In Which The Poet Totally Regrets Dreaming
After an hour of twirling the bullet-holed ceiling around my finger, I realized the satellites sarcastically told me I was nowhere. I ran out of the cafe to find the city folded into a paper bird and everyone was a scratched lottery ticket flake, soaking in staid puddles of old snow. My ex yelled at me for drinking all of the juice and I forgot to pay the bill. I flashed my teeth like a...
Today Is Going To Be Ruthless
You must be born again and again and again and shake yourself to life — separation is natural and unless you treat it as a joke you might as well throw yourself into some abyss. That’s what I really meant to say when I spoke about black hole irises, a hollow look that is serious and sucks the vitality out of all the light bulbs in the room. But of course I also chose to...
We wait for the moment of clarity too long, beer gardens taking precise measurements of our friendships, everyone waiting for tips. -C.S. Henderson
I Don't Understand Saturday Poems Either
There’s a wild apogee of understanding when the moon is suppose to rise, your black hole iris fills with pigeons and please-keep-off-the-grassy heart. What’s more wild to us than concrete and your thighs that ungive to the sea and laughter? It’s cold enough for tea, but mild, moon spreading about in grainy mustard light, undressing ourselves for us like a cannibal....
Wooing a Motionless City
I told Pritchard I’d write a poem using Motion City Soundtrack and Wu-Tang Clan lines, and I hate myself for it. I’ve said before that the future freaks me out, bringing all sorts of ruckus in like the true lives of dinosaurs and the 37 Shaolin chambers. What secrets will be left if all time turns fragile, our grandkids becoming digital archeologists and breaking every steady...
In Which The Poet Admires His Lack Of...
I’m afraid of how simple it is, to injure eternity by thinking about it. The present is revisable the moment we enter it, but getting there is dangerous, roulette with a six-tongued polyglot who can only be understood in smoke. I assume the future will be more vertical, that every corpse planted since our ether nights will bring new banana trees so we can keep making dick jokes...
Excerpts of a State of the Union Bender, with the...
Keep me at the oiled outer reaches, me in my place where I used to like how I would think. There’s a kick-ass section of this that’s medically necessary and economically imperative that I teach it to you. Down with the man! we all say with beer spilling from our mouths, down with chips outnumbering dips! the one percent an infinite snack, the cancerous blob of avocado envy....
The CIA Invented Dinosaurs To Discourage Time...
My good will is tied up in fossil fuels, lock the garage before the avenue leaks in. Yes, I’m paraphrasing the roar of an El Camino, I wanted my body to look sleek, racing stripes from the end of every split hair. Every year that doesn’t have my picture in it is likely to not have happened - youth is a myth the future tells to keep me from, you know, up and dying. Who is...
beatnikdaclassic-deactivated201 asked: can you please follow me or, just give me criticism on my poems? please
I’m not speaking to myself except to prove that adaptation sparks a node of violence against what’s unfit, like speaking to one’s self, especially so early in the morning. Half of the world makes a game of standing on my throat, hence my heart strayed and laughed while I couldn’t catch my breath. I could speak easier if the message was simple enough to convey,...
The world flitted its eyes here and there, but I could only eavesdrop, never interrogate. Instead, the world rested its trajectory along a new word: autopsy. I let my skin play dead while all that had been me shattered. I desperately want something fireproof. It focused on random templates of rage corrupted by not fitting together. Adaptation was incitement to violence; how many options...
A New York That's Hardly Working
imachinatedpoetry: Home. Garden. Cottage? Honking subject to fines and ball points. Another hard hat maze, please watch yourself gap toothed meter maid in the bright neon traffic. The best questions are the ones that eviscerate the answer’s soul and the best shoes in town, guaranteed. Of course there’s felafel, it’s America, goddamnit! -C.S. Henderson [by TheTargetBird]
If love is the defacement of unselfconscious materialism which has guided us to paint the house using sledgehammers and pretend orange is the color most likely to sing, then maybe that weird smell exists wholly within our noses and the world is not the burst pores of wistful fandago like we’ve been joking about all year. -C.S. Henderson
Words require almost nuclear energy just to be thought, let alone breathed. That’s why I like to deal everything in with images and say “shit” instead of what I mean. I’d tell you I love you enough to burn down the avalanche, but that requires a new set of principles in which to angle light into the room - we have too much furniture, too many places to sit and...
The Ugly Moorings
I. Let’s talk about how I find each city to be a bivouac for harried souls. Let’s flip over my desk for even thinking it. Let’s spook the repertoire of my fist into collapsing on itself. II. Dreams are a good excuse for skipping work and for song, but really they’re just apologies for reality’s post-Romantic stress. III. In a dream I keep having,...
582 Love Sonnets to the Rock: 7
After the fantastic idea mentioned in this post by TheLazyLazarus The wind’s bulk of grit skims into the cavern bed, my teeth are tired from chattering all the time and Buddy Guy’s solos in “Baby, Please Don’t Leave Me” unwinding each fleck of nail. I laughed the first time I heard it was exactly how I wanted to tell you that when I restoked the ashes of...
