hospice

as the sea foam winds
swirl around my ears

and i look far into the hills
i know that this is the place.

this spot will be my hospice.
i will live among the jungle grass.
the hairy reeds and the gangly plants.
i will lie among the oaks
among the foxes and the mountain lions.
feeling my life seep into the undercurrent
of the creek.

kettering between life and death.
i will watch the blood orange
juice fall from the sunset sky.
it will fall onto my hands
and suck blood from my veins.
for that is the living ambrosia
for Ares' mantle.

but i am willing.
i have chosen this setting to breathe my last.
the pine needles will pity me here.
and the dirt on the ground will
lovingly embrace me.
and i will become the ground.
as i have always wanted.
to fall into the core of the earth.

-Pamplemousse

oh that i could...

oh that i could
write an emblem of my mind
a script from my juvenile thoughts
that i could put on print
something different.
an anti-cliche.

when i write
exactly what i think,
the words are commonplace
and they read illy.
it discourages my heart
and makes me sad.

in a reverie of extreme anguish
joy
anger.
i do not think in synonyms
i think merely in plain
letters. no complex sentence structures.

but if i blanket those words
in lavender smoke.
and i attempt to insert a copper tube
into my eye, to suck out a small amount of my emotion.
suddenly, metaphors and strange language
seep out in fragrant liquids.
i must compress my emotions
and squeeze them with my rough fingers

i must ball them up and throw them against the wall.
and then i pick up the remains.
rearrange them
and then.
only then am i satisfied.
only then do i have hope.

-Pamplemousse

Make Checks Payable to Yourself

Make Checks Payable To ______

Please make checks payable to:

Make Checks Out To, no

Just make checks payable. 

Do you understand? 

This is your word.

You're all worthless, all of you!

Be a man. Be men! 

Make checks payable. 

-Citron

the hipster song

They said hipsters wore plaid with rolled-up sleeves
and listened to folk-punk music. 
I guess then that you look at me
and say "hey what a loser" cause
I guess that I'm a hipster when
it comes to fashion and kazoo
but I sure hope I don't fit in
when judging me by attitude.
A guy on some lit mag day blog
Said nobody can ever write
that writing's really growing up
with laptops and coffee at night
well the hipsters are all writers then
but guess what about me? 

I go to bed right before ten

and I can't stand the taste of coffee
but I'll write in the morning when
the sun is turned on in my room
and maybe I will start a brand new
group of brand new attitudes
cause urban is just white/rich now
and anyway who wants to be
in any kind of labeled group or

own a large flat-screen TV. 

Though I know you hate rhyming I
didn't write this ironically. 

Maybe it's time to go to bed

or go get some more coffee. 

-Citron

The chair rail

The paper chair rail is much like a tapestry I once saw in the basement

of a yellowed college's history department. 
Then, like now, I was waiting to go on stage. 

In my seventeen year residence of this bedroom

I have painted over most of it

the hot pink border has yellowed

and the flowers have curled mid-flight

just as they would if they were not printed by a large machine

wherever wallpaper is printed. 

Likewise, the men were neither sewn in nor were they men. 

Just a history lesson-- from a hope

waiting to go on stage

from a band of heroes to

stretched along the corridor of a yellowed basement

a history lesson.

-Citron

those lazy kids

no, here is the problem with The Internet Age

mom, it's not because we all sit in dark corners,

like vampires,
and self-promotion
its because we're all so

hopeless. 

a true breath in a hurricaine matters nothing.

i stopped spell checking my letters
its not like people care when they read them
lotslotslotslotslotslotslotslotslotslotslots
and mine isn't that important anyway.
i can make friends wherever i want.
and like the vegetables you didn't want to eat in the sixties,
they just aren't as cool anymore. 

The Internet Age doesn't pay a dime

for a movie cause our eyes hurt

and real like looks flat anyway.

old people market 3D but eight bucks,

but practicing the guitar

to put on a YouTube with over a billion videos now!

to be worthless

is just not worth it.

-Citron

Neopets

Brother, 8, hours a day

a fictional magic life web site for children

which I used to play on as well.  I learned many wonderful things from Neopets,

like the best things are the ones you don't pay for,

figure out how to play the system because the number in the top

left corner of the screen is all you are. 

Neopoints; they are gold coins in pictures, but

the only time you see them

and how many you are is a little number

on the top left corner of the screen. 

You get paid to adopt and create the cute, funny-looking

little creatures called Neopets, but

if the furry cartoon animal (the people are all

furry little cartoon animals in Neopia)

is not cute enough, or does not turn

quite enough tricks, or does not fit

in your favorite outfit, you can send them

to an adoption clinic and be someone else.  All of the Garrrrllls, those

cute, two-dimesnional T-Rexes, the ones who looked awesome

to eight-year-old boys on their first day

of real play but who were mean, really mean in the end,

hang out, waiting for a new user, someone to love them. 

They ran out of names, each animal gets one name

so many of them have numbers.  And they are all red.  Abandones red dinosaurs,

waiting to wash away like the unwanted past information they are. 

Neo means new after all, and this is Neopia. 

Another important lesson I learned was that of patience. 

Handouts (food, money) were limited to three a day; they are expected. 

Rather than learning to drive a car with a keyboard, I learned the tricks,

how to cheat legally and amass vast hordes of cash. 

Originally it was just a website for games,

then an economy was created to further the company's goals, now games give you money,

now you need money so you must play games like to get useless carnival toys with tickets,

or you can every day log in and collect secret handouts. 

The whole world is a rainbow by the way, and the evil looking men

are just trying to get you excited for another product-placing game,

a new one every month to keep the children,

the eight-year-olds who live off handouts,

looking towards the future. 

Yes, shouldn't we all? 

Neopets teaches good life lessons to eight-year-olds. 

Yes, shouldn't we all treat flash video games like the hardest work,

indescribably important to have availible and also to avoid? 

and queue our red T-Rexes in adoption clinics? 

We are not the webmasters.  We are the children,

the consumers of the world.  We have no voice really,

no power.  And really; who knows if the

hordes of abandoned Garrrlllls

just go away after a while? 

I have a top left corner number of my own to maintain,

after all. 

