sundaynightat8

sundaynightat8 was a time when the important TV shows were on. Now, I use it to post poems. With the exception of early work by Erin Walker, all work hosted here is by James Tyson.

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Written by http://sundaynightat8.tumblr.com/

[sundaynightat8]

Throwback to the good ol' days, one of the first poems I ever wrote!

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The Performance of a Lifetime

I’m taking her faded finger paint in my palms and practicing on point, because we aren’t dancing in vacant city cars on dead Jersey pipelines, but in love’s Carnegie. She strides blissfully along flat strings and I’m singing so soulfully  out of key. 

[sundaynightat8]

Glasses on the Bunk Bed

For years my vision slept on the end of my bunk bed.  Three tiers of finished wood separated the plastic stalks uniting my panes of vision.  Its layers lasted longer than my family’s unity and unscathed lenses.  Hanging from the headboard, they separate me  from what I want  and really see. 

[sundaynightat8]

Long Black Hair

As I walk the golden sands of the sky, my blue feet splash in cool black Atlantic locks.  Her shimmering ocean waves stop me by the shore.  The salt of sin burns, I will wander no more. 

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Moon-lit Beach

Sitting on the shelf of a black, wrecked coastline, is lost love's opportunity. Am I the golden path of the ocean moon, marching towards horizons keen on day? Am I the moon, a one-orbit wonder wandering the sun's sky stuck in night? Will I be a wave, sobbing at shore? Ceaseless are it's tides toward forlorn Jersey shores.

[sundaynightat8]

Homework in the Dead Sea

Tomorrow, and now today the tides of assignments go out, while electronic fingers stroke the shoreless night, now a limp sail in a long sea.

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Animate

Draw deep lines and flip.   Trace static and write light, then let one after another from your fingertips, entertaining the illusion of motion.   Everything that moves shares the deepest lines.

[sundaynightat8]

A Quiet Scene in a Dark Forest

A fire line between black blades of grass   under pale pink sunset   ends at the toe.   Alone,   the tank leaks   words' wasted fumes   and a constant drip of clear flammable life.

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Weak Stitching

I have two pairs of bedwear, both torn at seams between us and sex, that will never last. 

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Writing Race

The pistol erupts and the stomach void becomes the beating heart matching pace with anxious legs.    Each step's silver points  mark the past, passed by sharper toes. 

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The Movies With My Uncle

The devil in his adversarial connotations Scrapes the teeth  Of my words Like the world's always wrong And silently Quips about The broccoli in my smile, but No toothpick can take out Our  underachieving  receding hairline. 

[sundaynightat8]

Bad Circulation

Is it bad circulation, or are my dying hands ahead of my heart?

[sundaynightat8]

Zombie Love

Wild eyes drive teeth to meat, my chest. The host poisoned blood pumps my heart. Then red teeth seek life in foreign flesh. To the horde: don’t bother to bite. We’re all dead now.

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Datebook

Little black book

lost or left?

Weeks of work hours,

days of dates,

months of memoranda

resting beneath the rest

to love you

by a pen that has

plenty ink left.

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Empty Halls

The shrapnel scream of Norma Jean

ricochets between my ears,

echoing infinitely

in empty halls

while I fantasize

a forty-five-degree detour to

send my shadow underground,

north-bound.

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An 8-Legged Tribute to Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho

Marion Crane

has her veins laid

along the walls

of the white wash basin.

53 years later

the next room makes

the same mistakes as Mrs. Bates.

He murdered a mother,

leaving her

with the clogged drain

and high tide,

bathed where she lay.

Hours later I,

like Norman,

find it

and cry,

“Mother why!”

[sundaynightat8]

Granny Smith's Soul Food

I am too scared to

take a bite, fearful

of the worms that may

live within.

Better left

in the crisper.