Marcus' Blog

Latest Northography post: Touched

2006-12-06T18:19:00.000-08:00

sideways talk and spots of
you
without a drowning beat
of chi-chat yet

we say our words
in digits pressed
writing fingertip messages
against Betelgeuse freckles

on milky way hands
dappled with moles
like black holes,

some things from fingernail
to feeble wrist
are more universal
than the black discoed
ceiling only
chasing faces into
the cupboard corners

and hands into each other.

Paranoia past

2006-11-26T20:04:00.000-08:00

The breathing of
my house, labyrinth
of lungs
rasp—brain against
brain, crackle of dry wind
against walnut
wood walls is the clicking
of voices in deserts.
I’m always in my pajamas alone,
until the calamitous moon strides smug
into muggy city scenes, great shines--
the glasses of of men
in homes too small
for tumbleweed children.

Write.

2006-10-27T23:07:00.000-07:00

I miss poetry.

ISD 77

2006-10-07T12:30:00.000-07:00

Latest Northography post:

1.
dappling the narrow streets on sun bent
afternoons are puddles that disappear before
fire breathing buses thrust down into apricot dells,
watching the big kids toss their cumbersome
backpacks over one pointy
shoulder--shuffling backwards as they say
goodbye to brunette sweethearts that walk in lines.

II.
the sun is a silhouette of permanent inky
doggedness eclipsing chalky palms, dirt under nails
blocking the east through clefts in hands in
trees without leaves it breaches,
my soles scrap the street as toddlers'
feet on playgrounds

when the pernicious rumble of number 21
echoes towards the affable red
topped tower--
we guess though he is always never close.

III.
arriving in a tawny taut myopia
that ends in one hallway begins
in another asking the searing fluorescent
hums of Elysium to shut the hell up or float
me to an asylum of the past.

Excerpt: Reprimanded before spirits fly during the oblivion of after midnight

2006-10-01T20:44:00.000-07:00

School has shot my muse. But, Northography helps me console him. Here is an excerpt from my latest post:

the malignant acrimony
of a world without light
is like a winter without words
that comes and goes
ebbs, flows
under the trestle
of cirrus wisps
kissed holding the sun

tell me to leave
tell me to run somewhere
old God
graybeard is
the wrong side of the road
tossing up tires mixed
in with night
too swiftly
sifted

Untitled

2006-08-31T23:03:00.000-07:00

corners of
aged lime face men
lumberjack backs
of flannel dirges

puffing cobalt smoke
onward to finer points
in the endless troposphere
of small talk

their faces are red
frivolity shone
to where their fathers

grabbed his pockets
debunked this funk

of bar stool
drunk at the Legion

as the coral moon
sifted his nurse-like
fingers through your
grains of hair

you hear steps of spitfire
alley ways
smug toads
crickets louder than sleep
louder

than autumn chatter box
nighttime
times ahead.

2 o' clock it is sunny

2006-08-31T12:03:00.000-07:00

A thought that keeps surfacing:

There are bigger things than love,
but love is too big to comprehend.

I have always found it difficult to write about the mystery of this cocktail, who hasn't. As, I was reading Rimbaud the other day, I realized his quandrary with love. Like myself, he only wrote about occurances with love, this being the only way he could explain love itself. Can the idea of love even be touched by words?
Nope.

Wheeler Park

2006-08-31T09:27:00.000-07:00

the swings
they screech
we pass off our
forgotten flip-flops
to early fallen dew
as dead old men

faces defined like skulls
whiskey breath
in gloaming chills
stupors of something more

kisses of turgid talk
of love's astray
that pint is done

twitter padded countenances
construe
as orange butterflies alone
aloft
thoughts unknown

not new
we became
in a meadow of thatch
oblivion

the buzz of orange lights
her beauty
her eyes
her
baby earth-drawn smile
rift of all change
worlds of
nothing but
radiant glow
like a sun without words
she needs these lips
to fill
the verbs
of real
fall, pink ebbs of day

she was too much

Driving Saturdays

2006-08-27T11:44:00.000-07:00

Stop signs one to few
bending metal steps
while a breeze of
Saturday traffic

smokes through crevices of
paint-chipped window
frames, and so a
billion grains of light fall
like dust

when the air seems
insipid as daylight dreams

it is not hot enough

the gas station
full moon afternoon
“go faster”
he whispers
like it matters

sunshade mousse
tufts upwards,
“take me somewhere’s
grandma”

pink blouse
bottom in
her wheelchair.