-Citron

the dormant volcano

the dormant volcano inside of me

the caged winged fanged lizard inside of me

they wish to emerge into the palid sun.  but no

no, i mustmust must suppress their willingness for a while longer.
i no longer want to look at the hideous burnt aa lava.  \
or the slimy scales of the unattractive reptile.

leave me in peace

volcano, slowly bubble down into a harmless soiled water
and lizard

suicide yourself and come not near me again.

-Pamplemousse

hourglass is cheating?

my life has always progressed
at a reasonably moderate pace.
there have been times,
when it seems to have flown by
like a dove on roller skates
and other times, when at the speed
of a dying sloth
it inches along
painfully slowly. but, these past 2 years

they are a blur! they have gone by far far too quickly.
it seems like yesterday when i was entering the jungle
and now, i am suddenly quite close to leaving it!

hourglass, you have cheated me.
these years went far far faster than the other ones
you will not get away with this!
this heist will not go
unpunished

-Pamplemousse

burnt umber

the juicy sweat of leaves
seeping into the stale
blanketed crusts of dirt
on the floor of the barely shadowed
demonized forest
at the peak of the equinox

is the color of burnt umber.

-Pamplemousse

the endless cosmos

and as i sit here in my bask
i can not help but ask
from where did i come from?
where is the birthplace of this brain?
the rustles of the trees
when there is no wind
where is this invisible breeze that
causes the great oaks and pines
to shiver in their roots.
the distant stars that peer at my
illuminated features,
are they the homeplace
of some incredible force of nature
or are they empty mirrors,
beautiful, yet soulless.

am i too a mirror??
an asoulic reflection of a greater light?

-Pamplemousse

Both puppies and scientists

He liked to squat and
with a funny L-shaped telescope
look at the stars
that twinkle always. 
Peering into the eyepiece,
the young man almost didn't notice an astronomer at his shoulder. 
(stomach muscles tightened: a long white beard: spiderwebs and snow like afghans resting on a broad mattress)
With no introduction, as astronomers require none,
"Why
does your beard twinkle?"
the astronomer was looking upwards
to twinkles in eyes
The young man followed his gaze, eyes up,
and the beard dissapeared, man with it.
To soggy grass: 
"But you never answered my-"
he rubbed scratchy underside of his jaw, wondering
whether, actually, he had.

-Citron

Pictures come from Darkrooms

On another folded up piece of paper in my desk drawer-- written during a two-person interpretive dance party to Bright Eyes records. 

Something is wrong when I want to move to Tennessee

Because I think a friend might live there

Because profile pictures are more important

than jeans or hair

Yesterday you had to stay

in Shape and Form and Style

and the songs were realer

and the movies grossed in billions

There are billions of movies

And zillions of copies

And I would fail arithmetic

And my mom would be arthritic

Either way

The sun rises and sets differently every day

But the light and dark will roll forever

And even if we destroy the atmosphere

thunder will sound regardless of a simile to drums

Spacebars are for thumbs

Polaroids of postcards

But either way the rock is hard

I asked the child why he cried

and he told me that his luck had died

and I told him mine had too

I told him a story about Jesus

and said it once was true.

And he smiled happily

And laughed and asked me

about how pictures work.

My father doesn't believe I like his music

Or I can operate a record player

But I have fingers and good taste

even though I still have hair. 

People will dance because

tomorrow our software might undoes

but our hardware will be fundamentally the same.

My friends are afraid of God

But I've never met Constantine

And the Spartans cherrypicked their theology

And the taxes have been too high since the invention of money

I'm sure when I'm an old woman

The trees wont be as green

And the kids will be bizarre

There might be a city on the moon

And I'll tell the thirty-somethings what I've seen

And they will think I'm undervalued

because they will be me soon.

But for now everything is hip and cool and new

And I'm in a tapestry

with a special thread to do

and a nice warm knot to make with you

and you have one too.

And some of us hate it and some of us are wealthy.

Things happen and don't and people are happy. 

I want to go to Australia

because a new age brought me an Australian friend.

Everything is good and bad and all songs end. 

-Citron

from geniune to archaic

The beat poets manage to be honest
and use symbols as spice.
A mouthful of ginger and rosemary is not digestible;
their point is preservation, preserve the meat
is their quest, they last forever,
Beowulf was either meat or thyme, anyway it's solid now. 
Nobody chews nothing off that dragon.
Eventually, that sentence will mean the opposite;
it will be the first to rot.

-Citron

Writing an Ode

Look, buddy, you are way too complicated for a song.
Other musicians seem to do it well, but even my flat perspective of your personality
and the reason you exist could never fit into a lyric sheet of any sort. 
You are the epitome of you.  How could I catch that? 

-Citron

decreasing worldsuck

anger, humiliation, nastiness,
death, drugs, [you], depression
homelessness, hatred, hero-worship,
[your children], evil
conform or confront.

-Citron

What is a king?

In the USA
Our kings are not magic; no,
they have mistresses.

Nobody dies so
their heaven is fancier.
We don't build their pyr

Amids our own pyres;
we all burn together
our kings are with us

Everyone hates them
So we all burn together
The question remaining--

What is a king?  Where
is my magic?  Does he have it?
If I starve to death

in a gold-crusted
pyramid, who'se heaven do
I make easier? 

-Citron

vacuum

two uus
like an inside out fabric
the seams are out of place
and the stripes are of a watery hue
the crispness of lemon
and the neatness of city windows
has been punctured and sucked out.

and transported to the dark magenta pit of the vacuum.

-Pamplemousse

the idiot

letters look so much nicer when they're upside down
an elven tongue? a secret code?
merely a hand stand
perhaps this is how i think
when all my pulsing blood rushes to my hear
as if late to a funeral.

you are so desperate, friend. no...
you are not my friend.
you are so desperate, human i dislike,
(better)
why must all the little pinpricks on the globe like you.
seeking their approval, you make yourself
a pitiful spectacle.
a stupid little rodent attempting to befriend a lion.
how naive you are! truly.
i will not help you.
sorry.
i don't really know you,.  but i know i don't like you.

i dislike people who drink their cinnamon lattes with skim milk.

