Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in wrhyta's LiveJournal:

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Friday, November 20th, 2009
10:31 am	Her Dainty Fingers {This was my submission / reading for the 24th Annual Joyce Kilmer Bad Poetry Contest. It's supposed to be bad.} Her dainty fingers quiver, slaved by their crooning, crying call. She twists the twisty-offy lid, drives a spoon into its maw! They cry, they cry ! their voices raw hungry eyes fixed, they gnash their jaws, and she, she knows when she was caught 9 months, 6 years, one playdate sought ; They went to frolick in the snows, who knows what evil in youth's heart grows. Now they clang the table raw, They scream like dogs with devils' paws ! Like shadows all, No cease, no pause. She starts, she cries, she struggles through, and heats the kettle, bubbles spew, for pow'dry mix, dark witch's brew, they echo loud their call. Poor she their captive, held to form, bubble and toil, trouble and storm, in mug and cup all boiling warm - This must she cook, while dark they dream, they scream, scream "please More Ovaltine." (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Monday, November 9th, 2009
2:17 pm	Theoretically Learning Remember , when you, Love feel like a homesick, selfish miscarriage : The way the sunrise sulfur-burns orange through the sky. The way riverwater on a sunny day runs through open hands The words you couldn't say. Remember just because you learned : that love starts in smiles and golden days, where to find Moscow on a map, that one and one is two, and ends in broken hearts and shattered homes, doesn't make it true. (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 24th, 2009
3:26 am	Spark Spark push run drive go Don't stop -- here in kingdoms old as asking and light as new as days You are one and none alike Don't listen to whispers pushing, saying 'give me this or that' Don't revolt cause if you're stuck in revolution you're still fucked. (it's just a change of who's on top) Hang You learn to hang (it's easy) from that iron tree (there's a trick to it) for nine and nine (you do it) and when that blazing iron brand emerges from a thousand flames you forget your foes (or you die) and plunge that burning brand Deep (it's easy) into your own eye. The Game Here are the songs we learn to sing, Here are the hearts we break Here are a million tragic things, and here are the things at stake. Call me once, by name unkown and call me from on high, I'll carry the words you thought you knew- they'll rain down from the sky And here are the sounds that make the words that makes the words your name- and here are the stars that turn and turn and gleaming play their game. {These are all from a while ago, just got around to giving them some cursory edits and posting them up} (Comment on this)
2:54 am	Not quite the dove Knew a girl said "If you need to run, I'm here" and she twirls my heart like a ring in her hands a million colors understand, now hid beneath a glove and it's not quite the war, but it's not quite the dove Saw a sign said "Arm Yourself for the ones you love" Subway speaks, fetid lips of a heroin oracle knows the feel when push touches shove, not quite pain and it's not quite the war but not quite love but it's not quite the dove. {Not sure this one's done, but I like how it sits with just these two, for now.} (Comment on this)
Friday, October 2nd, 2009
1:08 am	Intro, and Goddess New York For just a few hours in the evening, I tumble out into the city. I walk her crowded, ancient streets and open myself, just a fraction, just an inch, to Her. And She whispers a million songs and names and lives, in each footstep and in each breath. A million tons of steel and concrete, a million gallons of bullets and blood, A million tales of woe and of fortune, a million nights of joy, of love, and freedom- tales of bootstraps, broken or pulled-up-by, and tales of magic that glisten like skyscraper spires in the midday sun. And I whirl, mind to pen to paper to mind, awash in Her myriad flows. And I smile at everyone (they don't know what to do). She's a million faces, never the same, A thousand times a thousand names, The grit and the glisten, The Eagle, the Grub, and you know you've got to earn Her love, for She's ancient and new, She's the tip of the hat, She's the snow on the sidewalk, the pigeon, the rat, and the old homeless man and the stray mother cat and the tenuous thread that connects all of that. She's the beat of the drum and the touch of the hand and the moon through the haze that says "I understand" and the glistening towers, the sharp broken glass, the shine of the prize and the reek of the trash, She's the blood of the City, the future, the past She's the whole whirling show both the stage and the cast, She's the start and the finish, the first and the last. (Comment on this)
Wednesday, September 23rd, 2009
3:06 am	"The spam mail offered the 'right solution for a love revolution,' but he knew all the Che-flavored condoms in Cuba wouldn't cure a broken heart." (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Sunday, September 20th, 2009
