Sophia+Moreno


 * "Poetry is emotion put into measure. The emotion must come by nature, but the measure can be acquired by art." - Thomas Hardy

My teeth** (Ode) They are soldiers behind bars, Who cannot remember the freedom That was once normality

They lie on the delicate fringe Between what is said And what is heard What is meant And what is received

Brushed by every release of sound Each word and each breath Pass through their gates

Through teeth we speak But they remain silent With no objection or reaction To things they never should have let pass To things that deliver joy They are deaf messengers

They are fabulous And insignificant bits of dentine Dead and alive

I think I’m crazy. No. Crazy people don't sit around wondering if they're nuts. They've got better things to do. You’re not crazy You're looking for a life worth its tragic death Sitting in the bathtub raking at your neck and shaking in your own insanity The Electric glee in the joy of being excusably deliciously psychotic You’re not crazy You wish you were get out of the tub
 * The conversation** (Riff "Proof")



She walks the halls perched on her fingertips A symphony orchestra thrums within her head Tapestries on the walls reduced to raged strips These rusty tunes ripple from where she tread
 * Sonnet**

Melting back and forth between the frequencies She reflects in the children’s stricken eyes little brown jackets frayed and lined with fleas They're marbled statues chiseled with cries

the woman reaches down to the smallest Silent screams scrabble inside his throat flour fingers touch his face with interest a smile and she leaves on the last note

the boys remain imprinted with their fear not knowing if the demon will reappear

I sit in silence Can I force myself to sleep with pure will power? Maybe if I jumpstart a happy dream
 * Meeting** (Praise)

The clock ticks slowly Except there is no clock There is no time space continuum Only my boredom and the anticipation of a handshake

I Try to sleep But ‘ginger’ decides to be enlightened and say something profound I shouldn’t be mad at him He’s a deep thinker With a Quaker intensity I lack

Shake hands, please

The room hasn’t changed in the past fifty years There’s nothing interesting to stare at

Please shake hands

I shoot glances at people around me Placid faces Bored faces Sleeping faces Spiritually charged faces I can’t tell what any of them are thinking

I’m sorry Teacher for not being in touch with my inner light I’d rather be dreaming

Doug, it would be my dearest wish if you would shake her hand Yes! It's over

//I’m not so sure I like writing poetry. I am an amateur poet, without any specific style, but I do like a few poems I read out of 100. I write a poem, and I feel oddly cut off by requirements. ‘Maybe I should throw in alliteration or irony here.’ I think if I were to ever consider writing poetry for joy, it would be much easier because then words simply come out of you, not because they have to be pulled like a tapeworm. Like any of my work, I occasionally write one poem in twenty that I actually like, but not often. Poetry, being very emotionally founded, has to be felt by the ‘composer’, and I honestly just don’t feel it. I have only written three poems so far, but at the moment I would have to say my favorite is the riff poem, The Conversation.//


 * __POEMS BY CHARLES BUKOWSKI__**

//I find Charles interesting in his unhinged and drunken sort of way. It seems like he has a bitter resentment and blasé attitude towards life. He wrote so many poems, so I didn’t get to read nearly all of them, but they seemed to give off a grungy, rundown, scream out the window, truths-of-life-and-death feel. Many of his poems were about being drunk, depressing life, and women.//

the best often die by their own hand just to get away, and those left behind can never quite understand why anybody would ever want to get away from them
 * Cause and Effect**

**The Aliens** you may not believe it but there are people who go through life with very little friction of distress. they dress well, sleep well. they are contented with their family life. they are undisturbed and often feel very good. and when they die it is an easy death, usually in their sleep.

you may not believe it but such people do exist.

but i am not one of them. oh no, I am not one of them, I am not even near to being one of them. but they are there

and I am here.

the illusion is that you are simply reading this poem. the reality is that this is more than a poem. this is a beggar's knife. this is a tulip. this is a soldier marching through Madrid. this is you on your death bed. this is Li Po laughing underground. this is not a god-damned poem. this is a horse asleep. a butterfly in your brain. this is the devil's circus. you are not reading this on a page. the page is reading you. feel it? it's like a cobra. it's a hungry eagle circling the room.
 * splash**

this is not a poem. poems are dull, they make you sleep.

these words force you to a new madness.

you have been blessed, you have been pushed into a blinding area of light.

the elephant dreams with you now. the curve of space bends and laughs.

you can die now. you can die now as people were meant to die: great, victorious, hearing the music, being the music, roaring, roaring, roaring.