-Pamplemousse

sirens

the lolling female limbs of trees
faded slightly in the breeze
the constant pulse of the shoring waves
caused the rise of a milky haze
the aquamarine waterfall hair
with the dirty seaweed wear,
the navy skin of shells
the curious voices of muffled bells
they sang upon the stormy shore
mournfully, for their empty seamen store.

the blaring horns in the middle of the night
awoke my sorry overworked cartilage
lying on the creaky rectangle of wires and fluff
i wonder what the grave emergency is
could it be a nuclear war?
my organs could turn to orangine dust
and my fingers and skin
turn to strangled blue
it could be an attack:
from strange men, with crazed retinas
smelling death like dying mountain lions
hatefully striking out
at each abandoned roadside
i hear the sirens every night
and every night i invent an exciting story
to fill the voids
of my humdrum existence.

-Pamplemousse

Cloud-gazing

I am such a small thing! 
an intermediate step in the cycle
I lay on my back,
A blade of crabgrass
points up to the clouds
like by understanding one
I can harness the sky

and uproot myself. 

-Citron

Surfing with Spock

Emotion is fluid;
I strive for sincerity
and obliqueness. 

Everybody should. 

Emotion is fluid. 

Were we all to ride

the crests of waves,
life would be a thrilling adventure.
But we have social rules for a reason
and math for a rhyme. 
Emotion is fluid. 
Without cups,
it all runs together
and drowns all but the stones
in a rainbow. 
What if we are all sincere rocks? 
"You are not solid today"

I would say very sincerely

and we would all be happy. 

Everybody should. 

-Citron

The Best Kind of Dyslexia

I blink my eyes, and the sentences jump,
again, and the ink changes color. 
I slam the book shut
and spill coffee all over it
and a new paragraph appears,
as if by magic. 
Like a treasure map in          tales,
                                     fairy
an invisible pen scratches in
new landmarks,

and time lets me

retrace the steps of the one-legged
knave, the scoundrel
who hid his heart's treasure
in a box between the lines
and glued into the binding.

-Citron

Limits

Math and history tend to agree. 
A limit is a point that should be there,
whether in the reality of graphed equations
it is or not.       In reality,
the rock of human will beats paper,
and Homer was blind.

-Citron

An Open Letter to Artemis and to the Kids Who Think Nuns are Weird.

Zeus and Leto slept together
(Or however gods produce), but

they still respected their daughter

When she never replaced Zeus.

One so close to wild nature
So fleet of foot, so sure of shot

Could find a lover, gentle teacher; yes

Artemis could find a lot.
In all her forests, soft dark caves
She joins not in the ringmarole
Why can't she line up as a slave
And do just as the animals?
Oh Artemis, I do not try
To climb Olympus.  No, in fact
I just pursue a simple life. 
No clambering.  The opposite. 
And while one day I might well be
In a white temple as you are
I'll just be praying on the peak
(Or borrowing my husband's car.) 

What you consider godly I

consider part of happy life.

So thanks-- maybe I'm not so weird.

Just quite content to shoot my deer

Without sleeping around.

-Citron

violet house

the metals of the teeth of the stairs
make me afraid
to step on the hallowed flowers that line the path
leading up to the sacred stairs
slowly rising to the ancient portal

to the violet house.

the dark inside the windows, peaking out through the panes
frighten my stomach
and the pale, dying wood on porch
encircle the building, that building
called the wise and fearsome

old violet house.

i will mar the untouched path,
and touch the untouched golden handle on the door
and i will enter the strange and mysterious air
that circulates inside the foyer

of the violet house.

-Pamplemousse

howl

you may howl of broken hearts
but he howls of broken people

the scattered remains of friends and foe alike
fill him with barbaric needs for sound

-Pamplemousse

rings

bells and chimes
the vibrate their cordial tones in my ears
the cartilage on the side of my head perks up
i want to be alone
leave me alone.

i feel drowsy and the rings do not cease
but in fact crescendo
the climax has come, they will go away
i think to myself in the midst of my headache

but no, they are persistent.
just stop, stop it i say.
my brain quakes from the noises.
my forehead shakes and belts
jerking
twitching.

the bells...
the bells....
do not cease again

-Pamplemousse

bicycle club

we ride in the park
a gang of ruffians
with baseball primary colored caps
and skinned knees
but we don't aim to please
we merely enjoy the bump of the road
as she caresses us over the pellets of rock
and the fragile little bones of trees
twigs and pebbles mean nothing to us
because this

this is the last summer.

but we like to forget that
and merely smile and clear our minds
as we look up at the sunlight fighting to catch a glimpse of us
from between the leafy green canopy
and the grass doesn't sway
because it is summer
and the wind has gone to vacation
like the clerk at the butcher shop

and i.
i ride on my bicycle
forgetting about what lies ahead
but still.
riding towards it.

-Pamplemousse

bricks

bricks spell death
bricks spell fate

they are the  foundation
the weapon

a symbol of solidity

of sinking low
slowly
pa inf  ully   slowly

into the murky depths of the sea's gaping wounds

-Pamplemousse

positive complaint.

Sometimes I think that nobody else in the world

loves other people like I do

I think you are wonderful,

truly darling and almost perfect.

Does anyone else love people like I do?

It takes so much effort,

a walk does. 

I might see someone I love

and what would I do then? 

It's so hard. 

-Citron

They forgot to tell us the point.

The clock is hooked onto the wall

and has been for fifty years,

one tick a second, every
second, except for five minutes every
three and a half
years to change the
battery is that the point of learning algebra?
she asked, feet seven
point two inches from
the square linoleum floor
tiles She landed with a double click
and began pacing across the width
of the 18x16 classroom: 

5 out of 250 fingers shot up coming with

"to answer problems,"

now every single student

(well 24/25 of the students--

one was asleep) knew

that for no reason in particular

they had to garble and fumble letters and numbers

for frustrating (180*x h/d) hours

until the symbol after one equals sign

matched the one at the end of the book.

Someone said they would need to be able to

factor trinomials

someday,

in a grocery store or on a train

because those were "real life" things they were approved to

understand. 

because that lady in heels forgot. 

The students remained dubious

(not even I write equations every time I cross a bridge)

glancing apprehensively at a dark pointlessness

that would apparently follow them

for the rest of their lives. 

