{"id":2556,"date":"2012-05-17T08:39:52","date_gmt":"2012-05-17T12:39:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/wpblog\/?p=2556"},"modified":"2012-07-30T15:32:29","modified_gmt":"2012-07-30T19:32:29","slug":"the-heart-she-handled-and-other-poems-by-thomas-burgess","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/the-heart-she-handled-and-other-poems-by-thomas-burgess\/","title":{"rendered":"The Heart She Handled and Other Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

The Heart She Handled<\/strong><\/p>\n

There I sat in dying grass, sighing open remorse.
\nForgiven by impulse; I\u2019m still held accountable
\nknowing that intimacy sides with lust
\nyet still wishing that others felt of the night
\nsimply wanting things never to fail.<\/p>\n

Outside of this remains the fact:
\nMy veins raised for you
\ntorn through and flowing,
\noffering my blood.<\/p>\n

You licked what praised you.
\nTasting love then leaving.<\/p>\n

So feel my sides,
\nopen them without caution.
\nNever think twice of blood spilled for love
\nmerely press guts aside & focus on the goal
\nof reaching heart with hand
\n& teaching me this injured lesson.<\/p>\n

Earth and its canoe<\/strong><\/p>\n

Down south it was just me and you
\nwith nothing to try for and nothing to lose,
\nwe rode back to that old hotel.
\nDid I kiss you? I still can\u2019t tell\u2026
\nMy mind has become a fog
\nno, a steam
\nno, a boiler hat
\nOutdated and Flat
\nagainst the wall of an antique pawn shop
\nwhere sad furs hang from hooks hung loosely
\nbeside an open backdoor.<\/p>\n

Now, in morning\u2019s face
\nI put on regret\u2019s mask.
\nSoul flees, body strives,
\nto keep alive while my heart dies.<\/p>\n

Then a beggar bangs the door,
\nbeckons counsel from a borrowed ear,
\nwanting nothing more than to be heard by something,
\ngoddammit anything, that will make a face or sigh.<\/p>\n

He asks for something old.
\nI inform him that I don\u2019t let go of my possessions.
\nI see her face in the hallway mirror.
\nA sweet excuse, like sugared milk, is offered to the vagrant.
\nGOODBYE.<\/p>\n

Man is not a Bird<\/strong><\/p>\n

The tattered man\u2019s patterns kept him quiet as a knife,
\nas he lay alone with his thoughts of his want for a wife, and a dog.
\nBut nothing brings solace like a night on the town, so he walked around
\nand came back to the start of his life, in the world.<\/p>\n

The despondent dreams of the liars and thieves that surrounded his youth
\nran him out from where he was born.
\nThe scorn of his life was a reason to keep off the streets but he
\nsaw something golden when nobody cared. He walked on.<\/p>\n

He flagged down a car and bared his long teeth, the passenger screamed
\nand ran out to escape what she saw.
\nShe called for blue lights and pointed him out, tried not to shout,
\nbut panic ensued as he ran, and was chased.<\/p>\n

This was the part where the victim refused to stand silent again
\namidst growing concerns sifted out by the watcher of man, the police.
\nAs wrists became chained, he smelled the concrete, gave a sigh of relief
\nand allowed for his passion to be, subdued.
\nA cry for less freedom was the last thing he could shout, as he fell asleep
\nand planned to sleep in \u2018til he died.<\/p>\n

The death among men that seemed noble at first, became second place to the
\ncries of his feverish dreams, that seethed out.
\nTo take place in a world where nothing is true, except for the fact that it\u2019s not,
\nbecame something hard to withstand against gravities press
\nand the faces that pressed on the glass, of his train.<\/p>\n

Going to nowhere is going back to where he came, as a moth lifted wings
\nand shook all of his dreams to their core, or their husk.
\nAnd the cornfields he passed couldn\u2019t grow cause the rain that were tears
\nwouldn\u2019t fall on the ground that crushed into its mouth,
\nthe sides of the cars that were smashed and had people, spilled out.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf I could just fly,\u201d he thought as he watched, \u201cI would sit on the ground
\nand wish that my wings were the cardboard and string that keep me tied up
\nin the travels, of books.\u201d
\n\u201cAnd the seeds of the plants were the dots on the page that ended a thought
\nor kept me hanging on for what\u2019s next.\u201d<\/p>\n

