reali swear to Godreal10 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
that i love mine as much as
you love yours and that
if i could find the words to say it,
i would. if i could
find the perfect words, if i could just
close my eyes and instead of thinking
i love him i love him i love him
think of something poetic and real and un-cliché,
just for a second,
i would. but
i am-he is-we are poetic,
OutmodedOutmoded10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a pick-pocket cigarette, first of the day, meets my lips
with the shock of the afternoon-daybreak sun.
a single chance of impression, careless as the blurs
passing by, lands amongst the first to jump at it
and when one's clever enough to see above the rest,
the maddening roar of everyone else
is just enough to drown any incidental gleam,
dreams of what they should have been.
now I sink in unseen corners, shroud myself
behind imaginary one-way mirrors, scribbling
as fast as possible, capturing it all, save for
when I am far too lost in it; myself a victim.
are these to be encyclopedic rolls of the tongue
like soft-blip, rhetorical representations with just
enough candor to be passed off as an epic catalog
or am I dribbling a false self-titled endowment?
HeldWe loved like arson:Held9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
glow floats around like smoke, and distorts us,
restless, and tangles around the rafters,
the room imbued: remnants of star-fuelled lust.
We loved like fireworks, comets and fireflies.
We traced paths through constellations for hours,
across freckled skies, tasting the stars
with every kiss. The night went on for miles.
Now a cathartic still whispers, lingers
as the room burns orange in the morning's
luster. The carmine light bares a warning:
To keep my distance, or I'd clash with hers.
I leave her to draw the blinds, casting shad-
ows like prison-cell bars across the bed.
Procremationso he said let's make a babyProcremation10 years ago in Open More Like This
she said let's just make
and he said
What's the difference?
or a little pink pill
And he said
Isn't it about time... she said
You're never old enough
She said Make life-- make
SlippedNow.Slipped10 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
"What are you doing?"
"Oh, don't worry. And be quiet."
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Look, it won't take more than a minute."
"Somehow I doubt that."
"Oh, shut up. I don't need your help."
"You may not need my help, but you clearly need professional help."
"What? Professionals do this kind of thing?"
"…Are you always this stupid? I'm just wondering for future reference."
"Oh, don't be that way."
There was a time when I was eight years old. It wasn't a terribly eventful time. Basically, my mother took me to the mall and we window-shopped. Then we left. That was it. That was the time.
It was the results of that time that were rather stupendous.
Apparently, as I would learn later in life, we'd walked past a security camera or two on our way out. The tape would show a little girl holding tightly onto thin air as she walked energetically through the mall while talking her own ear off. Someone noticed thi
The Expected Part 1 of 4—Preface—The Expected Part 1 of 411 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
This is a walnut.
The walnut has no name. Its Latin appellation, however, is juglans, short for jovis glans. Jovis is what Zeus was called when the Romans saw him and decided they wanted one of those too; glans means nuts. Jupiter's nuts. It is highly probable that, back when this name was chosen, people meant to say walnuts were nuts fit for the gods. Funny, what the evolution of language can do to nuts.
This walnut is lying on the wooden floor of a monastery, a monastery beautifully situated in the middle of a seemingly endless forest.
This is Friar Mattheus. In a moment, Friar Mattheus will step on the walnut, slip, fall down the stairs, and break two ribs. Friar Mattheus really likes walnuts. A little earlier, he was going to crack this one open and enjoy it. At that exact moment, he had a doubtlessly divine inspiration for a chorale praising his saint of choice. The ingenuity of this chorale's words was that they would only make
Lilithsoft "Lilith...."Lilith8 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
gentle "I love you...."
faint smile "I know...."
pleads "Don't leave...."
soft sigh "I must...."
soft "You know why...."
lost "No....I don't...."
deep sigh "Yes, you do...."
pleads "But....I love you...."
soft "I know...."
No Train For YesterdayI spend two & a half smiles on strangers,No Train For Yesterday11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
drink a bottle of casual words
& head down a silent street, accompanied
by muted endeavors of faceless clowns.
It's a tired, malnourished day, strained
over frail dusty bones of hours
& as I run my hand along a minute,
it feels like leather, worn from wear.
You still arise in idle thoughts:
the way you stopped to watch me at
an ambiguous train station up north.
You were the streetlight that blinked on
& off in futile attempt to murder wind
while snow raced horizontal lines
& hurried past large metal doors.
You seemed to revel in movement,
smoothed air with your skin
as I headed on. Gave shelter
to a misplaced thought & lost another
in muddy puddles behind my temples,
aching now, condensed for spare.
The smell of old liquor & masculinity
still lingers in my nostrils' memory.
You asked for clarity in all I said
out of spite & I couldn't find the words.
Shreds of sentence fragments tasted bitter
& I washed them down with another
The Quick SixThe Quick Six10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
No, it doesn't count,
you see? Because it's F-U-K,
with out the C.