-Citron

Australia

Just pick up an Austen novel
And you'll see what I mean
Everyone knows everybody
and they're all about twenty- Hey
Sure we have better medicine
and life expectancy
But they didnt know Australia
Or miss it like me. 
I don't know why you're there
I dont know why I'm here
I just know that australia
is across the world from me.
Sure all phtotographs must travel through
A darkroom and a film roll but
that art's a little different because
a piucture cannot see
And I know there wasn't facebook
in the nineteenth century
Which is why we have such prejudices in our society
And they learned to not miss people
cause of all their lost babies
So its nice I know Australia
And low child mortality
I don't know why you're there
I dont know why I'm here
I just know that australia
is across the world from me.

I'm not sure if its your birthday still
But it's the right day here for me
To sing a song about Australia
And what it means to me.

-Citron

Couplets from Myself

I found theses on a neatly folded piece of paper in a dusty corner behind a bookshelf.  I have no idea when they were written.  I usually only rhyme when I intend to set something to music, but these have nothing to do with any song I've written.  Sometimes I set down a verse or chorus for a song in my head that never works out... I'm sad I didn't finish this song, because I really like these lines. 

1.

my friends are too busy (+ nice?) to be judgemental

Criticism's rare and when it's there it's gentle

2.

If the tempo's fast people aren't too picky

That's how songwriting's different from poetry

Cool, right?

-Citron

Depending on your location, it may not be a sunset.

My nostalgia is wistful
Happy memory hurt the backs of my eyes, wincing.  I'm watching
a sunset over the rooftop from the fourth floor in the industrial desert
that I can only have now, and that I love. 
A sunset is never meant to be held, that is the point of a
sunset of life, eyes twinkling, remembering happy time,
who understands unless they are there? 
Screened window, hope, looking over a parking lot
fourth-floor I watch a sunset, and promise to

remember it happily, I will!

and the orange is stronger, strengthening like rewindind a cassette

that can play in the background, the sun

coming up again, holding the old happy times
a finger up the side of a glass, dripping with light
suspended in the sky
shining the wist out

of happy eye reflections.

-Citron

Various Units of Measure

I don't understand a year. 

I don’t understand a kilogram. 

I don’t understand a degree;

neither Celsius nor Fahrenheit.  I don’t understand an hour. 

I don’t understand a dollar, not to mention twenty or ten thousand.  Please,

don't ask me how much power is in a horse, how much water

is in an Olympic-size pool, or how many people,

real people,

were killed at Auschwitz. 

I could give you a number  I wouldn't understand. 

I could give you a number;

I wouldn't understand. 

I understand five jellybeans, but the jellybean to ton conversion

is incomprehensible to me, as are quarks, neut-

-rons, molecules, cells, and eco-

-systems. 

Humans explain things terribly, so don't spoonfeed me;

I can make my own spoons.  You know what though? 

You know what? 

I need three ounces of silver. 

-Citron

cave

the bedroom where the walls are blue

where the window has a peering view

and the woodwork shines like painted dew

is where i stay when i hide away,

and on my bed i happ'ly lay

and wait until the finish of the day.

-Pamplemousse

homophones

pamplemousse.
pampered moose?

citron.
sit ron!

banana.
ban anna.

cerise.
serious?

-Pamplemousse

pear

one says a woman's shape is like a pear,
but no...
it is the shape of woman.

not an hourglass or a nondescript circle
but of woman.

-Pamplemousse

Responseing, pg. 2411

It should be in a medical dictionary,
and probably is, because by chance so many women
says the translucent page, bunches of gray dust clinging to the neglected corners
so many women don't find compliments sincere.
There are not a lot of poets.
Poetry is subterfuge or complete sincerity
and subterfuge only by the folksy snakes.
They say, in a well-thumbed thick paper cookbook about dinner parties
that compliments are gifts,
like snowflakes, melting under close inspection.
I hope my gift was well-recieved, and you weren't staring at your glove
with the intensity of the premed with thick glasses and scruff,
inhaling, exhaling, the dust is dancing.
He blows it off because it irks him,
and

"Say you had a friend named Lily.  When she arrives, tell her you enjoy her green dress."
The cook ripped out the next, appropriate Lily effemerate response with teeth, and like a gift of her own
she now values her dress quite solidly. 

-Citron

hollow feathers

when the birds line in a row

one really ought to know

that they fear the auniform crow

that will break their symmetrical show.

the bone white ones are calm

that they will not fall to harm

the brick red ones are wary

of those beasts that are so scary.

the sky blue ones are sad

that they will lose what they had.

-Pamplemousse

Oreo

collegeapplicationstranscriptshonorrollvaledictoriansummerresearchundergraduategraduatemedicallawpostdocnobelprizewinner

knowledge, pursuits, love, enlightenment, paths, spirit
a good book and and interesting conversation
a laugh shared by intimate friends,

music in the car, shouting for joy

partieswomanityovereatinglosingweightworkingoutautographapprovalmiddleagednesssocietiesandfunctionsimportantpeoplesuck

-Citron

"How do you know that?"

"How do you know that?"  Look buster, somehow that sophic remark didn't seem completely rude coming out of your male mouth but the random camel feed you shove in mine every day is completely unbased in fact, so if you would please cite or get out of my house you hippo.

The boy was telepathic, so he turned around and cried.


-Citron

A Lily on a Lake

I swim at times,

oftentimes i find myself in treacherous waters

and if not, in white waters of pedestrian 

opaqueness.

when this happens, i climb up on to my favorite lilypad

there, i find a pure talent and zest

there seems to be a graceful alabaster glow

on this small island in the lagoon.

this gracious aqueaflora allows me to rest on her leaves

and we exchange secrets over the ripple of the waves

i would have long drowned in the tar

and lost myself, 

if not for this lovely being.

intelligence and creativity

are merely one

oh her world's worth of talents.

i am grateful that she exists

for i truly feel that i am i. 

and i like i. 

thank you

-Pamplemousse

Lucia

Lucia,
It is most rare to find someone who
after seeing the joy of a drunk
decded not to drink.
To be a friend, a universe, at least,
must be in common.
We giggle at gay men's poetry that comes in the mail
and try to skip the expletives
not because the words burn our throats

(going down to fire)
but because we are too responsible
to lose ourselves that way.
Lucia, thank you
for seeing the joy of a drunk
and responsibly

keeping your cool

(and your tongue)

-Citron

Vivacity lives in attention.

I guess a while back I decided the world wasn't complicated after all
because I could just skip the hard parts
and like everyone else
not
fix
anything.

