The Man Who Would Chase WinterA man who tore at my mind
like a half-forgotten dream;
pieces of ideas burning,
tugging my thoughts to him as a child.
For a moment, the present would not exist;
our world of dreams more real
than the world around me. Another gift
from him to me.
I remember late phone calls,
strung together as lanterns;
the only thing
that brightened the winter in my heart.
I was a risk not many would have taken,
with tears caught in my throat
and a howling in my head.
You gave me air
when I couldn't find my lungs
but love isn't a respirator.
I still have tears trapped in my throat
and I gasp for air occasionally
but the howling has grown faint.
Sometimes a man tugs at my mind again,
I remember lanterns
and a world of dreams, all our own.
Processes of PurityWhen Jeremy and IProcesses of Purity9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Walk down Westmoor in
February, I know the
Nasturtium leaves have
Collected rain water in the
Center of their green veined
Hearts. The glass beads have
Gathered large and clear and the
Cavities of our chests lay
Open and convex. Willing we are, for the
Desert there knows no quench.
Green will purify the acid run-off
As it puddles within us. Breathing
Droplets will filter through the
Flimsy cheesecloth and
Strike the sand in silence. Perhaps
Light will transfigure each into
Bits of bread—flaked, illumined,
Descending. But the black writhing
Wire trees below will refuse to be
Dampened or fed, screaming
Abuse at One who requests the
Raising of birch bark arms into
His monochrome sky.
MotherMother9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
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
finding your life jacketfinding your life jacket8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I have a heart like numb limbs,
bad circulation tingles hands
and essays are like a bus journey in rush hour.
I often take naps before the sun
and take walks with the moon.
This is not planned,
this loosening of eyelids, this creaking
of floorboards, this plucking of organs
one by one, so I can get to the centre
where insects play and warmth hides
in the damp.
I did not say this would be easy, this re-hydrating
of lips so I can let kisses go back
where they belong, I do not want to be brittle
with aeroplane hair and match stick smiles that splinter.
I'm trying to find somewhere to go you see,
where cigarettes and supermarkets are not important,
it is not always that simple to find yourself again
under old CDs and that look in your parents eyes
when you return home with slumpping bags
full of eyeballs and clothes three sizes too large.
The world does not care if I am holding a magnifying glass
up to my flesh or holding broken plates tight
or saying 'I am great, thanks' when I really mea
He Thinks By FireCastlesHe Thinks By Fire10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Set the scene in Vienna, Rome
Tripoli - countries in cities.
Restaurants in the shade.
Men in chairs
With white straw hats, the sun curve
Of the day, and buzzing of motors on
Family visits an old man.
A hearty dinner, the sun a shine on the glass.
She says tell
Like you used to.
The boys poke the ground,
Fiddle with the earth,
Before he sighs.
I sign in blood.
A column splits, spoken
Ramparts, assailed corridors.
Degraded anarchs in the veins.
I hear Fire.
Random chaos in
The voi- voi- Void.
And my entry read:
'Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!'
Abandon all hope, ye who enter!
The stun is complete. Boys caught moving
Sag down and shake.
She asks why? How?
And he repeats, numbly:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
what really matters iswhat really matters is8 years ago in Open More Like This
The sky went in labour as I drove from the supermarket,
my breath hopped with smoke that surged from lips
like clusters of people, as if it could be a good thing
to give yourself yellow fingernails and a bad cough.
The snow was not falling, but climbing
higher up the whiteout of my jaw line --
I closed my eyes and I was afraid,
crowed in a movie theatre, it's dark
there but that was okay
because it was meant to be like that.
But then it was no longer okay --
My lungs needed extra help, I did not have anyone
to press my irises against, to snapshot this moment with
and tuck it away in the splits of my left ribcage,
where these things belongs.
I wanted to butcher my heart with heavy calories,
I blinked and did not want to hate myself
anymore. I thought maybe,
cells are meant to be re-born
into something more like heartbeats
and chocolate cakes, made to be eaten and maybe
hipbones are meant to be private, for lovers only
to see them with their hands.
And maybe my sto