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 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.

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.

Introducing myself to the blog

I have never blogged before. I have avoided this use of the interweb at all costs, but now it seems inevitable. Embracing modern technology is a necessary evil. The world moves as it moves; mountains and oceans can't stand in the way. As a part of this world, I have now chosen to be the mountain or the ocean-to turn with the world. Not to follow the turning, but to be a part of it and do as it does. I will use this blog to publish what I will. That is anything I write will be here. Nobody knows who I am and Jasper Pipestone is not my real name. This is how I will expose my art, through the brick thick curtain of anonimity. I only hope that somebody will enjoy what I have to say. Thanks for reading.