It was, of course, a terrible idea,
and I take a dose of reality every morning
like a spoonful of fishoil.
it's not nice
but it keeps me living longer,
and my breath smelling worse.

I can build a house for every
complicated radical
in my heart, which is what my mouth
connects to. 

-Citron

A-side assertive, B-side blues

Magazines don't like my poetry
Friends think it's okay compared to their mothers'
Mother humors me,
I humor me
and write poetry. 
The word "filler song" is used exclusively by the consumer.
Every song on the album is important.
I am important.
Records spin and spin and depending on the third dimensional
world around sound different.
it will spin the same through set beat time
but it will sound very different. 
There is needle room for a bit, a byte, a bite
When it hops over that little black line
at 18, and when centuries read zero
I will be important.  or not.
I might be the B side. The one that is never played in this universe,

on this kitchen table.
But please, stop telling me I do not exist.
I do, and I am important. 
I write poetry.

-Citron

soul of the insect

The last portal to the universe has closed

And I am a trapped bee

Aimlessly flying around the pomegranate

That fruit that holds the seeds of discord

And of ill-fated disaster

I swim around the sky

And attempt to escape, but soon I cannot breathe

And I fall down to earth

Lying in a pool of garish red

My Blood.

But no, it is a puddle of juicy sweat

From the pomegranate.

Violet Scarlet with no heart

And I, I know that I am bound to this earth

Even though I have wings,

I cannot, ever reach the heights

Of the dewy cerulean peaks

Or of the mystical jewels that gleam tears.

They are much too far

For an insignificant little breathing bead

of sunlight

like me.

-Pamplemousse

you can

the world is trembling and i can't think and ohmy god i can't believe it and i just...just i, i see it there, but it must be some kind of dream, or mistake, or maybe someone else..?  it's just unreal, no no no, this can't be, i wonder how it happened, it must be a mistake, they mixed mine up with someone elses, but no, there it is, imm looking at it, im not crazy am i?no im not....i cant be. this must be real i cant believe it.  I AM SO HAPPY. im acting childish, but oh, the world is in rainbow hues and everything is just lovely! and i am so grateful, thank you thank you Thank you God, you had pity on my silly scrawls oh. thank you, thank you. ah i cant contain my joy i want to scream and dance and eat a 10 tier coconut cherry cake, and hug a baby. my heart is going to go off its track it is beating so fast.  i am so happy.

this moment of elation.
is a priceless jewel, that one experiences
very rarely.
this moment, makes all those other not so happy moments go away.
if one tries and fails and tries and fails, 893 times.
then decides that it is useless.
NO i cant go on with this, this rejection is too much, i cant do it, i need to stop and find some other....thing to do.
the 894th time would be the moment of elation.

-Pamplemousse

i come from a land ___

i come from a land down under
where the flames sparkle on the walls
and the woody smell of earth eats away at the lies
where the dirt is good and clean and soluble in tears,
the sky is orange and glowing as an infant mushroom.
this land is dear and wholesome, and the air
is sweet with cinnamon and sweat.
but i need more,
i must see what else lies in this multiverse.
because i know, there's not just one.

i go to the land up above
and it is cold, but one feels blissful.
euphoric are the sounds one hears up above
the crash of the waves.  and the great silence.
there are lavender streams and the flowers never die.
the sun is blinding and exudes an aroma of ambrosia
the leaves have flecks of gold and dance when no one watches
and the frogs swim on snowflake lilies.
this is paradise, but it is too cold
and i want to feel the hot comfort in my chest.

i visit the land over there,
and it is stony, the cliffs frame the land
and give the gray valleys a pompous pride,
the trees are rigid in their stance
one could say they are perfect,
but one could also say they are horrid.
it is neither cold nor warm, but dry.
the pumpkins and wheat in the field hum with hidden energy
and their leathery skin rubs and rolls on the earth of concreteness.
the lions sleep 'neath the wings of griffins
and dream of their ancestors.
the land over there is ancient and sacred,
but i am not a priestess and i need the oven in my soul
to warm my body.

i walk many miles, passing many willows.
i look at my fingernails, and see the tint of orange sky
reflected in them.
and i feel warm, and home.

-Pamplemousse

pep talk

It would be a little silly of me to send my poetry to anyone.
Contests highstrung magazines------imbalances
of course they are, no matter the consumer enjoyment
who cares whether the winner is bad
it's in a magazine.
for a second I
care!
Then that second passes.

you know, I try
hard!
but its not for you.  Sometimes I pretend it is.
externally judged critical success!
but thats a really stupid reason to do anything. 
Like going to Harvard Business School because the odds of
being a CEO are good for
the general
population

(thats like following rules, contest rules and poetry rules
(which is an oxymoron anyway
)to be self-satisfied (except if your talent
is rule-following))
(more power to you!)

I read poetrypoetrypoetrynovelspoetrylyricsheeeetslyricsheetspoetry
I can do so much better than
much of!
this junk.  I've not gotten there yet,
and I won't, not on
your!
terms.
But I can, ICANicanicanican.

I enjoy reading
copious amounts
of myself.


-Citron

This is Just for Practice

I would like to claim 20 poem points for this album, which was created entirely by me.  Most of the songs were written several times. 

-Citron

The Buddha

The Buddha, before he was,
set out in sitting to escape the cycle of life and death.
At his birth he shouted- this will indeed be his last birth.
Would you mind being born again?
The Buddhists were very open to wondering
if this truth is the real high truth, even if its not
the Buddha "escaped the cycle of life and death"
Whether or not he quietly traveled
to an infant salmon or koala or President,
he thought hard, prayed hard, and escaped this.


-Citron 

the sky is a wet blue phoenix

The sky is blue
water has been stretched over the giant drum of the world
Don't believe me?  It is round.
Lay on the ground in the forest and the trees stretch around you, convering into one point,
what you've considered flat is actually
actually a bowl
a cradle basin.
I heard a thunder beat
(Hands scoop water from the ocean and smooth it across the mouth)
(This morning I saw the sky skin was white and aged)
I heard thunder beat like a yellow marching band drum would,
an accidental cracking hit
in a dusty band room closet
in some high school in Minnesota.
The whole canvas cracked
melting and falling, in a patter
as cactus seeds rattle up and down a rainstick.
I wonder if the trickling through soil is music for the bugs and bacteria
under my feet.
I pretend to hear the water splashing into the next sky below. 


