Mother wakes at five thirty in the morning
even Sundays, though the newspaper hasn't been delivered
to me sitting at the top of the stairs.
She squints at me with Hitchcock eyes,
says that my bathwater is turning light gray, it's time to get in.
Sundays, we go to church, which isn't-just-a-social-thing-young-lady.
I'm here because I would neverever ask for anything else
if she bought me a dog.
It dawns, and her voice percolates my future, drip
drip drip, we say Scholarship.
I have a hard time knowing her
without her glasses
and her makeup in its technicolor glory.
She drives me to school every day, to save on parking.
Trucks and equinoxes blow past us as I stare out the window,
drawing pictures in the condensation with my thumb.
She says did you know that Beethoven
never saw the sea? Later we should go to the beach,
she'll show me a picture of a furtive flute of a girl
in a poodleskirt and a yellow-spattered room.
We can walk up and down the sand together
FrameworkFramework12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I can lay still for days,
the most violent
and breathe on my own.
Agonic as fur.
I am somewhat like a
Annie Comes Home to RufusAnnie Comes Home to Rufus11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Annie tumbles from the car
and onto the driveway.
I watch from behind the curtains
as Mother and Father trudge behind,
dragging duffles full of god-knows-what
(sweatshirts, I figure, and a toothbrush, and gallons and jars
of bitter white pills and injections).
"Daddy – keys!" she cries,
and his mouth stretches, baring teeth
(he smiles, he thinks)
as he tosses a jingling cluster.
The latch clacks, and Annie comes home.
I hover in the kitchen –
I never know what to say.
She spots me before even hanging up her jacket and kneels.
"C'mere, mutt," like she expects me to pretend
I'm happy to see her
eight pounds lighter than last Sunday.
Annie is tired.
Only I am allowed in her room,
where the angled light shafts and the dust motes
turn the plastic hairs of her wig
into faceted filaments.
She slides it from her skull
and drapes it on the sleeping styrofoam
On Categorization of WritingOn Categorization of Writing12 years ago in Socio-political More Like This
I couldn't believe there was a sign. A sign that said "Welcome to Heaven," no less. No pearly gates, though. I was disappointed. I passed under that sign and read another. "ID cards necessary. Please proceed to Lobby."
I checked in, and the lady looked at me very strangely when I told her my profession.
"Aren't you a writer?" she asked, very seriously.
"Uh-yes. This is my day job."
"Well, who cares about that?" She issued me a nice little card, with my name, deathdate, and a little picture. It was just like the AAA office, but with clouds. Underneath all of these it said "writer" in big block caps. She motioned me to St. Peter, who was standing at the turnstile and checking our cards. He grinned at me as I came up.
"A writer, huh? Sucks for you."
He motioned me down a hallway (I wondered idly how there was a hallway with all these clouds about) where I found another woman sitting behind a desk. She was sitting by a door that had "WRITERS" on it, again in that block
endless endingswellendless endings6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the spark took a twist
scissor-spit from her lips
a subtle shift and infinite
is simply split into bits
you're spinning sick
sinking quick and unmissed
every cheap trick unveiled
now scratched from your list
but that itch
it still persists
perching there on your wrist
sits downsleeve from your heart
or what's left of it
and what's this?
love's laid to rest
without a proper obit
transmit to your wits
that demands you submit
is a doubt
the charred remains
of a fire once lit
spoke sedwickspoke sedwick6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
come with me
and you shall see
a play, of sorts, begin
the rather splendid spiders
the ones who
make their nest
below your flesh
'cross your bones
I pay a visit
laugh & drink
and drink & dance
and then we
drink some more
though their red
a rather sticky
and to think
is a hot spot
the spiders are
a social bunch
my scrumptious morsel
though I can not say
and rest assured
I will be seeing you
Memo To Myselfdon't fade away!Memo To Myself6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
walk in the sun
make the time
to take the time
that surrounds you
recapture your spark!
eat with your hands and
talk to strangers
from the proper angle
every face looks like
bears the makings
of a miracle
have a little faith!
throw caution to the wind
leap without looking
life would lack for love
without a little
find the future
full of feeling
at your fingertips
you disinterest mei'm not interested in your phonemes --you disinterest me8 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
whether you say tom-ah-to or tom-ay-to
means nothing to me.
just make a point, say something poignant,
divest yourself of something worth my time,
because at the moment, this investment
doesn't look like it will pay.
i've done the math,
i've studied the graphs, and
your histogram of triviality
is starting to bother me.
statistically, you're a laugh, sure,
but on the floor amongst the others
you're a joke - an average bloke
who can barely raise a snigger. so
i graphed your performance quotas,
and your execution is
you're slacking off and i figure
the hooded guy with the axe is on his way.
i'd stay, but i don't want to watch that movie.
that plot doesn't pique my interest at all.
your scenes peak in valleys, your characters droll,
and your dull conflicts
don't tweak or twiddle my knobs,
so i'll snub you and find others to fiddle them.
maybe their songs will have more melody-
even yelling at me, they'd make more sense;
their two cents make u
radiant childwho painted yourradiant child4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
shades which haunt
while they still live
who set your place
with empty plate
at the Odeon
perched on Mulholland
to prophesy to
cry your death
over fading California
to inject those tropic
and (never) wake
as the meridian
the lost can sing
the history we bleed
on city streets
the same old
same - oh
and plaster your name
while angels weep
and color shrieks
the heart, foldsthe heart, folds10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The heart, is an origami fold.
Emotions spooling miles of thread
Dangle me from:
The apex of a leaf [with a thousand veins to spare]
Half a moon [still flooding oceans not with tungsten spots]
Window panes [broken of its glass holding together dirty fingerprints]