Hi I'm a very chaotic piece of human being
You can call me Edgar, they/them or it/its pronouns
This is a sideblog specifically for my poetry and anything else I may write
My main blog is @geodethecrow
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@crowthegeode
Hi I'm a very chaotic piece of human being
You can call me Edgar, they/them or it/its pronouns
This is a sideblog specifically for my poetry and anything else I may write
My main blog is @geodethecrow
Kitchen sink, altar
Eucharist of my twenties -
Stale cookies and wine
Green
Do I have the soap gene? Or do I just not like the taste? Cilantro’s such a pretty green.
Pho is lauded as gourmet cuisine But always leaves me lemon-faced. So do I have the soap gene?
Could pick it out and eat more lean, Though that seems like such a waste. Cilantro's such a pretty green.
I’d really rather have a bean, Or even refried beany paste. So do I have the soap gene?
You’d think the color opposite of tangerine Would be with equal flavor graced. Cilantro's such a pretty green.
I’m really, truly, striving to glean A reason for this deep distaste. So, do I have the soap gene? Cilantro's such a pretty green.
Maslow's Soil Composition Hierarchy: a Guide to Potting Household Herbs
At the bottom,
A layer of sand for good drainage -
A steady roof over my head.
And with a sandwich in hand
I can dig my fingers deep into my backyard,
Pulling up handfuls of clay loam and
Belonging to the rich smell of lively topsoil.
You really do run into people in the grocery store;
Three separate friends to catch up with
At the Farmers' Market as I carefully select
A rosemary
For the clay pot so carefully filled with dirt
In my sunny south-facing window.
Snow Shadows
There’s no room on top of the fridge for my meds
And the snow is falling upwards as it melts.
My hands smell like coconut oil
And orange, aloe Dial soap
Like they did in August when
My stuff was piled in the living room,
Pinpricks of my mother’s anger
Forming a sprig of rosemary on my wrist.
Yes, everything is wonderful and beautiful and
I missed this city like a hole in my head
But even endless gratitude makes me
Want to make a tin-punch lantern of myself
And I need light, more light.
What is endless gratitude for flawed perfection
But a snow shadow erased by mid-afternoon?
And I dripped like a melting roofline,
Building beautiful icicles of indignation at
How I thought the winter was so wonderful
When even the very first flower of spring
Is a thousand times more worthy of awe.
Wilhelm Scream
You know what I'm talking about.
The guy whose scream has been used
countless times as a sound effect
and copied by countless other voices.
That's what goes through my head when
I knock my hip against my desk or
pinch my fingertip in my tupperware.
You know what I mean.
The way that such a small impact causes
so much pain that won't even bruise
and feels worse than breaking the skin.
That's what goes through my head when
I misjudge my walk and writhe in pain
worse than sanding off my knuckle with a Dremel.
You know what I'm talking about.
Or maybe you don't cry out at every dent and ding
like your wooden body is made of my own paper
and wont to crumple at the slightest flick.
But that's what goes through my head every time,
the Wilhelm scream on loop endlessly
and gods does it get annoyingly repetitive.
The White River (An Angry One, For Once)
I’d rather throw a dollar in the White River
Than play the game for 5$ off at Kroger
Or search a coupon book for bread.
Black Friday deals!
Get 25% off for a limited time only!
I’d rather throw a dollar in the White River.
Did you know you get free shipping for orders over 40$?
Did you know you can sign up for rewards?
I’d rather throw a dollar in the White River.
I’d rather throw a dollar in the White River
Than give you my phone number for marketing
Or pay in five easy installments.
Apply for our credit card!
We’re hiring warehouse sorters now!
I’d rather throw a dollar in the White River.
Did you know I have a dollar bill right here?
Did you know it’s less than a mile to the river?
I’m going to go throw a dollar in the White River.
I'm making a poetry zine! should the cover be:
a cyanotype print
a block print/stamp
colored paper with laser-engraving
regular old lineart
possible titles (all subtitled A Poetry Collection)
Peach Blood and Other Improbable Liquids
A Poet's Guide to Living in the Urban Wilderness
You Rot in Joy
How to Not Turn Into a Mushroom
Recipes for Inner Turmoil, Desperate Love, and Other Intense States of Being
A Non-comprehensive List of People Whose Footsteps I Know
I know you.
The backseat of your red Toyota Prius was where I had my first kiss at 18. The first step on the stairway up to your bedroom is slightly taller than all the rest. You let me do my second ever tattoo on your thigh, a genus-2 torus. You scrunch your upper lip and nose together to move your nose ring when you're thinking hard.
I know you.