-Citron

insects in the sky

the lights they form a shape i can not detect
this natural (unnatural) defect
appears as a horrid cicada on the ground
far far below on the ground
with networks of glowing spines

horrid poet

every day must the dilligent poet write
it is one´ s duty to the art
i
i have been disrespectful
this will not do




so receive this my public apology
-Pamplemousse

Nerdfighteria (a haiku)

The Internet, like
most scary things, has high points.
DFTBA. 


-Citron

"Cleaning out the cusions"

Cleaning out the cushions

of an old gray tweed-upholstered chair

I drew handfuls of old small things,

none more striking than this trio:

a clear blue marble, a hydrogen atom from Sam's model chemistry set, and a dusty yellow jelly bean.

I promise I could find a metaphor

Or a concrete here-is-life story

I could talk about the small things

Or the wasted things

I could talk about color

Or love

Or armchairs.

I promise. 

I also promise

that I won't.

This poem is not symbolic.

-Citron

Lead solution

There is a constant rapping on my skull, from the inside

Things want to get out—I need to be,

I need to be, they plead and hit and hit

And most of them are your fault, so I asked

If we can have some time for quiet from them and from you

Other times I will bring them to live here,

shoot them out of wrists and hands

and spray them around the house

like wildflowers in a yellowed vase.

When I can make them be for you,

Those hours.  And then the idea happened

That everyone in the potentially florid house might

Split themselves as Emily had.

There is a difference, if course,

Between a pledge and a surprise corpus callosum.

And when the new idea becomes giant and stretches into flaw and even,

Even though it’s new when it’s commonplace,

Nothing works.  The solution is no longer easy smooth or even potable.

Salt and lead live together,

And someone wants to drink.

I can live with water in a cup,

Although I lose my characteristic taste.

You don’t want to drink lead, in the first place,

And if you heated it enough to be a liquid

You would be a gas.  Leave it, and it will

just sit at the bottom

Gray powder in a pile on the floor of the vase

Just under the cut green stems. 

-Citron

Media confuses Me

I want to play in a band with a crazy name
like Galactic Minivan or Bad Words
or cOOL pOTATOES or Sauce
(The woman in the black leather skirt
was never told to dress modestly
by someone who loved her.) 

I want to be dirt poor
so I can see people under the skin.
That being said
I don't want to see their real missing skin
because dirt poor means desperate.

I want to be rich and famous
from the privacy of my own home
Everyone should love me already.

This catharsis is a severe imbalance. 
Someone important called it a spirit deficit.
The television switches from a concert in LA or New York
or somewhere else too far to walk
to a commercial about Fancy Feed Dog Food (with Vegetables! for your Carnivorous Mammals!)
I want to eat dog food. 

I really really really want to eat dog food. 


Citron

Letter to a Geographically Distant Friend (detail of a larger work)

-Citron

(the fame song)

I played the ukulele for a couple friends of mine. 
They all clapped for me afterward
which I thought was fine.
"I hope you're famous someday" and a few others agreed
But I'd hate to be famous-- that is not the life for me. 
When the whole world knows you, you're supposed to have won,
but fame doesn't sound like any fun. 

You could say it's for the riches-
the easy golden life.
Plenty of food to feed your kids
and a really lovely wife. 
A room for everybody and
just stuff from floor to ceiling. 
I guess it's better than a cubicle
or chronic stealing...
Money won't solve your problems though,
it'll just provide distractions. 
And on your deathbed you'll look back
at those faded attractions. 
"Why did I waste my time with these,
where has my whole life gone?"
No, fame doesn't sound like any fun. 

Besides, the whole idea that you'll make those A-list parties
only sounds good so you can meet the actors and the smarties. 
But see you are no different from the man you were at home
Neither are all these people-- they're just strangely all alone. 
Appreciate your friends now, don't lust after the A-list
The only difference is the fact that some of them are famous. 
I don't need to be known for the cool stuff that I've done
Cause fame doesn't sound like any fun. 

It's just a shared obsession, media's a business too
Reporters process people just like him and me and you
So masses think they know them and some sycophant gets paid
And that human in the spotlight has more carvings on his grave. 
If someone offerend me that life I'd turn and full-out run,
Cause fame doesn't sound like any fun. 



-Citron

The Cactus

On my porch there is a cactus.  I found it today, sitting in a sunny corner. 
Nobody knows where it came from.  I asked them all. 
It might be my cactus, but I don't remember getting a cactus. 
It might be my mother's cactus, but she doesn't remember getting a cactus.
It might be my brother's cactus, but he doesn't remember getting a cactus. 
It is probably my father's cactus, although he doesn't remember getting a cactus. 
It is cactus-colored, desert sandy green-- different from the wetter, brighter "weed" plants in the pot with it. 
They are new but it has lasted and will, probably. 
On my porch there will probably be a cactus
sitting in a sunny corner. 
I think it is my father's cactus. 


-Citron

individualism

Make the path and follow it
and it will be your path. 


-Citron

Conversations in Silico

I speak to my computer like it is a person
and sometimes it speaks back. 
Often it tells me about RAM,
that living memory.  Not the data that lasts forever,
but instead the awareness of a day. 

"Hold on," it says, huffing, "I can only do so many things at once. 
I can run math problems and talk, or keep my screen on.  Pick two." 
Sometimes, when my demands really push my computer
"I'm only one machine.  I'm made of metal and silicon. 
You can feel my edges.  Stop." 
it is easy to see where it begins and ends.  I can hold it in my hands,
although I don't understand how it works completely. 

It moves slowly through the harder tasks,
although it always moves. 

My computer remembers, and keep remembering what has happened
until at the end of even
an uneventful day
it is reduced to
crawling. 
I turn the machine off then. 


-Citron

incarnation

i owe you some congratulation
on the pomp of your graduation.

-Pamplemousse

dead mouse

electronic saunters
through the technologic field,
the computerized wildlife
stare

the metal deer
the stainless steel bird
turn their red laser eyes upon my sorry flesh

the sun even shines as a robotic force
with screws and silicon chips
the grass is sharp as a knife
and there is no soft spot of dirt
to lie on, as a healthy spotted pig.

i wander around this strange new world
overcome by machines,

i see a few meters away, a spot of white, on all the shining gray
i walk towards it, my bare feet cold from stepping on the
unfriendly steel,

and it is a dead mouse.

lying on the technological floor,
of the technological world.