No one took her out to eat
No one ever saved a seat
No one brought her to the mall
So she chose to end it all.
Three Times Fast
Somethings are easier
done than said.
They sleep during the day
they work when they should play
they can't see in the light
backwards people ain't quite right.
Meet this little boy
his name is Tumor Tim.
He hasn't really got one
but we like to humor him.
This is a haiku
I have written it for you.
God this haiku sucks.
the likelihood of Losing sleepthe likelihood of Losing sleep10 years ago in Scraps More Like This
She has become one remarkable appendage.
Among the slop of barstools we were introduced;
had her pulse, perhaps, become any sadder
I'd have thought her a reptile.
"But this is about mammals,"
slunk from me, suppressed
by the stature of my sweating tumbler;
and I boiled to beat my extinction out the door,
then very swaggered, watched a swallowtail
swirl on the landing of an arid alleyway
to tatter its wings, so pasted
to a piece of warm gum.
"A correct assessment, butterfly."
"But this is about mammals."
Though I wish, I am not exempt from interaction.
I've been writing about her for months but
my nerves are that shape of a beaten cur.
So I bought one to keep me company,
to keep me remembered at night and
to dig holes for staying cool in this weather.
I put it on a leash and named it nothing.
The whimpering has become comfort,
and I feel much more pleasant about
never confronting her to comment on
just how the rafts of her skin
can bring me rapture;
Black BirdI've told you I'm staying in tonight,Black Bird10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you, as usual, haven't listened.
Negligent out of pain, perhaps
a thorn lifted off some nightmare
flower. You ask me to remove it,
have tried a shower. I'm thinking
if the water can't free it, how will I?
Besides, I've seen a bird, which,
as it starts to trill, suggests were I
such a thing, I'd rather be dumb.
Still, my not singing like a bird,
does it mean you can't call me one?
Again, you're not listening. And
it's flown off now into that gloom
where everything feels heavier,
but I don't suppose is. It presses
like the sloping walls of a Gallic
town, spied from an odd angle.
today.today. I sat next to someone with thetoday.9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
same jacket as me. I'm sure she didn't
notice. So I thought of tapping her so
we could laugh over our faux-fur cuffs.
But she got off the bus while I was
writing this all down.
Eight KissesEight Kisses10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You can call
it emptiness, breath, epithet, or oblivion
or love, or the thing we can't
touch, while in motion.
of your mouth in me like icemelt water,
like a creek,
asea, tonightasea, tonight10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I'm at your door; can hear the brass and bass,
the snare drum, through the glass. It's jazz, tonight.
You let me in and suddenly I'm in
a room of profound poets, who sing their verse
through shining horns, sweet saxophone riffs.
The solos drift so richly, dance among smoke rings—
tonight, when everyone's somebody's cool cat.
There's a girl whose trumpet weeps when she woos its keys,
those wailing notes like Miles would have played.
And the long-haired bassist pains his face as he plucks
away at the tired shape the body makes,
he sways. And when the guitar's clean strings do sing,
it's melody carries a twang so sweet—it's jazz,
tonight. Tonight!— We can be alive, tonight.
And I'm in the corner, no horn in hand, not even
a cigarette for now. I'm just a shadow this evening,
no harmony for me. Just silent taps
of thumbs on thighs; of a breath before sirens sing.
Tonight, blue tunes knew the way through a smoky
sea—found me… Last I heard they were still awaiting
The Death PoemsThe Death Poems10 years ago in Scraps More Like This
The Death of Starfish and Submarines
By noon, the coastline reeks of it:
rotting fish, rotting soil,
and all the little shorebirds hopping,
hoping to find free breakfast,
maybe brunch. The tourists
infest the scene quick as flies,
drop their oversized towels,
open lemonades, complain how loud
the gulls are—those rats of the sky.
The Death of Grandmothers
She lay broken at the bottom
of her cellar stairs for eight days
before the neighbor wondered
and called the police
and they wandered in
and carried her out
while the dogs protested
and the house protested
and even the limp dead body
protested. Then it was lunchtime
and they left her in the trunk
while they stopped for cokes
and gasoline and talked about
whose wife was prettiest.
The Death of the Butterfly Bush
This year the early frost came unsympathetic
and silenced all the life of my garden.
The monarchs fled to Mexico
and all the little pink flowers
withered from the heartbreak.
The Death of Presidents and P
Josh.Or:The fear of boring him-Josh.Or:The fear of boring him10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I was wearing a skirt
in the kitchen
for the very first time,
as a friend of
mostly masculine clothes.
(in the usual sense.)
Fresh water and coffee beans
were - once again -
this blinking messiness' most cheering feature.
(the faucet: drip drip drip)
to pour it out and spilled.
you said: "shit". In moments like these
I want to climb across the table
my face along
the side of your neck, your black
hair smelling warmly
of you and your retro shirt
and feel your tight shoulders squirm
with suppressed irritated laughter.
