Lincoln Neal

where littlebirdsstaythey makeintricate mapsto where themagneticschange onlywheneversmall...

Sat, 02 Jun 2012 03:40:00 -0700

where little
birds
stay
they make
intricate maps
to where the
magnetics
change only
whenever
small
birds
provide direction
a time, large
birds fly

Hearts & Cartwheels

Sat, 02 Jun 2012 00:03:22 -0700

b, fire in rain
what else, we
remember fire
like blood
type c, we
taste sulfur
in sparklers
d, above all
completely
in love with
hearts and
cartwheels
what else?

The Destiny of Nostalgia

Fri, 01 Jun 2012 23:38:15 -0700

ebbingusually:

Nostalgia
derived from art.
A poem,
a play, or,
indeed, a

Steluta

Fri, 01 Jun 2012 18:19:51 -0700

Raised by a
Rottweiler who killed
Six squirrels and
A cat, not by the
Mures, the Prut, the
Olt, the Siret or
The Danube but
Here with you, Stuti, this
Is for her

Three Shades

Fri, 01 Jun 2012 17:41:15 -0700

Says
The fox by the grave
I’d trade three
Worlds to
See in yours
The fox by the
Grave breathes
Like a bird
While we
Whistle past
The moon
In three shades

giraffes

Fri, 01 Jun 2012 01:20:13 -0700

giraffes

Mean Less

Thu, 31 May 2012 20:21:00 -0700

po
etry
may
mea
n les
s t
han
a ju
mp thoug
h parts
amaze
melting ice
makes
heat
hate
part
of
ice
mea
ning ben
ds
hott
est
thoughts
like
sna
kes cold
bloo
d don’t
mean
junk

vines grownfrom the heartage so slowlywithin the darktight pink depthof the chest, soslowly up...

Thu, 31 May 2012 19:04:43 -0700

vines grown
from the heart
age so slowly
within the dark
tight pink depth
of the chest, so
slowly up and
out the lips ‘til
everything said is
vines hanging out,
so suddenly

quick waysout of roomsare guardedby screencovered pipes10 inches wideand the samepaint as thewall...

Thu, 31 May 2012 18:58:49 -0700

quick ways
out of rooms
are guarded
by screen
covered pipes
10 inches wide
and the same
paint as the
wall plus
tobacco oil
plus dust

all good thingscan be done on thelawn and written byspitted trails of snailshine which don’t...

Thu, 31 May 2012 18:43:00 -0700

all good things
can be done on the
lawn and written by
spitted trails of snail
shine which don’t trip
the porch lights

Hole In The Dog

Tue, 29 May 2012 20:51:45 -0700

there
is a guitar
in
the
dog you must put
your
ear up to. there
is a
song in
a saw like
straw on
a hole
which is
carved
like a note in.

some
put strings
on then
pull ears from
a hole in the dog. some
wear strings and pull ears across the lawn.

Measuring Hands

Tue, 29 May 2012 18:45:21 -0700

everything left
by the
cutting board and bell
pepper, the
cooking onion
(lemon squeezed
over, chopped) is
the only sharp knife,
diced carrots, the
celery (we have no
shallots) by the garlic
and hard fists of salt to
measure with the
hands left

Uncertain Angles

Tue, 29 May 2012 18:12:04 -0700

our textures
are rendered
at
certain
ranges and
words, noises in
certain registers. at
higher pitches
are colors explaining we
squeak like bees
fly, with perfect
humming shapes
at such
uncertain
angles

Numismatic

Sun, 27 May 2012 01:21:42 -0700

lincolnneal:

saying anything to permanence isn’t

playing and the reverse is also true for

worth. so i therefor am speculating.

rare coins? it is important to note

the glint of its face in the light of

day. its value in luck. its maker. its

flash in a pool of a million stupid

wishes- to be a prettydead girl- oh to kiss katie- oh

to be a shiny coin. i saw you this

way at the getty- a confident, hard

metal state among collectors. a wish in a

smile on your face- a silhouette that

sits in sand ocean or attic, safety boxes

or pictures in a collector’s book. one

moonish perfect skipping wish of

cold copper and silver and gold- alive

in the hand- dead in a photograph,

which i am glad of, no matter the

aperture, as you stand at the getty

so i don’t have to speculate.

as an addendum i should say: personally, i dislike bukowski as a writer and a human being on extreme...

Sat, 26 May 2012 23:52:00 -0700

as an addendum i should say: personally, i dislike bukowski as a writer and a human being on extreme levels. anyone who likes that dude or aspires to be like him, well, i wish you the best.

How To Never Write Like Bukowski

Sat, 26 May 2012 23:32:26 -0700

words are useful.
don’t use them.

For Walks

Sat, 26 May 2012 20:24:22 -0700

i saw willow the other day. he was eating almonds.
or hiding them. he took two routes.
well, three. one was up the plum tree
and over the neighbor’s garage. one was up the
plum tree and down the top
of the brown back fence to the left. one was along the
white fence where he disappeared beneath. i heard
a high pitched squeak after awhile. it is
a familiar sound. willow has children, i’m certain.
the smell of lighter fluid and charcoal
is everywhere and we hear men
explain to gals how far sound runs
from lightning. whatever
charcoal is. it is a familiar smell. willow
stopped hiding almonds and soon
the squeaking halted. we hear
california accents about rain
past the top of the fence
to the left and they count the
distance between light and
thunder again. it’s far and nice
for walks and sleeping willows
to the jealousy of swamps
sleep the sleep of seeds
and almond trees are
born beside the plums

selfSE Main

Sat, 26 May 2012 00:37:55 -0700

self
SE Main

Tangled Light Unties

Thu, 24 May 2012 17:10:31 -0700

lincolnneal:

i can switch hands.
nothing else. i close
the other eye and
see other bands of
light sometimes. it
all looks the same
but fundamentally
changes. my head
flows up and down.
rain falls left to right.
i stare separately
at static hands
with each eye. the
tangled light unties

Little Pink Pig

Wed, 23 May 2012 21:04:00 -0700

little pink pig,
you run up to
the river, little
pink pig, when
you’re just
up to my
knee, and they
say, it’s just a pond, little
pink pig, it’s
just a pond,
it’s okay, my
little one,
you like
the frogs,
who swim around,
pink pink legs,
who run so far
to find the
sea until
it’s dark. pink
pink pig, past
men are
smoking
hats with
sharpened teeth,
past skinny
cats and
lilacs- past the
barn where
skinny cats kill little
hogs, like when
they play,
with balls of yarn,
up to the creek,
that is a sea,
you can’t be
wrong, my
little one, pink
pink pig,
the sun
goes down,
when frogs do sing,
until they drown,
across the bay
within the yard