-Pamplemousse

Gallery Saunter

Everything is white in galleries-
and I tell someone the metaphor
(a while ago.)
about how it means everything
and the art just stands out
like a house in a forest.  

(today)

The picture reminded me
of fish sliced open
and hit on the wall. 
How that fit in a frame"
I do like it"
and the next was of a conception
although the man only spoke of technique
hands.  His beard was just right.
I do like it"

and another was an old man
with checkerboard skin.
I do like it"

I would not let it stay in my house-
too hot, too cold,

broke my bed
intrusion
and bother. 
I will not buy this art.
                                                 
I like it. 


-Citron

BEETLES

When I see Beetles I do not think of beetles. 
Instead, when I see beetles I think of Beetles. 


-Citron

a little bit of anaconda

the talking semiaquatic serpent
grinned,
at least i think i did

i have learned well to never look a basilisk in the eyes

or else turn to frozen warmth of stone

with a glaze of white clouds,
painted over my eyes
blind and unseeing.

i just feel it smiles at me
would it be so perilous?

i feel that i will regret not seeing this marvelous view

of the terrestrial eel with the mona lisa smile

no larger, much larger than a mona lisa smile
it stretches as a fault line
cracks branch off from the boldest line
along the dusty ravines of its skin

oh but, i can not see.

indeed.
i will endeavor to carefully look.

....




it is no longer there.
the anaconda in the room is gone
and i have missed my opportunity.
and it makes all the difference.

-Pamplemousse

A little bit of propoganda

Hush little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. 

And if your mockingbird gets shot
well honey that's a sin, so don't get caught.

If you get caught you'll go to jail,
though Mommy will probably pay your bail.

And if she has no money in hand,
I'm sure she'll deal with the loaning man

And if his interest is too high
Your mommy will trade her kidneys and eyes,

And if the zombies are found to be poor
She'll sell herself traveling door to door

Cause zombies are real and she will be blind,
And they'll try to eat you too, cause your smell they can find.

But you just have to shoot everybody you can
And make sure to short-shrift that loaning man

Cause if you're cool enough you'll get lots of girls
And the meaning of life is diamonds and pearls.

So don't forget son, that God hates gays
That commercial's there's not for a passing craze

Minorities are stupid and murder is funny,
if you can't make bail you can sell your mummy. 

Maybe she deserves it since she let you
Play those video games when you were two

Because there's a difference between bubble wrapping kids
And filtering their intake of adult YouTube vids.

Their brains aren't devloped, so that's your job,
You don't want their role models to be in the Mob.

Your mom tried to be cool and she raised you wrong
I'm sorry, I hate that, so have a song. 


-Citron

in need of an atlas

the world is a medley of taupish violet,
as far as i can see
between the heavy blinkings of my eye
the curtains close so swiftly
the blinds come down so violently
the spotlights have grown dim


there is no atlas to carry my eyelids

-Pamplemousse

blue roses

'tween the leaves inside my head
the roses bloom a dusky red
the petals see such sights as those
that depress to make them close

and on the trunk sprung from my neck
the birds with sharp beaks sorely peck
and cause my aching wood to pain
as the sap is washed away by the rain.

and in this trunk, this wooden chest
with padlock, rusty, and at rest,
lies the velvet secret of my soul
that lies slowly burning hot as coal.

and soon this treasure chest will burn
and that from trunk can not discern
the aching birch from frosty fern.

-Pamplemousse

I have finally bought the house.

You are my best friend, she said,
and we were, but the "my" she mentioned
was not all the soul floating around in her brain.
There were dark patches I could not actively
befriend just because
I could not find them. 

There was no trace of the pools in the world of "My"
that reflected and conformed, as we agreed to be distinct people,
because only followers change for others. 

Reflections are beautiful, mirrors are useful.  Caves she boarded up as well,
like a homeowner paints over nail holes before showing, selling their house. 
They used to hold art,
but I cannot see them.  I see mountains, and I can draw
extremely accurate topographical maps, I can list plants
and campgrounds
and I know when the sun rises and sets.  These are things I know in her. 

Some things I don't yet:  cracks and perennialy leaky faucets, rodents and hidden attic windows by which the reading light
is the very best,
I had to save and save
and buy the house.  I owned them,
and she owned my dripping ceiling, squeaky air conditioning, splintering floorboards,
even though
they had yet
to be discovered,

and even though I will not live here forever,
a house you own
is a very special thing 
as is a best friend. 


-Citron

Maslow

I am
         sick and tired and hungry
                                                and
sick and tired and hungry
                                      and sick and
tired and hungry
                          I am. 

-Citron

Expellation of cerebreal mucus

Sleep is such an inconvenient thing. Oh to be immune to such a disease. Have you ever thought about how horrible sleep really is? Necessary for life and happiness, it is a giant vaccuum that sucks away half of your life. People want super powers such as invisibility, X-ray vision, the ability to fly. But, what I would give, to be able to live happily sans sleep. At night, in the seclusion of my room, not interrupted or bothered to be able to do whatever pleased me. This would be the perfect setting to write a book, better than jail,citron. All by myself, with vampire weekend playing in the background, sprawled out on my bed in gingham pajamas, writing leagues and leagues of pages. All this in an idyllic world.

-Pamplemousse

Random Thought Vomits

Excuses sicken me, and the only things that sicken are things you consume.  Even smells are small particles of the thing.  Habits sicken me, and losing them does.  Either way it feels as though you have lost something, whether free will or good things to sicken.  I don't know what to say sometimes.  I don't know what to say a lot of the time.  I can say I am sorry but I'm not.  I've gotten into the habit of not feeling anything I can't fix.  I think that's the only reason we have feelings.  I would like to go prison to find time to write a book.  I wouldnt be able to fix anything in there.  I wouldn't feel at all. 

