I'm Still At The Office
Looking at four postcards of ocean and deciding whether to dip my coffee into tonight or wait until it tires itself out. -C.S. Henderson
In Which The Poet Thinks Today Is A Piece Of Shit
I. Whereas the present takes about two weeks to get to us, a blindside rough-house plowing over of my sense of direction and subtlety, I’m fleecing the city out of its gold fillings for taxing me every time I even look at a thing I love. What’s harder to deal with than that? That the clouds are an assault on blue? That the typhoon whistle nags even in the subway? That...
If love is the ultimatum between daydreamery and decimation, horizontal or not we should lock the bruises in a vault and wait for the awkward surge of vigilant light to crumple the passports for our depth. -C.S. Henderson
Brooklyn From Atop The Khan Building
A cloud hangs on the line like a coat and bridges give way to a chasm that amplifies the chime of blood colliding in measureless hail. The half-intermitted bursts of man about the honey- dew morning flails a summer fragment in the hunt and watch caribou give way to the carbine. A fountain sprays a mazy dance against the broken teeth blue and dying, finding in the flood a splinter of...
If love is a paper airplane crumpling as an affectation of daydreams left in the cold and croaking for depth in the lightness of our youthful bruises, it happens to be a judgment of the horizontal vigor that forces us out of affection like we’ve forgotten our passports to it in a vault. -C.S. Henderson
In Which The Poet Dreams Of Former Loves
(this is an edit of surprising the night super-imposed to a pinch of trees blushing in cardinals in a false winter. this is an edit of mockery, a practical joke with a punchline that ends up spoiling the dance party) — When I should have stuck to coffee I tried to wake up in pursuit, or is that a sentence minutely reversed now that I’ve gotten to work? It’s bitter purple...
Can The Interstices Be Written Into?
I would have muttered “breeze,” but there’s nothing promising about it or a crumb of wall to escape it. And then there was the day we named the clouds’ shapes “shiftless” and after their onomatopoeia blowing through the roofs. We ended up with all sorts of words that tried to set first for the insurance claims. They assured us they had it under...
582 Love Sonnets to the Rock: 8
After the idea mentioned in this post by lazlazlaz What existed here before we were able to measure the residue of unhappiness in the shapeless carats of diamond sized city? The question outpours a million glassy eyes caught in spontaneous howl and gnaws at our clamoring enamel. Could we have made a thing exist as a thing without form, the difference made between the soft lingering...
In Which the Poet Naps in a Garden
The catalog of forms gnaws at me in inessential melancholy, praising postcard cities over the present. Why do you do this, catching what memories are erased in words by surprise as if you haven’t already lost them? Or is it that as you sway cocooned in a hammock you do not think them, conjecturing that memories do not exist outside an indivisible existence galloping out a network,...
In Which the Poet Arrives, Dwarfed in a City
I do not expect sleep to pursue me in revolt of sincerity and the wooden palettes I was forced to put up after the whole house started imbuing outside with a sense of grief. My doctor said the only unironic image he’s seen in his days of practice is a man weeping outside a supermarket for all he could never get himself, or officially, “the heart’s broken feet.” To...
Both sides of the road are lined in guesses, and better to leave them dried up and corked to save sentiment from spoiling them. It’s not that my legs are tied as my hands often feel, that being unable to push my way past the moon when it pants with its tongue out and whines unfetchingly doesn’t mean I can’t run away; it’s not that at all. Except, I’d like to...
Straight against the cross light I confuse and clutter the merry tickets for admission into this cold afternoon - feels instead of rot-gut radiance, spilling onto my lap in beer and frost. -C.S. Henderson
The minute I start talking about being on a bus headed to Boston I’ll have to address what bled and has been drying for the last 5 years and left the Newbury brick tainted in corner store shutter manic-at-closing metal tinge when I breathe: in some half window of night, the irreversible spatial investment of the body interjected from its dream jungle of concrete forms left...
The Consistency of Nostalgia 5
Everything is gray outside and beautiful packed in grocery bags and concert jungles of dreams bulletting out of my gut. I keep shattering the landmarks of the city, I thought the Chrysler building would be OK if it fell off the coffee table — it’s a matter of having to rely on something internal like a compass or smoke signal or heart murmur, something obviously brittle and...
The Consistency of Nostalgia 4
The lifespan of a fact is how long it takes to roll out from under my nose, it’s a shame I have to apologize so much for that — I think it might be more helpful to crawl into the snow than let the sun throw mucusy tissues and UVB all over me and make it OK to get sad in the winter as long as I remember the Demerol clouds are just a trick of light. The weakest part of the...