In the end, harmony stuck together like it was wet. It became intimate as if hawks were circling it, the day riper than oranges for lunch. (Read this poem at 930, when the day is a leftover and pushed to the back of the fridge. Make sure it grows its mold as if it were once good enough for a lunch.) -C.S. Henderson
A Dream of the Dragon Libertarian Eating Liberty
Every laugh comes at a hard angle the whole paper world sitting unlit in the fireplace there’s a lot of cold out there if we just read the newsletters I’ve read and got discouraged by everything so this must be hell wrapped in fur upstreaming my cab. -C.S. Henderson
We name things because they change on us but I don’t understand the past. We named hell because it is. Just is. Try to retain it with smashed fruit and car batteries – where are the trees and ocean, where is my wheeze? I need to sit. So I will sit. -C.S. Henderson
Young Rivers and Future Hearts
“we can spend our days building ships breaking them apart at sunset” -Sam Stein I’m not sure I understood what was noble or free about the soul. I felt something ghastly twist around every rock, I felt a scarf twist around my neck, I felt the rain in pixels and loam in my heart. What is great about the future when it vomits in the stairwell before the party begins?...
I bought a down coat. I brought a down cast. My brow a downed ship. At sunrise we erect it: the sun and a flock of light and the sea on which to set a ship and the Galapagos with its dinky finches and vampire myths and paper and ink and the idea that two can go together and a letter and another and another and another and a symbol with eyes to read it and eyesandeyesandeyesandeyes...
If love separates the darkness with explosions of confetti and a hint of grapefruit, treats your bed like a countryside walloped by cadavers and cement, and asks to spend sleep rubbing off each others’ dry skin, remember that the ruin value of a howl is more beautiful than the wolf. -C.S. Henderson
Digital Chapbook #3: Kinski!
lavosxii: Poetry about actor Klaus Kinski circa the filming of Fitzcarraldo. A lot of people talk about mud. Herzog wants a foot job. A colonial illness infects the crew. A lot of laughs and adventure. Available here Hey you! Yeah, you! Read this!
Notions We Rarely Use
We lived abandoned like musical instruments, always in half- light of sleep and warm frozen spaces chiseled into hallways. Every hotel was a birthday cake for candles like us. We wanted to be aware like we were hunting, wanted to catch and fold morning light. We yawned as partners with every porch dog in America, wondering at night if ghosts burned wood too. -C.S. Henderson
A poem my mom wrote
There once was a fellow McSweeny Who spilled some gin on his weenie Just to be couth He added vermouth Then slipped his girlfriend a martini. *I love my family. Like whoa. New Target Bird poem later today.
In Which The Poet Gives Up For A Moment
I am tired of writing poetry all the time, always balking at my own language, looking for a new way to communicate a good morning or that it’s cold or that I’ve had one too many but give me the keys anyway. It does not make sense to me but maybe I can get enough speed and space between us, and a breath. To hell with poetry. To hell with its boring stiff suits and galas. To...
I spent last night chastising stars with songs written in dust and playing on spurts blooming like I clean the attic. This morning is a ragged black tooth ache sky, and cups of coffee are nestled safely in me like a grave. Shadows are unfolding on the highway and prayed to in distant heaven like we could have a bird’s nailed to our feet. -C.S. Henderson
The lungs hurt in apricity Try to manage a smatter Of fan mail - you’re breathing So well these days, You keep so many wishes On your eyelids, Your cataracts are the most Beautiful clouds and I see Rabbits run brilliantly through them. -C.S. Henderson
In Which The Poet Fucks Up At Work And Instead Of...
If not finishing today’s Sudoku is the biggest problem faced, then perhaps spilling coffee into my lap is in order. I dreamed of two gibbons reaching for the moon, who pulled it down and left me asleep for 37 years and a wistful elation jolting in and out like a firefly. It’s noon but not really because saying it’s noon takes me a bit farther away from it. Unjointed...
"Not Just Light" published in decomP magazinE →
So, one of my favorite Target Bird poems was published in the latest issue of decomP magazinE. Check it out. You can even listen to me read it, if you want. And since the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, I’ve added a “Publications” page to The Target Bird. There are links to some older poems that have been published, and one that was published this year. Also, the link to...
If only light were what we contained. I wept at the corner of the bulb. You were the last non-me to walk through undark, the last liberty of toes that could tip over hope. I want to fill every pore with a cigar, ember porcupine, until I am a bag of smoke. -C.S. Henderson
I am lost, I am
where everything silent became as useful as a pomegranate, where everything became a bloody seed and a bore and a bulldozer in the meadow, where everything in the second stanza was brave and jaunty and real cool and June-hot, where everything settled at the bottom of the brook and was sifted and cut and kept me up all night, where everything got dingy and reverted to empty...
I Am Unconnected
I am unconnected. I am unconnected. I am happy my feet still lift and my stomach can handle a Coke now and then. I am unconnected. I am happy my hands don’t always have to hold a pen and I don’t have to wear a scarf all year. I am unconnected. I am happy I’ve made it this far as an ant on an ant in an ant in an ant among ants in everything. I am happy...
I wanted to write to you because the apples have released all spectral arrows lingering in the bounds of noise (light and chemicals and the rustle and plop of trees bursting always into the street’s periphery are another way to cloud the city with something fresh and unphilosophical and not maintaining a million nails’ worth of sexless spire), and so winter is really here but...
Ways I Wish I Hadn't Wished The New Year
“Am I hung over? Very well then I am hung over, I am large, I contain scotch.” -D. Pritchard Happy new ear! Happy ew year! Happy we year! Happy new tear! Happy new year in 3 hrs haha I’m already here! Happy mew year! There’s always new things popping up, what good is a year? I would have said I avoided it, but I didn’t. Onwards! -C.S. Henderson