When God Sleeps.I. So it comes to this: pangea tearing itself raw
from our throats to pour into squares of newly open sky
where the stars grew aches and darkened lakewater
once bloomed into bruised winters. Somewhere
beyond the thick of snow, prayers are strung
on moon-rattled winds
and birds' teeth tear apart the poetry
of our hands. They will raise something beautiful
from these ruined words.
Continents shift slowly. They are
dirt-bound titans, these beasts;
rootless giants that mold themselves
to fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sigh
and their tides crawl ever upward.
II. Our shadows become umbilical
in certain light. Unknown children cast
dark shapes of water
to nourish the gardens springing forth
from the dirt's wrist like a eulogy for lost sky.
Morning doves sing because they see what we cannot:
the years between us laid out like miles and our feet
that never mark the reddened earth and
the passion-trees birthing flowers of such cold, untamed souls.
We are walking in the wombs of
Orangesmorning lifts to the smellOranges9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he enters her eyes, a
stranger waving away
her dreams, which are thick and rough-skinned as the
carpet beneath her soles
she is getting up,
clinging to the up
is a quiet fruit that she'd
rather not peel
cyclic motioni. every sad story starts with love.cyclic motion4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
ii. there is you sprawled across the bed
with your ankles tangled in cotton covers
and the golden waves of sunlight
breaking themselves through fissured glass
to drip into your hair like bright honey,
your hands reaching upward
as if they were young birds waiting on wings.
you wept for those flightless, wet-beaked children
anchored helplessly to your wrists
but their hearts were not as weak
as the foreign fist beating in your chest. they collapsed
and only left behind
the impressions of dying constellations
they had scratched beneath your eyelids.
iii. at dusk i watched the night take you in waves, glowing,
and said you were the most beautiful thing
i had ever known.
it was a lie. the want of a thing
is always more beautiful than the thing itself.
these are the quiet things we do not tell--
the secrets touched only in the dark
when hearts are laid open
and everything else forgets to exist.
iv. i whispered that to myself when the last shadow
AlterAllow me just this:Alter4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I fell into a deep forest. My femur
put forth roots. I did not say: oh Lord,
take me from here
like Rebekah, this is another
My mouth remained resolutely
closed. The moss
grew over me,
Oh Lord, I am scared.
Mother is reading, brows
at half mast. In the kitchen,
Father organizes sardines
on crackers. Home means
this soft quietude.
Five thousand six hundred
miles away, I am watching a donkey.
It stumbles on three legs; the fourth
is loosely curled, like a child's fist.
There are wild dogs in the fields beyond,
waiting. I am a dog, waiting.
The wind settles down
into the moor. The purple heather
lowers its head, then forgets.
It seems natural, as if the wind
was always there.
My neck bent,
I am lost in this.
Wandering, my hands
abandon their shape.
Pocetna StranicaIn this drought-ridden land,Pocetna Stranica5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the Earth holds me captive and sucks me
dry; I can but watch, with withered arms,
as the stars drag at the night sky.
With van Gogh fingers
and an oil-stained tongue
my keeper riddles me sleepy clouds
and wide eyes,
painted caricatures of the perfect poem-
while I thirst and write and waste
countless graphite pencils
to an unheard cause, lost on
dumbed ears. My vocal cords shatter
a thousand stony seas, raze waves
and call the deep,
when all I want is that misty-eyes
Slovenian lake, a death waiting to happen
in outstretched, virgin arms.
This is my graceless fortitude,
a castle prepared for battle,
when all the time, the drawbridge is down
and the keep, empty.
Lacking primary school self-confidence,
I nonetheless waste time painting pines
and endless, glowing oceans, lit up
from within by silver, shining fish
just waiting to be eaten.
I fill my belly with water
(which the ground promptly steals)
but I cannot entice my finned friends
to tickle my insides and
snowbonesholding my hands over the kettlesnowbones5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the skin on my fingertips peels back,
like dated wallpaper,
like flowers blooming.
they're burning from the inside out,
nails turning to varnish, turning to steam,
bones click-clacking their way out;
spreading like wildfire.
the whistling stops, and
and my fingers are just fingers,
ink stained, bitten nails.
sunlight streams across the kitchen,
my fingers warm and
slightly damp, i trace patterns on
The SeaWhen you make the two one, you will become the Sons of Adam, and when you say, 'Mountain, move away,' it will move away.The Sea4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Thomas 106: 1-2
When I returned to town, I heard the stories:
That you'd walked the oak path,
And past the angel with the flaming sword;
Beneath the river,
Behind the trees
And through a pantheon
Of wind broken stone;
You'd marched north
Until your steps matched the syncopation
Of the whale-song
And the cedars in the wind,
You'd crossed the bridge
To enter the valley kingdom.