If love has held your body close like the horizon’s scream and meant to dissolve the sledgehammers of wistfulness that pound each great holiday song into the gardener’s bed but instead sang to you the revenges that trot over today like the grapefruit at breakfast, constitute your want into a pinpoint of light, wrap it in cellophane, wait for it to elate in its dust and...
thoughtsbetold-deactivated20120 asked: who's your favorite writer and the reason?
I tried to raze the ceilings for creating the appalling gap between me and the cosmos, but fell asleep in its rainstorms. I wake up and am forced to interpret and reinterpret the trees and door knobs and bags of chips and think its ludicrous to have to think so much about the world’s forms. Later today, I’ll pick up the sun, but then I don’t know what to do with him,...
If love is between laundry folds and metal ores yet to be separated and shimmer as an afternoon banjo- plucked porch light clack of teeth in a vaulting kiss over the high bar of our desire for one another to scream when dark crumples around us, then we might as well shower while we wait. -C.S. Henderson
If love stuffs the horizon into a box in a box in a box in a box in a joke and mails the world off in a concession to the rising prices of everything in malls and stores, making Valentine’s day an impossible feat to weather, let’s give it an award for at least sticking with us long enough to let the inky bruises green over. -C.S. Henderson
The Consistency of Nostalgia 3
The rainbows terrorized the bread crumb city, reminding it of the serpentine flood laying it its hole. And so it invented decay to ward off the heft of its sky. A taunted god is a mean drunk and calls throughout the night. Things separate in order to appear, the city had to leave to let the cranes and scaffolding rise in layer cake and steam-blowing stacks of muffin hovels. It tries to...
The Consistency of Nostalgia 2
The whole idea fell apart, ascribing clouds to the cult of objects, which only begets a culture of objects and its poor analogs of exhaling and shitting (an arch has about as many calories as the whole land of bison and I can’t fathom adding a second). I try to retreat from the stones and only imagine the arch, but without the stones imagining an arch between them they might as...
The Consistency of Nostalgia 1
the pitch of the city throws the clouds into nothing — treating objects like culture evicts the culture of objects leaves a ring on the table and capitulates magnificence into the moment trash is put curbside analogs of breathing and eating are unreliable narratives wishing looks good as a diorama but there are some misplaced trees and a tear in the corner leaks indiscriminate...
Saigon Still Stands With Cleveland, Laughing
Shitty little pyramids sprouted out of the sand like acne, leaving out adolescence where everyone can mock it. How shoddy the angles, how boring the shape. Snap the twig blue sky for the moment to release its motion like tea, filling the pockmarks burrowed by all of our rocket ships. (Why do we expel ourselves into a sea with too many dimensions to cup?) -C.S. Henderson
We were waiting for an awareness of want, bundles of ghosts folded into half-light notions we’d rarely use if we weren’t all of a sudden tired all the time and focused on sillier talents like juggling or frying eggs. The ground is small and how do we even know what we want when we have to contort so much to stand up to the other? That little lyric moment when trees ignite...
The slub of dopes bound to the ogre spike of dreams wept at the poor return of the city, mimicking them in their desire for signs. -C.S. Henderson
Nostalgia remembers its consistency as burning copper pushed to the breast, running through a forest of unachieved branches and recovered the height of the future in technology foreign and unpossessed. There was a realization that dreams erase the impressions not fully worked up, and that elsewhere is a negative mirror thrusting ripeness back into its idea, waiting a life time of dreams...
In Which The Poet Remembers His Childhood
I. The one that operates death stacks me in LEGO bricks until I’m a pirate ship. II. Everything smells like aloe vera and has the excitement of the first spring of an unhooked bra, the wind repeating everything like it birthed a new set of teeth. III. There are shards stabbing my feet, eyelashes mast catching all vision at my back. There’s an ebb, to move away from...
An Initial Offering To Face You
Perhaps it was the angle of teeth in the light, or the trip-up of the circle’s continuous orbit about itself, or the new sound of freedom blaring in a metallic 17 second clank that convinced the slack-jaws that a bad man’s life is fun to lead. But they left a note by the bed, a monster of 21 faces scribbled and laughing at how much we left at the table when we decided to poke...
My poem, "A Woman Is A Woman", published in the... →
Read this young man’s poem, please!
or at least wipe off the dust. It gets old to always stare into the future as if it’s looking back (if a mirror reflects all mirrors does it reflect itself? Know your paradoxes!): Cleaning every memory in salt water and fear drowning; wishing for steak but hating the wait of a heating stove; loving everyone and drinking alone; getting drunk and still loving everyone; getting...