4:29 pm	The New Trend    Doctor, doctor give me the Drug that will tell me a joke that will give me a hug that will make me believe in the science you love. Preacher, preacher, tell me the Word that brings peace to the heart that explains the absurd that will make me believe in the faith of your herd. Singer, singer, play me a Song that will melt out the cancer and fix what is wrong, that will make me believe that I truly belong. Leader, leader, Fill the dark space with the sound of your voice and the look of your face, that will make me believe in the whole human race.  Brother, Sister, Lover, Friend come gather 'round, we're all we defend We can tell all the jokes we can live to transcend, and in striving, repair when we break or we bend in explaining the mad, in beginning to mend, in the burning of idols carried long past their end. We will own our tomorrows, we'll set the new trends. (Comment on this)
Friday, September 18th, 2009
1:41 pm	Imagine Our Surprise Imagine Our Surprise [upfall, part 1: יירשו ארץ] Imagine our surprise, When they said the sky would fall. Imagine our surprise, when they mentioned "that's not all." Above the clouds we live, the only place we can, the shattered ground below no home for beast nor man. The stories still we tell of life before up-fall: Green paradise of parks, the freedoms of four walls, Their feet upon the earth, in fact if not in form, with eyes that could not see their fate beneath the storm that rolled in ever-slow came faster towards the end, the storm they beckoned in, by stubborn, static hand (too used to wealth of old, too blind to understand.) Not by the sword of war, like all the old ones thought, but by old Earth Herself, in final throes, distraught- She threw her blackest rain, like vomit from the mines that fell on all alike, that stuck and burned and slimed There in those silent days, where 'Sun' was but a word, the Haves gathered in waves, sailed cities 'top the world. And like their bible said, the Judgment ran its course. The prophets, rising, read: The meek shall own the earth. [a bit of the translation info around that line in Psalm 37 - "But the meek shall inherit the earth; and shall delight themselves in the abundance of peace." The word 'earth' used there is alternatively translated as 'land/ground'] (Comment on this)
Monday, September 14th, 2009
12:45 am	The Colonel's Ghosts  Tonight                there's   Next Door cooking dinner, and Down The Road's in bed, but deep into the darkness, there's the Colonel in his shed. He is tinkering the fittings, He has measured breech to bore, now she's cradled in her trunions- and he hears his ancient war. Where the the ghosts run 'tween and through him through the iron dream he's made, Battlefields of ages call him- silence bursts with cannonade. But his steely eyes are distant, blind to evening's peace, And the crickets' chirp around him sounds like drummers keeping beat. And with silent glance and whispers, he works like one of five, mans the neck and sweeps the chamber, keeps the slowmatch glow alive, Rolling deep in Fury's darkness, through the trenches and the mud, in the Colonel's dream exquisite fall the shells and flies the blood, And he sees the cavalry charging, Old Age, Sickness, Pension, Bore and he sets linstock to thumbhole, hears the song of cannon's roar, shot gone sailing through the darkness, in his fight for something more than the quiet life he's living every other fucking night- watch the game on sunday, read the book, turn out the light. But he never learned to settle, and the ghosts, they goad him on, voices calling from the Malvern Hills, from Ypres and the Somme- Voices calling from the Dardanelles, Bastogne, and Fallujah - "We are gone but not forgotten,  Please remember, you are strong;  it's the apathy that kills you,  stoke the fire, carry on." {Inspired by a true story: PA Man Fires Cannon, Hits Neighbor's House. I tried to work in the part where his cannonball tore through the other guy's kitchen, but it just wasn't fitting... or maybe that's the part at the beginning. Also, I'm not content with the title; I almost didn't give it one, because a few came up and none fit as well as I'd like. Also, when Emily Dickinson's poems were published, many that didn't have titles were given the first line or two as a title - and that really wouldn't sit well with this poem.} (Comment on this)
Saturday, August 22nd, 2009
2:47 am	Love is like a raven, flying high on MDMA: all smiles and rainbows and carrion. Love is like the bottom of your nose: you can touch it, you can't see it, and sometimes it's gooey. I meet her on the subway. She wears a dress made of gasoline, with matchsticks in her hands and hair the colour of gamma rays. Eyes meet, and infinite waveforms collapse into greetings and lame pickup lines. ['You remind me of my public policy textbook- hot, flat, and crowded.' 