After you moved to Michigan, you put on the hoodie I mended for you two years ago and told me it still smelled like my house. Your beanie and sense of humor were always unmistakable. I have the same earbuds as you and we'd joke that they got switched. You gave some of the best hugs I've ever felt. The Oreo brownies we baked are the sluttiest I've ever had.
I know you.
We were mistaken for twins two times when I had long hair and you had short hair. It took a friend two months to realize we were brothers. Your eyebrows are lighter than your face when you're tan. You've memorized every single one of the hundreds of Magic the Gathering cards in the house. You always buy the same exact pair of tennis shoes and they always sound the same.
I know you.
We've been friends since before we were born. You were my first love, before I realized I was aromantic, and I still love you platonically. You introduced me to the musical Hadestown years ago and now it's one of my favorites. We spent hours running around in the park waving sticks and marbles with our younger siblings, the four of us, during the COVID lockdown.
I know you.
You taught me how to play the vibraphone and taught me how to cook your favorite soup. Your eyebrows swoop back up at the ends like no one's I've seen before. Our drum major filled your car with pink ping pong balls and I still have one. We laid in your backyard at midnight after prom with our friends in a tangle of love and bodies and soft grass.
I know you.
You're still asleep when I wake up, sometimes in poses so picturesque they deserve to be paintings. You do math for fun to avoid your math homework. We frolicked in the first autumn thunderstorm together as the fire alarm rang. Your sense of serendipity amazes me, driving down to Brown County for a hike just because the weather's nice.
I know you.
You jingle when you walk, just like another friend but higher pitched. You lost your headphones and found them in the rice cooker. We went to the symphony and Busman's Holiday together and I couldn't ask for a better concert partner. You tap your fingers on your notebook like your drumming game when you're in the middle of your chemistry homework.
I know you.
We had our own chirped and warbled language. You threw your Nokia on the sidewalk to my house to prove it wouldn't break and it did. We sat on the roof at you and your uncle's birthday party last spring, drinking alcoholic punch and squirting water guns at the people on the lawn. You made a green resin crystal necklace for me four years ago that I still wear.
Catalogue of (Un)belonging
Sycamore, maple, sweetgum, and oak:
The same trees that line the street I used to live on
Are still here in a different city a hundred-odd miles north,
And fall is exactly the same but everything’s different.
I went home last month.
I was home at the festival,
I was home in my upstairs room hearing the cicadas, and
I was home on the futon I slept on for the last seven years.
I was home under the carillon’s song,
I was home on the sidewalk with an overhanging sappy pinecone at eyebrow level, and
I was home at the kitchen table I’ve eaten at for the last fourteen years.
I went home last month,
And everything was slightly off color.
I went home last month,
After I went home.
I went home with a pumpkin for my windowsill,
I went home to the skybridges I mapped on a postcard, and
I went home to write a poem with my magnet words on the heating vent.
I went home and rearranged my room,
I went home to my electric kettle that's absurdly loud, and
I went home where I can say this was a fucking awful day.
Serviceberry, juneberry, saskatoon, and shadbush:
The same tree can be known by many different names
The way a town changes when you grow up in it,
And being tied to somewhere isn’t always easy to explain.
I went home last weekend.
I was home at the singing,
I was home on the streets I know like my thumbprint, and
I was home in the house I lived in for the last fourteen years.
I was home on the couch with my cat,
I was home in the basement with the shelves of canned applesauce and maple syrup, and
I was home in my neighbor’s house I’ve sang in for the last nine years.
I went home last weekend,
And everything was three quarters of an inch to the left.
I went home last weekend,
After I went home.
I went home to my roommate’s dark blue rug,
I went home to the wreath of Sweet Annie on my bedpost, and
I went home through the door that doesn’t open when it feels the sun’s warmth.
I went home where my friends lie on each other’s floors,
I went home to my hand-dried, hard-worked tea collection, and
I went home where I don’t have to fit into the mold of my parent’s memory.
