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A gentle thirst sits
at the base of her lips, lost in a criminal tremble that threatens, confess the interrogation of his existence, in her reality. Last night
I slept with laughter in my eyes. It rippled in the form of tears, pooling at the edges and dropping humanity on my sheets - Emotions soaked everywhere on the sheets by morning. "Line inferiority," art revealed.
That is the problem with poets. It is a fear that has been programmed into their fingertips. The fear of that one line not measuring up, making anything written before or after it, a failure. The cure? Lay your body on the ground poet. Murmur your confessions on the ghosts of soles that have drum passed this journey before. Plant a stream of words on the road less travelled and watch them grow into something all your own. Pick the wild ones and place them into a vase. Watch the hunger of beauty transform the tip of your pen. Willingly undergoing
condemnation daily to display the absurdity of DNA. I wait for Holy Consolation to transform this frequency of torment, but am forced to continue and relive under this regime.    It's time for some computer generated poetry! This poem was made with the iPhone app, Spine Sonnet, a poem generator that uses the titles of art and architecture textbooks to make a sonnet. If you are an iPhone or iPad user, you can get the app here:
https://itunes.apple.com/us/app/spine-sonnet/id422871445?mt=8 (Sorry, the link feature isn't working on my Weebly app, it could have looked cleaner.)   For some reason, I can't get the last line in when I use the font in the second picture, no matter how many times I've resized it. Very frustrating. I had resort to changing the font after I posted on Instagram. Here is it is in plain text: Cracked tongues
do not know how to depart quietly. They sputter loudly, disjointed, cold. The doc places bandages on teeth to heal the disaster of good bye in that brilliant plastic grin, cheeks caved in. There are no kings,
no signs of glory in this acquisition of flame. You burn me bright, senses under siege. You're not crowned, but you rule over these stressed hammer strings that labor over a set of lungs in need of the memory to breathe. |
Christina D. RodriguezA Latinx poet and entrepreneur who blogs about poetry, music, writing, and life. Archives
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