'If I were an autistic savant, and you were pi to twelve thousand digits, I'd never forget you.'] She takes my hand with a touch that tingles like liquor, like radiation poisoning. We go downtown, to the store she runs. She says it's an art supply store, but they only sell fire extinguishers. Business is booming. I've never seen a store so crowded, so busy, so full of people sleeping or cooing playfully to their new fire-engine-red extinguisher. Her voice is timeless, like a telegraph morsed out by neon flashes. We talk for hours, about boats: ['How many rats does it take to fill a sinking ship?'], the weather: ['Once I was going to jump from an overpass, but instead I threw photocopies of Coleridge towards the crowd below.'], and ambition: ['You can see it in their eyes as they walk, like a cat on nitrous, like an old man dressed all in red who thinks he's a bull.'] As the day draws to a close, I ask her 'Hey Tumbledown Mary, got a light?' She smiles a phoenix smile, and we burn, like Chernobyl's core, like dawn on all the skyscraper windows. [ I feel like New York induces this feeling in me sometimes - in love with something or someone just a little out of reach, just a little outside of reality, but plausible enough that if you turn down the right corner, or hop on the subway at just the right time and into just the right car, it would be there, ready with a smile and a hello and a word or two that would change your entire life forever.] (2 Comments |Comment on this)
2:41 am	Before the War. She stands in the dairy isle, weeping, waiting for the carton of goat's milk to profess its undying love, Like he did, before the war. Father doesn't move much anymore. Not since billboards wiping the mind blank, bleach in his three eyes Saw what he'd never dreamed of before the war. I look up at night sometimes to wonder what the sky is like Whether I'll see it true someday, instead of through these spider-shells of chrome and glass, See it like he did, Before the war. (Comment on this)
Thursday, August 6th, 2009
5:59 pm	The God of New Japan The day the black rain fell, The day the thousands died, the atom split our shell My old soul denied. Cut up by bayonet the lone man's banzai charge gave up for neon pulse and skyscrapers grown large The old God frozen up And I to take his place. No scowl of his helm, nor pride on frozen face, As I, dynamic, rise built from ten thousand worlds {some steeped in storied past, some from tomorrow pulled} not drifting on the sea but flying, atom-hurled to touch upon the place where folded future lies asleep, to bid it to unfold and wake, to sow what it will reap. And in My glowing dream the neon dragon toils, as tireless as planets and rich as buried oil - But all things have their price, the bleeding-edge is sharp, Here, in My dark corners, are weaves that cut the warp. Beneath the ghosts of war, above Sensō-ji gate, there twists the acrid heart of lust that's born when hate a thousand times denied, is finally expelled, set on a lacquer plate, covered by genki shell. Here Hello Kitty looms, Her eyes aglow with red, and shares her fevered dreams, like maggots for My head. Yet daylight still shall break and towers still shall stand, workers will dedicate their blood and cyborg hands to power My platinum core, build greatness on My land. *: Genki - "A popular bit of Fanboy Japanese meaning "enthusiastic, energetic, lively". Also, unbeknownst to me, it also means fetishistic sex with a live squid; this fits too well. Sensō-ji Gate: A gate to a famous shrine in Tokyo, Asakusa district. Sensō-ji wikipedia entry 'Above' could be read as a reference to the shrine's surroundings, which include what I'm fairly certain is a porno-theatre. (2 Comments |Comment on this)
Thursday, July 30th, 2009
1:18 am	The God of Old Japan Rolling Thunder of a thousand years in neon light, sheds crimson tears for things that changed which should have stayed, for things undone, and cities razed. A soldier of the Rising Sun who stands so quiet, hands held high, that hold a sword that wonders why the heirs and sons of feudal crown live now so peaceful on their ground, fight not to build a greater cause, strike not back for all the loss; Then memory strikes a deeper pause. Remembrance - of a war that hit, where steel met shell where atoms split and ushered in another age, and split a soul, that turned a page that shut the book of feudal rage. And that is why he silent stands, sword held high in stony hands. How can it be, his stillness holds, 'spite all that was, and wounds of old? He cannot move, He dare not budge. What holds his iron stillness? Love for all the gold and glory since their soul was split that August sixth. For all the joy the New one feels, for neon progress bright as steel, and warriors with business deals. And that is how He silent stands: With warmth to still his iron hands, feet on the ground rebuilt so grand. Peace, in Ancient Warrior's land. Current Mood: love and peace. (Comment on this)
Thursday, July 23rd, 2009
10:51 am	Forbidden City I sit, drinking tea in the Forbidden City. Boundless adventure. I sat, drinking tea in the Forbidden City, Thought of broken hearts. (Comment on this)
10:48 am	Things Worth Keeping Here stands a man who died and was reborn as someone new. The only things worth keeping, darling, are the things that run you through. So hold fast to your crown of thorns, Stay shut inside your castle, look out from ramparts high with scorn, avoid reality's hassle. I'd rather be on a storm-tossed deck awash from mizzen to foc's'le, than high above the shock and shove of life's relentless motion For height would mean dissolving dreams and all my precious hopes to Feel that sea on all of me, and maybe stir the ocean. (Comment on this)
Tuesday, July 21st, 2009
