The End of the Space Opera

There's this girl

There's this boy walking on
Tip toes
He wobbles his way across the violet landing
and needs sugar to sweeten his disposition...
Nothing is more sorrowful then that!
Crows and doves, harps for demons
wishing I was something to seek
for her I will only be
the closest desire of humanity.
The cotton ball soaked in soul juices,
smelling of Godly rum cake
an acrid taste in the nether regions
of human desire, the unclean dinner plates
because I was twelve, in France
elated by effervescent ambrosia
of lonely Caesar's wings.
I am ready for action!
I am ready for her lips
Come now sweet embrace, let's hold hands
and dinner plates.
Maybe.
And angels sit down to dinner
while dogfaced daemons growl beyond the door.
The devil's in the dirty dishes,
lovingly we baptize them.
And the asparagus, the cleanest
cut of them all, diagonal,
acting as asparagus will, in devious ways.
So let us do our best and taste sweet wine
Because someday our hopes will be revealed
In search of greener pastures.

Written by Ian, Micah and Rose

today....

Today... by Rose & Micah

Today's the day for top hats and jeans,
for platonic love poems and copious amounts of caffeine
to make me jitter, quiver, shiver, and wake
to touch the sky with clear blue eyes
and mutter psalms under my breath.
Birds sing when cat dream
I'm a weary pilgrim on the road
...
Today's the day when I stop and wonder how long
it's been since I smelled a rose, a mountain
flower that is jealous of its petals and only shows
their delicate peach-pink colour for a fortnight in July
at night, after the moon has set, and sometimes,
if it's had a drink or two, before it has risen
the rose stretches out in its glory under sunrise...
Today's the day when I wonder, pen in hand,
how long since my ink has marked the page,
full of inspiration and bewilderment.
Behold! My paper is now bleeding blue and black
and still I cannot think! I cannot make the pen
scream the words in my heart because of the agony of modesty.
I am humbled.
But petals cry for the sun, a wan, thin, airy cry like the
sound made when a blank piece of paper is torn from
an equally blank journal and the released to the wind
to blow uselessly on the sidewalk, gathering dust, becoming
soggy in gutter-water, yellowing and decomposing.
Petals cry to be unfurled to be translucent and yet
solid simultaneously. Petals moan an ancient moan
one misunderstood as the gaping maw of nature, a vortex
that eats words and drinks little happy moments in
greedily. The beauty of those fragile petals
in the gleaming sunrise stands still in awe
if the chaos of a tornado before being swallowed
into oblivion. I take a deep breath as I
try to hang on those words, those pink pastel
layers of mountain rose, before I too am lost.
...
Today's the day for remembering that everything is ephemeral
Even top hats.

untitled poem, joint venture

Untitled by Rose & Micah
Commence with poetry, I demand.
There is an ethereal gap in the space where I put words,
my knapsack is empty and light.
I am tempted to pick up stones
and fill it, just so it will beat against
my lower back with that satisfying WHUMP.
I have come to expect my heart to pound
whenever the word "chiropractor" is mentioned--
they're gonna crack my bones and make
my brain dribble out these rocks
with inspiration written on their smooth grey surface.
Instead I throw stones into the river,
I make the skip across the water.
What a way to disturb fish and give me
a meaningless grin at their misfortune.
They gaze up at me with marble fish eyes,
that expressionless stare so unfocused that
I'm never sure if the fish are looking at me
or some scaly fish-god in the sky, the grand
fish-father, the creator of all things that
wiggle and jump in the water. And if they are,
what prayers do they say to him, what
incantations bubble up from the depths and get lost
in the incessant babble of the river?
So here I am--overlord of tasty fish friends--
thinking how pointless it would be if I hit them
with a small pebble and so conceited,
that I should take advantage of their good fishy nature.
With a splash they swim away
and I am left to ponder where they went
in the darkness of the rushing depths.
Still, I look for words to the fit the emptiness
and all I have is pebbles at my feet.
So I mumble what I think is a fish prayer
Full of "bless me, scaly fathers" and "I prostrate myself to you, o finned ones,"
Hoping that the silent gargle of fish talk
will become the unwritten poetry.
Et fin.