Instead I drummed my nails on the table,
trying to look casual,
and listened to
the mildly pitiful sigh
of my ever sarcastic
little red radio.
clocks drive you crazy, tooclocks drive you crazy, too10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
clocks drive you crazy, too
1. I brushed my teeth five times today.
2. I take you as truth.
3. I am better on paper (I promise.)
4. Home is portable like a red plastic suitcase.
5. There was a whole table between us, and you had a girl in your arms and I had a boy in mine.
6. You looked at me like a tango dance.
7. These days, mirrors are surprising like ghosts.
8. At 1:58 I arrived at this huge hotel of a house, this incubator, this place I am passing through on
the way to the world –
and never have I felt so home.
A Not-Love PoemA Not-Love Poem10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
[What the stars tossed, salt-casual, onto the not-black of the not-night suggest could be love, but I can't read them.]
This is not a love poem,
not-love, a not-love poem.
Falling waist deep into February
stomping the signatures of lost years
in footprints on the pristine present-
this, not-night has become electric
with memories smashing through
the thin ice of teenage alchemy,
charged, with the possibility of
or even a complete skeleton
of our separate childhoods
we, are the miners of nostalgia, now.
But in this not-night,
with the subtle city lights,
TrenchesShe's aphasic. She doesn'tTrenches10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
cough mustard gas
from rice paper lungs.
Her armies have learned
it's habit to fight,
lose a black mud trench
and retake it
five hours later.
For one million casualties,
one hundred yards were gained.
is ten thousand men down,
and she crawls
over their bodies,
fingers and toes
with dirt, blood,
and blue flesh.
Sometimes I'm so hungry
that I feel full,
sick and clenched.
my empty hands feel
like they're holding something
Your PoemOn the twentieth day of July 69,Your Poem10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
For the first time in history,
The moon landed on a man.
The first time such move had been attempted by a celestial body,
A great feat of precision,
Didn't crush the man at all.
You see, we see things from our eyes,
And everyone knows our eyes see upside down.
Or is that the right way up?
I could tell you about walking through deserts,
The beauty of running water, of rain,
You'd be thinking of TV shows.
When was the last time you were challenged,
Walked away from a conversation stunned.
Who are you listening to, me or yourself?
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
Is meaning in the eye of the reader?
More importantly, are you reading this upside down?
Every word you read is yours,
Make your own sentences,
Take your own morals.
And even though I wouldn't dream of telling you what to do,
Look within other people,
You'll see yourself.
Find out what you are,
Where you are headed.
Find your own moon and land on it.
in apartment b16I throw you as I hear the widow cryin apartment b1610 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
beneath us. I imagine
her to have a veil of make-up running
down her face, or maybe she is bent
in the shadow
of a crucifix or a sun catcher,
starving for some light.
I heard she once went bicycling
over the dry dirt
roads of Italy, and chased the man
she loved into a private
Then in Boston, or New Haven,
she would laugh, throwing
her stockings to the wind
as she watched them parachute
down where the children
They would smile ,
and life would begin.
But, really, as we drag and pull, she
is gone. She has moved past Amber
Street, and has taken
to baking breads,
and holding them
in her arms
as she once held
P.C.PreachingI just spent 30 minutes on a bus staring at a wall;P.C.Preaching8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
someone wrote in Japanese, English, French
because you're now.I want you to know that I think about you sometimes. You're like my escape plan that I keep in the back of my mind. The one that I start to find more and more appealing each time I think about it. And occasionally I think about what it would be like to be yours.because you're now.6 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
I am unable to understand why I am the way I am, or why you have the ability to make anyone smile. But that's just how it is.
I think that if you were to put your hand between the sheet and the mattress on my bed, you would find all the slips of paper with the pink and purple ink. They're all the wishes I've made and all the bad dreams I wish I never had. Sometimes I wish I was sorry.
I think I want to crawl into your arms and maybe stay there for awhile. I think it's going to rain first though. Maybe tomorrow.
Cave FishCave Fish13 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Once I swam, weightless,
In a red-gold sea both vast and small
A sightless cave fish tethered
Light and dark, both were warmth to me.
Once I swam, kicked, spasmed,
A sound like waves, two heartbeats colliding,
And then an inexorable tide pulled me under,
Drew me out, and I began to scream.
My tether cut, my memories poured out
I forgot in the fear of being cold and alone
For the first time.
I forgot and breathed and slept and dreamed,
A translucent veined cavernous sky,
Of liquid breath and lost gravity,
Lost every morning as I woke.
Until one day as I opened my eyes
Morning sun washed the walls of my room,
And I lay there curled around a secret cavern
A Capricorn's dream carried in water.
A tiny earthquake, and blood poured out,
A long slow agonizing geyser, warm and dark,
A first and last time.
I woke and touched my skin, and cried,
The cave fish is gone.
The sunless sea is empty.