6:11 am	A Movement in 3 Parts Part the first, in which our hero goes with his gut. Oh Commie China, I can't blame you for the viscosity of my poo Much as I'd prefer it as your hello, This ain't no greeting but a farewell blue, from a lovely place I recent knew, Part the second, in which the culprit is caste. The blame, in fact, Need travel back, from rice and noodle to foods Hindu. For though the Orient food be harsh, it compares not to the Indic march which doubletimes from stomach through, A rumbling of demonic stew. Part the third, wherein reality is faced and other options are considered. Though Squatter's friend I may become, I cannot let it make me glum, For 'spite this fate, knock on bamboo, It could ha' been the piggy flu. Current Mood: ;-) (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Friday, July 3rd, 2009
5:25 pm	Commercial Eschatology (Lovesong for Nobody) So, Wavering net's near? -- - Street-sign prophecy neon mosque monstrosity Commercial eschatology, ad ver tise the end of time. All the prophets spray Listerine into their eye. The seventh seal is broken, and the Comet pulls the Tide. What you see is what you get ; what you've got you cannot see. Feed your butterfly the cyclones; in the desert grows a tree. Now cut the tree into ten pages- lessons of the ages: Right - Wrong Freak out - Carry on Trouble maker Babel on {the_moment_we_first_met_I_wove_my_life_into_the_set_of_words_that_fell_after_'hello' but now all time is past - (we go) what's left but right , we flee or fight or put our troubles to the flame and let the smoke decide the blame } Commercial Eschatology, Babylon's cryptography {Baby here's my public key, we're all hashed up on PGP} your premise fails Syllogically - so farewell bid_thee_I Arise now, Evening Star. [Wrote this on the same evening as Nile, though it came from a totally different, wilder (like bauxite, not like the jungle) place. The secondary title is because it feels like, well, just that. After writing it, my thought was "Hm, it's a love poem, but I have no idea who it's for, nor if (they) exist. Hence, title.) (Comment on this)
5:12 pm	Nile Mother Nile, sing to me, I'm borne upon your waves. A lullaby to close my eyes, and ease me on my way. Lady Nile, whisper, Your sultry, lapping song that's teased the hearts of Pharoahs, That now guides me along. Widow Nile, cry the tears that crocodiles taste, For all the ruins ruined, The temples turned to waste. and Ancient Nile, nevermind the pains you've had to bear- the dredge, the drought, the damming, the smog that fills your air. now Child Nile, don't forget Your richly storied past- The empires you've brought to life, from first until the last. for flow thee, Nile, everlong from source unto the sea, and through the flow of ages, aeons and centuries, as old and new as daybreak, unceasing mystery. (Comment on this)
Sunday, June 28th, 2009
7:02 am	I find my feet in Tel Aviv, the sun burns in the sky, as wide and warm as lover's hearts, The wind an amorous sigh. And all around the life that bleeds and blurs and hopes and dies Eternal spins and casts its grin upon the azure sky. I find a comfort, sitting here the normalcy astounds. So calmly rolls the ocean, caresses, never pounds, The waves that curl, the haze unfurls, gives pause to ponder why the puddles that evaporate leave the city far from dry. I find my feet in Tel Aviv, Where ghosts all crowd the land, each covered up with neon lights, and shopping malls, and sand. where joy will fill the evening, with laughter, light, and sound, while softly move the people, kind feet across the ground, but I see you with your pistol beside each guarded gate. Just because nobody's worried Doesn't mean it's safe. And your beady eyes are scanning every child's purse, while the greatest lurking danger is the kind that doesn't hurt It's terror upon terror, This ubiquity of force. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, June 25th, 2009
5:16 pm	Holy Land Oh Holy Land before me the Soldier and the Soul the cold of rifle's trigger, the warmth of prayer-touched wall. The heat that pours from heaven, enflames, in passion, hearts {That sometimes burn to horrors that tear us all apart} Your four religions burning; from kindling, great flames start - The people of the desert, their golden dome of mosque, learned all Mohammed's letters, and started on their march - they fought and fought for ages, with rifle, spear, and stone, to kneel within Al-Aqsa, and call the place their own. And there, the Messianics, Gathered 'round the cross, March forth, the old Crusaders, whose faith is never lost, who fought and fought for ages with rifle, spear, and stone, to build on old Golgotha, and call the place their own. There, Ashkenaz and Sephardi, the oldest of them all, Who wandered through the desert, and heeded Yahweh's call, who fought and fought for ages, with rifle, spear, and stone to pray beside their Western Wall, and call the place their own. And finally stand the Soldiers, the weapons at their side, Like witch's old familiars, of bolt or pin or slide, Who stand at every border, each crossroad, door, and gate. Who follow every order, adherents to their fate. Who fight and fight for ages, with rock, and spear, and gun, For steel-barreled omnipotence, their work is never done. They stand on every corner, and call this place their home. (Comment on this)