The only true way to tell a martial arts
master
is if they can appreciate the beauty
of a simple stump.
Don't be mistaken. There is a great
and honest magnificence
in their foreshortened form.
Their roost ride the
diametrics of acceptance and apathy
So you don't have to.
Who else would do that for you?
Hard friends are good to find.

A stump will always be there for you
to sit on
and contemplate your woeful life.
So priceless, yet undervalued.

Legacy

The word love
is getting tossed around
a lot
these days.
I'm here to tell you-
I'll have you know
that your poetry
will soon evaporate.
Your pretend audience
will go on strike.
All you old 'work'
will be put in a quiver
shaped like a racoon's bottom
And will be shot
ineptly
at targets yet to be taken out of their packaging.

I sold my childhood dreams
to buy out of season fruit.
You bought the stale fantasies of life
from an old woman.
We could put our spoils in a pot
blanch
and make a haunting dessert.

Sleep in

Sometimes I find myself
too scared to get out of bed
Scared of what the world might bring.
You are safe no matter what.
But in the mornings just after dreaming,
before waking
one foot softly placed on the doormat of the living
the other soul planted in the cosmic stew of oneness
It's a hard call to make.

Phenomenal world-
you supply me with so much, all the time
eternity, infinity,
but sometimes
I need just a little bit more
from all of you.

I put my heart in a glass vase

by my bed
near a window
Because, in these trying times
you have to know where your
vital organs are.

Anyone who wants to hold it
has to sign a binding contract complete with deposit.
Go ahead drop it.
I could use the money to buy
some more things to lean on.
I can never hold myself errect these days.

When I Die

When I die,
I have asked the scientists
to extract my
worm-ridden heart
and plant it in your garden
in front of your kitchen window,
So that we can get to know
eachother better.
Maybe I will finally have more to say
and will chat with you on the
breeze.
You won't be able to ask any favors
from me.
And I won't have to think up any
too quick excuses.

I only look vata.
on the inside
my whole skeleton is made out of
yellow fat gobs.
Squished together to hold
my flesh in an upright manner.

Pie on a Windowsill

I plucked your
heavy, juicy, overripe
heart from the branch
and put it in a pie.
Extra sugar, because it was
especially bitter.
You can still see it pulse
under the lattice work
top.

Author's Picture

Can you see me?
I am a Writer
In all my pictures
my hand cradles my chin.
This very hand
drove the pen on.
Spilled the ink
that prompted the beat
of millions
of previously
uninspired hearts

I look past the camera
Truley seeing
not just this world
but all the
malaria infested others.

I can replace your neighbors'
punjas
with a white lady's orek.
This is the divine hand
that keeps you from
visiting yourself.
your grandmother.


I was sitting im ny poetry chair
wingback
and forgot to answer the door.
Next time let yourself in.
The kitchen window has been unlocked for years.
Crawl into the sink
and onto my lap.
Listen.

You've forgotten my birthday again
and I can no longer pronounce
your sister's name.
I only write love songs
to my fickle public.
I have given away the last of my honesty

to thicken the cake.
Who knew?

But
I've renounced these temple pipedreams
Now I will
Burrow
deep inside
me and yourself
past the songlines
through the waterfall
underneath your air-conditioned love,
unconditional.

Soon

Soon

my dear sweet

broken child.

No maybes,

But soon.

The universe likes to cup you in its hand.

A firefly caught

too easily

in the dusk

between solar systems.

Wrap yourself in the black

and starry comforter

and suckle on all

those broken promises

and unreturned phone calls.

You can't get too far

without someone

cupping you.

But don't expect any dinner invitations.

I am going to ignore the alarming news
and sleep until the apocalypse.
Right now, in this dark, gentle moment
The sun is out and clouds are to the south.
The full moon is touching me.
And before you know it the rains will come back
and our laundry and lunacy will be ruined
once again.
The sunshine never lasts here–
like you.
And while I hate to use the word fail in a poem,
Who are we kidding anyway?

By Allie Buck

I can no longer write to you
you took all my words.
Counted them,
reread them and filed them away.
My vocabulary is too limited,
I use the same words over so much
that they become grimy and smell bad.
But now you have quite the
collectors edition
of my broken epics
disjointed, subluxated
dislocated
love songs
written for no one in particular
and eaten by birds.

I like the early morning
The way it looks and feels
and tastes in my mouth
before it is fully formed
and is still goopey.
There is no longer anyone to impress.
Only the mosquitos are still here.
Every fabric has forgotten its ability to get dry
And I can’t ever decide if I want to stay or go.
I am just a soft object for raindrops to
land on
This is my only purpose here.
I wouldn’t want anyone to hurt themselves.
The monsoon has talent scouted me.
It has need for my fleshy body.

Smash the scuttling doubts with a book
thick with pages of presence.
Wash their voices down the drain
with sand from your body
and oil from the polluted Earth.
Make nicely your green monsoon bed.
Turn up the volume of the storm
to drown out and drown
opinions
unasked for and unwelcome.

The sun has drowned,
gone to college
and died
But this has always been the case.
The sun has not seen the horizon for many years.
They have been separated by
wars,
pollution,
your own selfish desires
and made up needs.
But now,
now they have let you and everything else
wash away.
Tonight they meet again.
And we will watch.
How will they greet one another?
Sun arms wrapping around any part of the horizon it can reach?
Or
will it waste no time and open
with a passionate kiss
that tells more than words can ever say?
Timeless, sophisticated, classy.
I would personally like to see
a handshake
sincere, friendly
but with full power eye contact
that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Where you can feel the years of pressurized ove
almost, but not quite
bursting
in eachother’s gaze.
Truthfully, unfortunately
I didn’t bring
anything appropriate
to wear to a sun-horizon reunion.

You have eaten too much
coconut cake
and samosas.
You have become
too fat for me to carry.
So I set you down here
on this wet, mossy rock.
While it stems from my own
weakness,
I will call you a gift.
An offering.
Well endowed
and bleeding freely.
Goodnight
and good luck.

It was dark, before sunrise–
or after sunset.
the days are so short now.
The bread man was squeaking,
but he had nothing to sell.
He just wanted the attention.
And
In the dim, saturated air
I mistook you for a tree
old and gnarled.
I leaned against you think frame
and wept,
or laughed
I can’t remember which.
Now that the sun has risen
the power has come back on
I am more than a little embarrassed.

There is a strange smell following me
Tearing down roofs
and leaving general destruction in its wake
swallowing feral pigs and cat-faced dogs whole.
Just when I was about to tell you
everything–
even about the dampness that has seeped into
our thoughts–
you left with the smell.
Now I am only alone with the damp.
Odorless and enduring.