the upright, I do not know. A dirty, pockmarked face rolls out of the soiled stitching surrounding the beast, and glassy red eyes gaze up at me, already begging for my holy help.
“Have you accepted Jesus Christ into your heart?” She looks confused by my query. I place my hands under her arms and lift her to her feet. She wobbles slightly before finding something almost resembling balance. With one hand still under her arm steadying her, I reach into my coat pocket. Touching my silver, I feel a steady vibration, sending the familiar, low hum of excitement into my ears. My silver gleams in the passing headlights and screams forward. Once, twice, three and four times steel pierces crusted dirt; torn, damp cloth; flesh, and finally nerves, arteries. My silver is home.
I drop the bum on her heap of paper and rags to wallow in a pool of her own blood, vomit, and whatever other putrid functions she has been letting loose into her nest of grotesquery. Her confused expression stays frozen to her face as I turn back toward the main drag. This is the cleanest she has ever been, I think without looking back. I feel the city thank me and make sure my blade remains concealed. I’m one step closer to making this place holy. This city needs me. The sun will shine a bit brighter on this avenue tomorrow and nobody will know how or why. They will remain distant from what has happened here, but they will all silently enjoy what I have done for them. I am the hammer that finally falls. I am the shining vaccine to the disease of urban decay. I am the antidote to the poison they have all tasted. I am the Will. The Way.

A comment on blogging poetry

I realize now, after posting my most recent poem, that this website does not give me the same capabilities that I enjoy on my word processor program. As you can see the entire poem is left aligned. This is not how the piece looked when I typed it out on MS Word, or for that matter, on the page where I type my postings. I usually copy and paste my posts from Word onto the webpage for posting, but when they get over here I have to tweek them a little bit in order to get the format back to how I want it to be. Well, I did that with this latest post, but clearly on blogspot.com any usage of the spacebar amounts to shit. At least skipping lines registers. If anybody knows a way to alleviate this grievance of mine, please post it to my comments section. Until then, I will continue to bring you all of my best half-way-to-how-I-want-them masterpieces. (Insert previous rant on my deepseeded hatred for technology)-I'll spare you a new one. -Jasper Pipestone

A new poem

Wet Dream

I had a vision of myself in a hot air balloon with a woman by my side.
Who knew who she was,
I rarely do.
Even so the flame burned so hot.
Douse the fire with water,
This contraption will not falter.
Held by a single straw basket amidst the clouds like a bail of hay in a cotton field.
Weightlessness settles upon us two as we embrace high above the ocean,
Lake,
Pond,
Shit…
It fades.
There was never a woman and never a balloon.
The passion escapes the scene-
Clouds disintegrate, the water beneath is suddenly
sealed by dangerously rocky beaches; like the blowing of
the final light bulb that lit
the future,
vividity is eradicated.
It was nothing but a cocaine daydream.
One thing was real-I’m weightless.
This is how it goes:
I only float for a moment until
gravity pulls me down and sanity pushes. Awareness skyrockets my
velocity but I haven’t come an inch closer to
the inevitable bottom of my plunge. I am the bastard son of
my own dreams, forsaken by whoever I think I am.
But some of the greatest artists are the worst kind of people,
Attempting to one-up their heroes.

That’s the one thing my self will never become,
And one of many that keep me falling and prevent me-
From floating.

Another poem, sort of, and short

Savior

Whip me, beat
me, hang me, stone
me (Not necessarily
in that order) And I'll take that
moment to find
Jesus...or somethin' so I may find
release

Feeling slightly political today

If patriotism is loyalty to the principles of democracy, how would this be practiced? This word, patriotism, has been loosely defined for us. We live in a country where dissent has been declared unpatriotic. This country was built on dissent, therefore it's the best way to stay loyal. The Patriot Act in particular, contradicts itself. It tells us that in order to be patriotic we must not question. We must blindly and unflinchingly believe that the government upholds our best interest. This boldly and blatantly defies the notions of freedom and independence upon which our constitution was formed. Patriotism cannot be defined by and large for an entire country as a unit. Patriotism is the ability to stay true to an individual belief rather than a preconceived notion. A patriot has an idea of their own perfect democracy and agrees or disagrees with the government accordingly. Patriotism is free will. Patriotism is the birth of change. Patriotism is felt on a personal level and must be broadcast the world over.

First, a poem

First, a poem about a place in Maine where I spent much of my formative youth.

Nor’easter Island

Scene: A wave slides into
A deep crag in the rocks
Spraying morning dewy saltwater
At my feet.
Coastline: A rising floor waxes and wanes
Under the knobby roof of a
Cave housing baby seals.
Hunting: I stand observing coastline as
Mama patrols for threats.

Before she takes notice I escape
the wet hindering lag of clothing and jump
in. A juicy rush of shear blue glass
makes a panicky break for the backs of my eyeballs
then recedes like the tide as my first exhale
sends bitter bubbles into the breakers. My body becomes
a pincushion and before I can surface the chill
causes a desperate gasp inviting pinch and tug into my lungs.

For a moment I see an angry seal in sparring stance
barking at a thrumming bush then find
the surface again, and seek out
warmth on the beach rock.
Home above the sea
I feel I should
never leave.

Next time I’ll let the cold take
Me and find home in
Desolate Depths.