Sycamore, maple, sweetgum, and oak:
The same trees that watched me learn to walk
Are still watching me learn to live,
And they feel more like my parents than the humans who birthed me.
yayyy magnet poetry again
[image id: word magnets on a black background that read as follows:
dazzleing decay
velvetly translucent pool of rot
bleed out & blaze
lingering here
in deep sacred dirt
perhaps
I trust you
as my stiff marble warms
to let me go
yet those old desires slowly wake
end image id]
wahoo more magnet poetryy
[image id: word magnets on a black background that read as follows:
fools speak hauntedly of color
but you ferociously embrace the green night
drink deep his dazzleing porcelain joy
& wake
look on vast eternity
she said perhaps the godly dance
pierces your old self & beats in broken laughs
am I blind to rhythm with my cold bellow
breathing naked smoke out into warm brilliant sky
end image id]
yippeee magnet poetry
[image id: word magnets on a black background that read as follows:
morning surrounded me with your worryweb
those secret time streams melted from yesterday like glass
as rotting fish remember the sacred deep & slow
you devour this velvet change
you cut my warm fat clean away
hands lingering on soft bone & belly
celebrate
no
end image id]
Day 1 Convective Outlook for the Royal Mongolian Suma Foosball Festival
Walking dew-toed in the no-longer not-yet mo(u)rning grass
I could feel the humidity
Could feel the tension in the piano strings
Feel the low-level sound system electric hum
The audience chattering in anticipation
Clouds shuddering in anticipation
I shuddered
In anticipation
Of the storm.
The tattered sky over the parking lot
Hung heavy rain-woven theatre curtain frames over the school
Scudding warp thread tacked to dew points in the sixties
As the wind shear threw the shuttle back and forth
The program for the evening:
Curved hodographs
Curved arm to strum
There's a cap in place over 3,000 Joules per kilogram of CAPE
The snare has not yet been engaged
Then all at once it begins
Bass drum and cymbals and hi-hat pelted with hailstones
Signaling the head of the tune
The chorus
The hail core
Heralding the solos
The verses
The rotation
Green suit jacket over red drum skins
Velocity couplet with brushes stirring up the snare
How many genres of debris will fall tonight?
And I’m snapped from the singing
Struck by the flicker –
My phone, joining the chorus
Of alarms
My phone, dim red polygon
Of the warning –
The flash
His shadow scuds past down the aisles
Leaping the steps to the light panel
Rain-wrapped in theatre curtains
As the threat of the twister dances nearer
And nearer
And nearer certainly it must be
Racing
Chasing
Singing out to the sirens I can hear gathering their breath
It’s an unplanned intermission now
Crowd gathering like radar pixels into clumps in the hallway
Grouping into debris balls as we learn how the tune goes
Learn how to tell the difference between scud and wall cloud
Some of us tone-deaf, secure in the Midwesterner belief that it’ll go around us
And some of us sucked into our screens with the force of an EF2
Because look. It’s written in the score
The drop in correlation coefficient playing a half-step duet
With the south edge of town
As the warning plays its last note
The crescendo and deluge of concert-goers
Splits to a stationary right-mover cell and a left-mover cell
That pours back into the auditorium
To end the impromptu fermataed rest
So I sit with my back to cinderblock
And try to conduct away the fear of
A tenor sax and alto, mother and child
Who’re waiting for the scene to play out
Waiting for the rope to play out
To see if they’re still in key with
The undamaged houses around
Assuaged
Back in time
Our small cell undergoes a constructive merger
And tutti we applaud the rhythm section’s costume change
I'm tired of the thunder
Tired of my ears making the harmonies mimic a siren but
How can a meteorologist turn away from the radar scans even at the end of a shift
When the outbreak still roars
And how can a musician put down his horn even with a split lip
When the drums are still rumbling
How can I leave the musicians on the stage
And face the mystery of damage
See the sacrifice, the annotations hastily erased?
They’re pushing their instruments to the outer edges of their sounds
Making them dance so we can feel the music in our storm-heavy bones
And wailing funeral descant-dirge, the
Cross-shaped samba whistle shrieking a prayer to the gods
“Please not my house! not my neighbors not my pets!
But thank holy goddamn fuck I’m here tonight
To miss the brunt of it and
Play my heart out with the adrenaline of narrowly avoiding death.”
No One Writes a Hymn Calling Thunderclouds Heaven
shadow-weave, dance
and race against sunset
Sister Wind is beckoning
spark-scatter, garnish
with spiderweb gilt
blessed by Mother Flame
star-scream, wail
as fingers shut the mouth
of singing Brother Moon
sky-tumble, rend
veils of mourning pour
from Father Water’s forge
storm-gather, fall
green branches close the grave
our Sibling Mirrornamed
Lament of the Mouth Unfilled
I need to sink my teeth in deep to something true,
Before I start to rip this perfect flesh apart
To get to perfect bones and break them open for the growing stuff inside
That maybe, with a slanted version of the realer energy,
A lichen spreading wrongly plant-like, could sustain me
For a while longer on self-cannibalized chlorophyll
Until summer’s fever burns away the frantic torpor of
A hibernating frog unthawed too long, tomorrow finally arrived left waiting at the door,
And I can gnaw on life, pithy and real, again at last.