ahogúese

ahogúese
I. Bath
My skin is pruney, wrinkley fingers
I can see flakes of my skin
floating on the top of the water
my hair bouyant, streaks of red and gold,
pale skin under the water
nothing hidden, my fears open.
I sink my body into the bath
only my mouth and nose above the water
it would be so easy
to slip completely beneath the ripples
fill my lungs with the aqueous
peripheral vasoconstriction
slowing heart rate
mucus forming in mass
air bubbles escaping
my breath and oxygen stopping
my heart slows down
it's called bradycardia,
I'll be dead soon.
II. Net
The sea came for la llorona's children
she turned them into fish
opened her big black veil to let them go,
she wails, leaving a path of destruction
and now she will take me with her
into the shadow of the valley of death--
I cannot turn into a fish,
here, I meet death, driven mad by regret.
III. Alas, then, she drown'd
I fall from the willow
crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples
nestled in my hair,
merrily Ophelia and I sing,
no sense to swim, no sense to struggle
till the garments, heavy with their drink,
pull she and me to muddy death.
Poor wretch.
IV. Song
La llorona wept as her fish-daughters
were carried merrily away by the
naiads, the nereids and hydriads,
out into the stream, the river, the ocean
swallowing them up.
Ophelia did sing
as she drowned--
ella se ahogó...
Me ahogué.
Finally happy.

Some Gems from Saturday

date: April 12, 2008
time: quarter til 6 o'clock in the evening
state of mind: delirious
quote: "Rarely do I examine my mother's feces." -Micah Wyatt

Sandal Scandal!
Ab Tenderizer!
Left Handed Toaster!
Moon-tains
Cesspool of Gossip and Idiocy
Lady Poopsalot!!!

and now, some titles for Micah's romance novel:
The Fastidious Law Student's Lover
The Perils of Loving the Law
The Lascivious Law Students
Black Coffee and Dark Hearts
Lust and the Law
Torrid Currents of Love
Precoucious Principles of Perpituity (Perpilty)

Rose's April Meditation

Southeastern Wyoming has been dowsed
in wet, heavy snow--hardly "powder"
and the world turned into an icicle--
in mid-April.
But...
finally on the 13th, the sun has won out.
It makes the snow melt, the water evaporate,
it clears up this mess. Maybe now,
spring will open it's arms
and embrace Wyoming in blossoms
and sweet smells of primordial sex
that will make the last 4 weeks of school
so achingly painful, as we are cooped up
in up our apartments writing research papers
and watching the dishing pile up
and the clothes emmalgumate
making every slow second of typing on the keyboard
more frustrating and painful
because all I really want to do is clean
and paint while listening to the sounds
of Renata Tebaldi singing soaring arias
from beyond the grave on my iPod.
Academia, bah! Right now I loathe you,
despise you. Can't we take out my tonsils now
so I have an excuse to forego your rigid
bureucratic principles of the THESIS...fucking theses.
Maybe I should learn a dead language
and write my Mexican American Literature
paper completely in Nahuatl. Unfortunately
they had no writing system.
Now, that IS a bummer.
Screw you identity. Screw. You.
I hope another blizzard comes
and shuts down campus for an
infinite amount of time
so I can finish these papers at my own pace
and forget quite how pretty it is outside.

April's Crappy Meditation

Her Tonsils are meteors in her throat
Floating alongside one another,
pink and inflamed, infamous,
slaves to enexorable gravity, like
Sioux City and Sioux Falls are cities,
slaves to an idea burried like
the grit of over-steeped leaves
in folklore tea of America.
I want to take them out myself
with a butter knife, sharpened
on dirty pebbles from the sidewalk,
under the stark light of bedtime
stories, told by grandparents to
sleeping grandchildren on nights
in April when it snows a foot of wet,
heavy slop, while women in small
kitchens make special hot chocolate
for which we love them,
dearly