-Citron

Random Thought Vomits

bonjour citron, when i read the word cumbersome, i thought it said cucumber, thinking of food aren't we? just a little bit.  you know, i really enjoy creepy things.  i don't know why, is there some deep psychological reasoning for adoring the strange and dark? the threatening storm yesterday made me so happy.  it was so beautiful, i mean the sky was a giant fluffy gray brain.  with its curved ridges, and the wet texture.  and the air was snippy and little darts seemed to come from the surroundings and puncture my cheeks.  and then the thunder late at night. it was divine to lay on my bed, the only soul in the world, calm and content, listening to the terrific booms and the shrieks of the lighting.  my bed sheets cold and soft, trembling under the force of the giant outside my bedroom window.  how romantic.  oh, that i could take that moment and wrap it up, with layers and layers of green silky chiffon, and stuff it between A Catcher in the Rye, and Hercule Poirot's Christmas and take it out, and inhale it.  and be there in my bed, in my temperate coccoon in the middle of the violet tempest. 

Random Thought Vomit Day (4 minutes)

Hey pamplemousse (wouldn't that be a funny name to have in real life?  so cumbersome) I think whoever posts first on certain days (usually me) should come up with a new way to say what we have, up until now, referred to "uncensored mind rambles."  You said thought vomit.  I wonder how unoriginal the name will be next Saturday. 

I was thinking about mapquest, and directions in general.  What if the opposite of right wasn't left, but it had an option of being either left or another direction?  Let's call it wild, pronounced like "willed"  So if I had directions, I knew that to get where I wanted to go I had to turn right, left, right, but I would never be able to get back.  I turned right before.  Do I turn left now, or do I turn wild?  I wonder what maps would look like.  Probably they would have to be three-dimmensional and bendy, like a crochet pattern.  I wonder what life would be like in the fourth dimension. 

Speaking of four, my four minutes are up.  Can't wait to read yours. 

-Citron

frozen strawberry lemonade

the skies are near their climax
they are nearly open
ladies and gentlemen
the fear of god is approaching
the thunderous applause
the tears of anticipation
the lights darken
the neon lights
stark and loud
tear open the tempest gray
peek out of the curtains
with your garish hues.

and here it is,
the fear of god
with a mighty clap
the skies open and rain steel liquid.

-Pamplemousse

discus

the flying disk
with its violet shines
upon its invisible legs
runs as a hart
and spins and spins
around whirling
around the pivot
around the conical center
playing the soulful
mournful
sorrowful
notes
of the ---

-Pamplemousse

forced hiatus

I'm sorry to all of the three
Who like to read my poetry
I'm taking exams now you see
And they're a set priority. 

I have not quit, I've not forgot.
I miss my poems quite a lot.

But I can not philosophize
When math takes up all my brain-ties.
I'll return soon, and shout "SURPRISE!"

But for now, I apologize. 

-Citron

the rose rose

the wind brought a maelstrom of gusts and blusters of all sorts.
it was a frightening day as the whirlpools of air surrounded the world
and crushed it in its monstrous claws of smoke.
the leaves became knives as they were savagely ripped from their mother branch.
and the ground became bloodied with petals and twig fragments.
the mighty oaks swayed spasmatically and swung their hair as if screaming,
the docile creek became a demonic rage of bubbled liquid
as it stung the undew'd grass with its vile spray.

and among all the pandemonium of the tempest
the apocalyptic warring of nature,
there was a dash of sanguineous red
in the middle of the clearing,
with the trees and the earth and all of nature
spinning desperately, tormentedly in a spheric 'round
a small eye of the hurricane
and there was the home of the crimson hue
the petals intact and calm
still as the folded hands of sleeping old women
and the stem, a rigid and straight serpent
dead and petrified in a severe path

and the rose rose
caught up in the storm and yet raised up on a pedestal
to observe the destruction of the world.

-Pamplemousse

scientific method

the world has learned to suppress their thoughts,

quell their emotions in a way that they do not allow

the eager, ready train, to ever leave the station.

one learns to focus focus focus

and to discourage the flight of fantasy

no, that quetzal must remain extinct in the jungle.

the mind is a compact tuber, born boring and thick

over time we carve it, and the tuber grows

it can grow high, and cast a long shadow

or it can flatten out into a pancake

a worthless two dimensional floppy saucer.

when one writes poetry, or at least when i do

somehow, i naturally encourage my mind to unravel

i even push it, eagerly waiting to see the intricate henna it will paint

i pursue every haphazard thought

every ridiculous idea, i believe and stand by it

and each interruption, i embrace

for it will affect the outcome in its own way.

each poem i write is a ball of yarn i toss with all my might

it might bounce off a paint-chipped wall 

or roll aimlessly in spherical eights

i might kick it towards the stairs and observe it tangle up

gleefully i witness the chaos,

the confused uncertainty

and then it comes to rest.

still as a deathly dawn.

and there i have my product.

-Pamplemousse

Planning poems

Note to self: 

Insert something witty and deep.  Be sure to include wordplay even the you you'll be tomorrow won't remember the meaning of
oh, and stay away from sunshine, you've been stuck on it lately

(This poem remains
unfinished)


-Citron

communication

Hello dear friend, how could you understand my need to speak to someone? you are the happy victim of my cannon of words.  Please answer, comprehend that I am counting on you to help me through these secret difficulties that lie as spoiled milk, fermenting in my chest.  I want to know you, i want to know that you will not judge me, that you perceive with an open, welcoming mind.  I don't know you well at all i is true.  That far corner of the classroom that you inhabit, a swerving trail among tables is the only way to reach you, you seem so distant.  Often i have wished that you would come join us in our trivial conversations.  But please, i am alone, i need someone.  Do not turn me away.


Hi.

What do you want? what could possibly be the motive for you to contact me. we do not mix in our high school soup of society.  I wonder what your reasons are.  Most likely case is that you want answers to some test, or homework, or you want to find out something and attempt to skillfully extract it from my wandering, reposing mind.  I scorn your selfish attempts.  Indeed, why even use formalities? hellos are not necessary, just be up front about it.  i am no fool, i know what you want.  just tell me what you want of me and then be done with it...i truly am quite cynical am i not? perhaps he really does want to speak to me.  perhaps these hidden motives are as invisible as the graying hairs i feel but can not find.  in class, there is a silent hidden worry about him.  surrounded by friends, i feel he must have none. yes, i will try to be open, and give him the benefit of the doubt.  i will give him a chance to accomplish whatever he is trying to accomplish with his monosyllabic salutation.


Hey!

-Pamplemousse