This life wasn\u2019t quite what the monster had hoped it to be when his heart
\nwas a dream that misted itself out the spout, of a whale.
\nIt\u2019s such a shame they were there when he came, all the prophets and men
\nwho stood marveled and true to the words that they knew, that really
\nwere just sounds, they spelled out.<\/p>\n

So he woke up in bed, lifted the curse from his head and cast to the ground
\nthe crown that ruled his mind, and he passed on.<\/p>\n

A Cut-Up For Crazy<\/strong><\/p>\n

If one is considered perhaps crazy and ready,
\nhe may feel compelled to show how he suffers,
\nor undergo subtle of even gross alterations.
\nHe may see himself as an idle wealthy woman.
\nHe may blusteringly try to hide his sense,
\nor his ability to report relevant information.
\nShould he feel endangered, he may call attention early,
\nby having a platonic affair with an unsophisticated factory worker.
\nAs a high minimal fee unconsciously discourages the patient
\nfrom returning to his treatment.<\/p>\n

Reality is Theft<\/strong><\/p>\n

wilting idols built in your lifetime offer hope
\na great killing desire
\nsent by open infinity (fate)
\nto give some just reason
\n(never offering, just giving)
\nfor having found other newer altars
\nrisen only to receive praise
\n(not for praising)
\nmade only to be envied,
\nDefying the feral narratives
\nkept wild in passion
\nwhich stand by to guide us
\n(not guard us)<\/p>\n

Season\u2019s Debt<\/strong><\/p>\n

summer ends when fall urges winter\u2019s whisper
\n\u201cLet\u2019s pretend that every creature embodies some new order\u201d
\n— a gun shot causes alarm
\n(When no one pulled the trigger)
\n— rising smoke clouds vision
\n(Which way will end us sooner?)
\nDecision one way, sends faith down the other
\n(the Prophets never wrong)
\nOften people listen eager
\nto only what they hear.
\nWhen summer chills, bringing death
\nwhat patterns will cross over?<\/p>\n

North Four<\/strong><\/p>\n

In so many heads resides time.
\nThis order imposed on human minds
\npreaches control
\nkilling all who take special practice
\nat searing comfort from the stony ground.<\/p>\n

This burning outrage wore against my understanding.
\nto understand and not accept equates to friction.
\nevery bone found weight to be excessive
\nand thus my presence began to fade.<\/p>\n

So for as long as it takes to raise an island,
\nI sat motionless, save for breathing.
\nThe Mind left out fragments of reality
\nmy Dulled Sense, often captured and entranced,
\nshivered in revolt and vowed not to rise again.<\/p>\n

Segno Di Dio<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cIf you make another racket,
\nI\u2019m gonna send you back without
\nan explanation!\u201d
\nYou there,
\nstood alone.
\nYou held your heart against the phone,
\nseeking intimacy through plastic.<\/p>\n

If only your hair could be yanked by hands, invisible and deceptive,
\nThey\u2019d make you make that racket.
\nThen turn the cord around his neck and yank until he\u2019s breathless.
\nSo swear to this, the cabled phone,
\nyou\u2019ll be gone before its reckless.
\nJust take the coin that called you there
\nand buy back one more second.<\/p>\n

a thrown stone shatters,
\na water glass, which shines the best.
\nand in tragedy\u2019s strange face, something grabs you before it happens.
\nand only then does your body melt to celestial milk white light
\nand you evaporate into stars.<\/p>\n

—-<\/p>\n

Thomas Burgess is a 24 year old English major at Virginia Commonwealth University and lives in Richmond, Virginia.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Heart She Handled There I sat in dying grass, sighing open remorse. Forgiven by impulse; I\u2019m still held accountable knowing that intimacy sides with lust yet still wishing that others felt of the night simply wanting things never to fail. Outside of this remains the fact: My veins raised for you torn through and […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":50,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,219,199],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2556"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/50"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2556"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2556\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3632,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2556\/revisions\/3632"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2556"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2556"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2556"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}