tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77501644946950577882023-11-15T07:10:20.119-08:00Broken TypewritterCopyright of Nick McKnight and Spectrum Fire Poetry. Poetry by Nick McKnightNick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-68873055950333314242009-06-02T06:17:00.000-07:002009-06-02T06:18:13.507-07:00DroughtBreathe, brother breathe.<br />Forget, friend forget,<br />Death the wretched mess.<br /><br />Wind of heaven and earth<br />Caress mist in trail and palm, <br /><br />Give Birth---- <br /> Give Death<br />A tailored song.<br /><br />Mourn, mother mourn.<br />Shed, sister shed,<br />Even the rivers end in drought.<br /><br />Loose pockets quickly fill<br />With lost breath,<br />Tears <br /> Fall <br /> Swift<br />Upon the floor,<br /><br />Too smoothly to catch.Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-5867572939237923332009-06-02T06:15:00.001-07:002009-06-02T06:16:44.191-07:00Whether Predictionthe rain outside has dropped off, floating,<br />releasing cold miniature castles that is the<br />crumble beneath my feet.<br /><br />My sneakers are like boats.<br />If I knew I’d have to swim I would <br />have dove collarbone swoop,<br />shift-like in essence.<br /><br />Would have flung stars into<br />the clouds to burst my existence<br />in this short time of knowing.<br />You stand, like the unknown soldier<br /><br />that walks in place, expressionless,<br />feeling what has happened in the storm<br />that creates your desires…<br />and shatters them.Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-48326862861625026402009-06-02T06:10:00.000-07:002009-06-02T06:12:09.869-07:00Old Man River's Sunday DriveI<br /><br />There was a faded, restless note<br />On the rear of a handicap soccer mom van:<br />“Have you been saved from your sins?”<br />I thought I was saved by my sins.<br />It makes me climb from<br />The ladder, away from the smoke.<br /><br />I could tell he was ‘saved.’<br />He saw more than evil.<br />Preaching of holy water instead of<br />Molasses.<br />I asked the gentleman how<br />He grows his grass so green?<br />He plants his fences without barbed<br />Wire and out of glass,<br />To be seen from<br /> Battlefields.<br /><br />“See my scars?” he asks.<br />“I see the Pearly Gates in your scars,” I say.<br />I wonder if he’s happy.<br />I wonder if there’s freedom in driving<br />With mouths…<br />You can say so much more.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br />II<br /><br /><br />Ten million gunshots ring out.<br />I can see the bullets and shells,<br />How he pierced my vest like digging<br />Through the earth to<br />Get to somewhere<br /> Hopeful.<br />Honk your horn if you’ve ever<br />Been loved<br />By something bigger than<br />What you have been before.<br /><br />Old Man Hoot Owl River Rat<br />Remembers swimming.<br />He remembers, but sheds<br />To oceans when he knows children<br />Can still do this now.<br />They kick when they laugh,<br />As if they were in dirty bathtubs.<br />He used to laugh when<br />He kicked as if he would break<br />Water molecules like<br />Eggshells because he knows<br />Humor only gets you so far,<br />Unless you flail like<br />A child again.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />III<br /><br /><br />GOD DOES NOT EXIST.<br />Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha—<br />If he does, it’s Hoot Owl,<br /> River Rat,<br /> Old Man River,<br /> Stitched up soul reviver,<br />Bumper-sticker-holy-war-winner.<br /><br />I’d pray to him,<br />Why not?<br />If he can run risks with minivans,<br />I can stretch my skin<br />Around thunderstorms and<br />Call them lightening bugs.<br />He’s lived most of his<br />Life barely living it,<br />I’d pray to him.Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-19981074813829567962009-05-29T11:19:00.002-07:002009-05-29T11:20:02.031-07:00AcheTonight the porcelain lovers of chirp stare from the ash and gossip <br /><br />I do not hear them sing the soft hymn of my solitude. My weary eyes rest like <br /><br />worked hands of labor. The dance of my cigarette asks for one more as I pace <br /><br />between trance like Chinese fire drills The fan is always on and there are far <br /><br />too many empty chairs in the kitchen.Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-42666029034232298972009-05-29T11:19:00.001-07:002009-05-29T11:19:35.891-07:00Why the City Library SleepsThe Industrial colossal canyon<br />Creeps within wires,<br />And the kids whisper without lips.<br />Words bleed ink-driven souls<br />Between lightning bolts.<br />Books are stolen while the lights<br />Go out;<br />This is why the city library sleeps.<br /><br /><br />It does not know of dreams or<br />Nightmares, but shakes dust from<br />Hourglass houses.<br />The candles have all burned their<br />Welcome with rushing cold wind;<br />Computers tear light from throats,<br />The way we breathe around corners,<br />Like ripping roadmap shortcuts<br />From veins of fingers on keyboards;<br />This is why the city library sleeps.<br /><br /><br />The clouds wrinkle rain to exude<br />Upon windows of laptops,<br />Like pebbling teardrops gathering<br />On eyes of people who have<br />Forgotten to forgive, or<br />Condensation of memories collected<br />On rearview mirrors because young<br />Lovers have forgotten to remember<br />To look back; or like eyes of spiders.<br />This is why the city library sleeps.<br /> <br /> <br />The city library does not speak.<br />It listens to tomorrow but has<br />The past written in stone.<br />The library knows not of<br />Wishes, but preaches values<br />From rooftop churches, bells<br />Ringing for hopes of people<br />Who listen without judgment.<br />Telephone towers trace languor<br />Children and shake couch pillows;<br /><br />T h is C it y S<br />Is w hy Li b L<br />T h e Rar y E<br /> E<br /> P<br /> S .Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-64560111396111599022009-05-29T11:17:00.000-07:002009-05-29T11:18:47.529-07:00The Tired SeaThe depth weeps rippled riddles,<br />Laughing 'neath midnight skies;<br />She entangles beating hearts<br />And wraps them in blue.<br /><br />She dreams of breathing shivers,<br />Exhaling lonely 'goodbyes';<br />She unravels vibrations of kisses,<br />Jai vu zem bocu. (I love you very much)<br /><br />Gusts of wind to the depth she whispers,<br />Flowing through rolling tides;<br />She absorbs dreams of sails<br />And leaves them askew.<br /><br />The depth is silent as bellows whither,<br />And simmers to the world's demise;<br />She inhales the sky as her keepsake,<br />All is none but true.Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-3626792193954501362009-05-29T11:11:00.000-07:002009-05-29T11:14:02.720-07:00The Unbalanced Palace, for Lewis Carrol"Wear yourselves ragged!!" the King of Kings shouts,<br />Curls himself in satin while others simply pout.<br />"We have no food nor water nor taste,"<br />cries the young, old and stout,<br />The King yells, "Care do I not, you must make haste,<br />scurry to your quarters before I put you out!!!!"<br /><br />And so the peasants ran, buried under the shadow of the castle,<br />they eat what they can, something for their hunger battle.<br />Sick of wrath and furry, the next day they plan,<br />for the they shall be the jury,<br />when the King's head lay in their hand!Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-55787847021253466552009-05-29T07:28:00.000-07:002009-05-29T07:30:25.573-07:001 Day, 2 Gowns & 3 ReasonsThe High-heeled bride as heroes:<br />a child in backyards chasing the wind<br />of her veil, on two left feet.<br /><br />Some girls play with fire, light matches<br />under pressed skirts, eloquently bound <br />in lace. But she undermines gravity on<br />pogo sticks in bathing suits.<br /><br />Anticipating the flood of her dress to<br />hush the race of barking throats.<br />She stands, under cloth and cross,<br /><br />becoming the mirror that stands before her.<br />Silent, like the quiet city with little<br />to no flickering lights in the distance.<br />She has never belonged to that city,<br /><br />so timely and old-fashioned. But this day,<br />it comes with tears from both sides of acceptance and truth,<br />and they are smiling.Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-30058428664869794122009-05-29T07:27:00.000-07:002009-05-29T07:28:13.463-07:00My Body As ObjectsI am cannonball fuse<br />Lightning rod scratch<br />Outstretched from the heart<br />Veins like forks ripple motion sickness<br /><br />inthe dark<br /><br />The stars are ghosts we've lost<br /><br />inthe sky<br /><br />My feet, the quiet camel<br />through hourglass dreams<br />I dream of my arms; like redwood<br />towering the lonely existence<br /><br />that is dirt and ocean<br />to hug<br />the ones lost<br /><br />My fingers, the tides<br />waving goodnight to the sun and the<br />faint roar of piano keys<br /><br />The man in the moon welcomes<br />the alleycats, the dreamcatchers,<br />the empty pocket dancers and the<br />midnight quiet cake batchers<br /><br />My body is the storm on the horizonThe crash of windowpanes breakingoutward openly toward all that is youWe only breathe because everythingaround us exists right nowNick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-14636687740509103562009-05-29T07:06:00.002-07:002009-05-29T07:08:25.501-07:00UntitledWhen you showed me the wind<br />in your chest, I smiled and woke up.<br />The air from that chimney filled that red balloon,<br />until it popped.<br />We let go of some strings over time.<br />But when is time just a matter of letting go,<br />I feel it that the simple things we were waiting for<br />were the little things we missed until they were gone.<br /> We were wrong in thinking the road ahead was better<br />than what had.<br /><br />Your power to elude is captivating,<br />but I never noticed.<br /><br /> When I fell into clasping wrists<br />like trees during rainstorm you<br />Weren’t around. So I’d like you to<br />know that lightening has passed over<br /><br />and<br /><br />the stars are smiling bright with their<br />teeth clenched down on my muddy heart.<br />I have been there, released and pulled back,<br /> fought distance and spare change<br /><br />like you wanted me to.<br /><br />So forgive me.Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-27742627397638730392009-05-29T07:06:00.001-07:002009-05-29T07:06:41.510-07:00Sleepy DeityLying on your side, belly<br />Tucked under a wire cage<br /> confined<br />with the toes of a dancer.<br /><br />Like the tap tap tap<br />Was not that of our broken<br /> faucet.<br /><br />But you’re tough.<br />Like Swiss army knives<br />and the poems you write<br /> for me,<br />your neck perched on<br />matchbooks<br /><br />will singe the eyelashes<br />off of someone’s<br />god.Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-37573797302510879482009-05-29T07:05:00.000-07:002009-05-29T07:06:05.673-07:00ResumeMy name is not important<br /><br />I have done this kind of work before<br /><br />Although, I’m not entirely comfortable<br />in my own skin sometimes<br /><br />It’s wrapped around wool in<br />a gas chamber<br /><br />where my bones have the history<br />of forest fires inscribed in them<br /><br />Can you tie my shoelaces?<br /><br />When do I start?Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7750164494695057788.post-72195069303590756892009-05-29T07:03:00.000-07:002009-05-29T07:04:59.558-07:00Workshop of HorrorsI live in a workshop of horrors.<br />Playful at times—<br />faces sweep the streets<br />with war paint.<br /><br />They’ve been painting houses,<br />or homes,<br />I’m not drunk enough to tell<br />which<br /><br />I see the dancing of the guns.<br />A myriad of plays—<br />they say Hey I’m here for<br />your money.<br /><br />My workshop contains brushes<br />and knives,<br />hardly containing brushstrokes.Nick McKnighthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09291940532219889039noreply@blogger.com0