Josh Writes a Blog

Category: poetry

  • the castelina

    did cross the weary wandering
    with all the tithe in old frail pockets
    she sang like glass on guitar strings
    danced on sand like skillet hot
    did you hear the wailing though?
    caught in calliope's grasp
    a newt in a spider's web
    did you hear the wailing though?

    poseidon set deluge upon the world
    & we moved like pauper nomads
    & she sank & sat beneath the waves
    to cool her ever-fiery feet
    did you hear the wailing though?
    brought up in constant bubbles
    popped apace in dying lands
    did you hear the wailing though?

    soon she fades in piles of fog
    all supple bounding 'cross the ocean
    reborn in green & verdant fields
    the cresting of the lon garram
    did you hear the wailing though?
    no span of years could quell her voice
    anointed by the mother so--
    did you hear the wailing though?

    The islands comprising Lon Garram are the cradle of civilization. Those who grew from the ground in ages past, raised with the sweet guidance of Mother Ninti, The One Who Was, set north in the 1,000 Rains to escape the ire of Poseidon, who looked down at his dead world and wept until he was no more.

    And so they crossed north, at first on foot, and then on great ships built by the Mages in Milawa, as the sea grew and swelled. The Mages rent the steel from the tall buildings and shaped them, scuttling the great windowed beasts of the ancients, and north the nomads sailed, pressed forward by the Word of Winds.

    They ran aground on Sikirsan, where they remained, as the seas remained still, and built the great empire of Lon Garram, to stretch across the northern isles and protect the Lon Agusera from the Mountain Dwellers.

    But they left her behind. The Castelina, the God-Child Anastasia, for she betrayed them in service to the Dead Gods. She sank with Poseidon and rules the Great Sea, and is only seen by the All-Mother, Ninmah.

  • cold shower

    went for cold shower this
morning, one knob twisted
until i could bear it; so
you seek the lurch in your
throat, the one that cripples
armies bound for moscow.

think of mason jars,
perched under the eaves
& filled with every last
thought you're waiting to
ferment into something useful.

i would've crossed the alps
for you, on elephantback,
were it not for the condition
of my shoes.

& then i wrenched my spirit
out of permafrost & set
in front of the hearth, &
waited, & waited, until it
bloomed again.

still see frostbite along the
petal edges, reminders of cold
showers & cold winters.

  • 7.2.18 / cushions

    Cushions velcroed to the wooden bleachers.
    Close-cropped curly haired man gives no shit,
    He wrenches that cushion from its home
    Like an ICE officer, plopping himself down as if
    He owns the goddamn place.

  • thunderstorm 6.17.18

    You watch the rain and wind
    Make spotty waves against the concrete.
    The sky is resolved to sunder.
    Trapped in dark thoughts
    Your momentum a broad stalemate
    Between self and self.
    Above, the gray thunders,
    An aching crease in the heavens.
    Portents are all your own,
    You choose to see what you see in tea leaves,
    Just as you make the words
    On a Ouija board.

  • pettygrove park 5.22.18

    Commisserating over sunburns.
    He keeps his socks on;
    Thus, a stark contrast
    Between his feet and his legs.
    She laughs:
    “You’re cute but that’s gross.”
    On “cute” I know it’s on.
    And like a viper he strikes,
    I hear the rustle of clothing
    Against the wood bench
    As he sidles closer.
    “Can I ask you something?”
    In a voice above a whisper,
    Then whispers,
    Then the silence
    Of a first kiss(es).
    I’m reading Ursula Le Guin.
    They pull away and continue talking,
    And I listen for his interest in that.

  • waterfront 5.16.18

    Rest your head
    Against my shoulder.
    Rushing water was
    The first tv static,
    This I say a propos
    Of nothing.
    Kiss me with your pasta breath,
    Laugh a little less
    Each time we clack
    Our teeth together.
    When you ask me
    What’s wrong
    I am a boar
    Hunting for truffles.

  • 5.11.18 / to scott

    Where did you go
    And why
    And how
    Did it get to that point?
    When will we see you
    Alive
    Is that it?
    Did you fight with yourself
    In the darkness?

  • garden bar 5.9.18

    “All black everything”
    She mouthed to herself
    In the mirror this morning.
    She eats a single slice
    Of salami from
    A plastic Ziploc bag.
    (Or at least that’s
    What it looks like
    From my periphery.)
    She in short hair
    Hunched over her phone,
    Laughing at things
    But not too loud
    To draw attention.
    The salad zone
    Blasts Bohemian Rhapsody.
    It’s quiet, everyone
    Drinks the diet version
    Of things. I’m thinking
    About the carrots
    I didn’t eat for lunch.
    Outside,
    The clouds roll in.

  • garden bar 4.27.18

    You remember
    Right?
    Everything fades.
    All memory
    Rests on the precipice.
    She walks with purpose–
    She reads Ghost World–
    She eats a salad.
    This will be nothing
    In 1,000 years.
    This will not exist.
    Your brain is loose
    With information.
    She wears Christmas colors.
    Your life as long
    As an atom’s mass
    To a black hole.
    She turns the pages–
    She ignores everyone.
    When we are gone
    Instead of monuments
    There will be bones
    In the dirt.

  • pettygrove park 4.26.18

    It’s warm out
    So I’m outside again,
    A ghost of translucent skin
    And awkward-angled sunburns,
    Draped in cheap Target cloth.
    A single man in cyan
    Sits on a sun-drenched hill
    Staring into a bright rectangle.
    I write about him
    In a similar rectangle.
    I do my best to not ogle
    The women in sundresses
    But let’s face it:
    The world is blooming now
    And there’s much more
    To look at.

    I, and maybe you,
    Pull clods of earth asunder
    As we haul ourselves
    From the sunken winter,
    Shaking our lumbering frames,
    Inhaling the soft scent
    Of flowers. We smell love,
    And feel the warm breeze
    Against our cheeks.
    We’ve won our annual
    Fight against the seasons.
    We’ve won once again.