For Jessa

2006-08-20T20:55:00.000-07:00

wise moon
alone above
crimson summertime chimes
of street lamps
inky downtown nectar
reneging lifts of gentle breezes
night time on
metal tables
filling me
with
my beautiful aside
calm, smart, pin drop
eyes
perceiving that night
knows

Tyler Street

2006-08-12T21:06:00.000-07:00

the cats rabbit their noses
those,
corduroy sofas
tossed to the side

like dice
boxed up

black trees
sough so
the old men

can recall meadows
overhead

as purgatory
induce with the smell of sap
and dead things
overgrown

the biggest alley way
without swank
lost in the

incoherent mutter
of mustached
men
trapped in lawn chairs

and skinny kids’ eyes
cementing the sporadic cracks
of sidewalk talk.

Garfield Avenue

2006-08-12T19:23:00.000-07:00

Hair swept sickness
pepper shaker

melancholy surfers
during sunny
storms

the world is finally over
and
our hands cleave
and caress
like one crimson
pebble
stoic

somewhere our thoughts
stop
when we cross another

sandals, feet
fly

sweaty paucity
like nowhere.

us.

Center Street

2006-07-30T22:35:00.000-07:00

Ebony hair of night wishes
streetlights
blowing kisses into autumn crisps
like a dandelion without wings
that promenades

flamboyant wisp

gutters that rusted,
deluged by spring tides
mine

her white face in moonlight
spring
sap me up
as a kid who dribbles
a washed out volleyball
posthumous dinner’s
candy glued like rind
sheets

basketballs roll into streets
missing rubber deaths
too good.

Wall Street (view from back stoop)

2006-07-28T21:49:00.000-07:00

I
Another bottle of water,
downed as a clothespin's,
stale blouse,

it is taken down by a neighbor dame,
who fancies blue dresses,
under reset lighting,
yellow walls, red nights,

II.
neon blank in genuflect,
for everyone is already home,
punch-drunk as,
melting chocolate,
in a teenagers car,
that sweats gas,
picking up flowers in its wipers,
engulfed by,
rusty orbs of fish grease,
on chewy paper towel sides,
faded and tattered,

scourged repast,
aside like few poker chips.

III.
a Hershey dress finishes my water,
pregnant daybreak's Artemis,
of tea
drop gossamer, alley ways,
where gardens grow out and hit,
bumpers,
like a thumping dog's tail,
that wears a dumb,
smile,

IV.
she carries the squash in a husk,
hat,
a corpulent,
grin wrought with whorish,
innocent, Midwestern,
content,
smelling of flowers I've picked,
and sweat I've lost in beat,
white t-shirts.

Small sky

2006-07-24T12:31:00.000-07:00

Muddy river waters,
while euphoric on four wheels,
of silence,

the night so many,
with tattered spoke,
from wind chapped logic,

that does rumble in,

a tsunami of a vehicle,
its lights, as a falling star,
too close,

they panic wrought with,
ecstasy that gathers,
as a galaxy passed by,

that speaks twilight,
dwindling,

a button from a shirt to small.

2006-07-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

www.northography.com

If you would like to check out some writing by Minnesotan writers, check this out. A sister site is being conjured up, and yes no real actions are being taken, at this moment. This site will be a place where teen writers can showcase their work, because words are meant to be read.

I am looking for a name though, so if you have any ideas add a comment.