I know that you'd watched the jaybird pick our nightmares from its
unlearn the constellationsI may carry my voiceunlearn the constellations4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on white-crested wingtips
but I refuse to take the names of birds.
My throat is not a desert
with smoldered star limbs
in place of sand, not a stone
for you to overturn and mark
with gentle cloud prints
or leave in the mud
to be perforated by bright moss.
My song is not made
to be thundered like a body
on the wind, to be bellowed
by the jagged mouths
of some distant, forgotten jungle.
It is made to slide along the edges
of twenty burning suns and rise
like a halo of newfound breath
from the crevice which splits
earth and sea. To break open
like the young, wet-winged dove
born of a glorious mud
which cracks mountains with its beak.
My song is this:
your mouth pressed against my heart
and my heart unfurling like a fist,
like a tree which tries to speak
but finds itself without a tongue. It is
a sky for you to stand in. A cold, unknown
world which opens its mouth in peals of
thunder and cries teach me,
teach me how to sing
as if I were some heavy-handed god
the cricket and sailour.there lives a man in a desertthe cricket and sailour.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with cracked skull and lips.
he is broken and feeble hands;
his back where the deer-antlers
roam to graze.
with the winter winds he is
calm. the sea foam swelling around
his ankles feel like honey, and he is
dragged. dragged through the sand,
dragged until he is salt. salt in a
the clouds give way to bitter ships.
Wishbonei.Wishbone4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You taught me that every river has a ribcage
filled with crayfish and cast-off pebbles
and a whisper where the heart should be.
If you look the currents in the eye
you will find a wishbone jutting from the gaps and
gasping for air, a stray limb or
misguided root that has forgotten
how to grow toward the sun. Grab both ends
until the fault line stretches all the way
to the ocean. You will hear it splinter,
the marrow dripping out like hot wax or
some frozen nectar
bled from unsuspecting sky.
This is where the evening
splits in two: one half scribbled hastily
on the back of a shedding rainstorm and the other
devoured by lightning-glut
and forged into the trunks of willow trees. The horizon
is not a boundary, but a reminder that the stars
are not immortal and even light must sleep.
Watch the night at quarter-phase. The moon
like a pendant from the sky's breast--
it is only the husk of another dead planet
whose corpse came too close to our gravity.
The Great WallWhen papers ask me where I'm from, I write "Seattle," because they don't want to know the real answer. When people ask me where I'm from, I say "downtown," and they take a good look at me and take that to mean "Chinatown."The Great Wall5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
My parents run one of the zillion dim sum restaurants here. They're what the white kids at school call "fresh off the boat." Most of the people here are. They don't speak English at home, and they try not to at work. They don't watch anything on American TV; they read the local Chinese paper and watch the one Asian channel, pausing to turn off the TV in disgust whenever one of the five daily Korean soap operas comes on. On Saturdays they go to the market and complain about the terrible selection. When they manage to find chicken's feet, they declare a feast day and eat it with reverence, like it fell from the heavens just for us.
I try to spend as much time away from them as I can. There are only a handful of kids my age here; of those who have children, most are eit
Domesticgnashing teeth and wild horse eyesDomestic5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
quiver skin in the morning
the nettles sting my spine.
where is my open field,
the tongues of trumpet swans,
my dew covered courtyard
with the willow tree?
Persephone.I'll curl my words like ivyPersephone.5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
craft and graft
crawl through the cracks of my attic walls
and fall into significance outside
If I am the sum of all my parts,
then let my whole extend into the sun
that there will be hell to pay
Mermaid SongI have tried to love you.Mermaid Song6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
But you have become
little more than an evening in pale watercolors
the shadow of Monet.
I have decided to leave the lilies as they are.
Perhaps in later years, with desperation,
fearing the thinness of my thin limbs,
the creaking of my spider fingers,
I will go to wander those gardens again,
hoping for the promise of Eden,
clutching beads in my weary fist.
For now, you are fleeting as mermaid song,
brief as tall spires in pink and green beneath the sea
I can never touch them.
Our connection fades,
a violet mirage
disappearing within the swells.
A wave breaks
the silver froth wipes the sand
clean and perfectly brown.
.SetIt is Akhet, the season of sorrow and silt, and Set.Set4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
must tense his sandbreath against the slick of wet
once more. It's always the same: though he's unsure
who started the game, or whose face he wears,
he knows he must prepare for the beginning of the end,
the bite of night and all the slippages in the inbetween.
And he swore he'd bait their breath,
but they'd rather choose death than fear,
with their tombstone legs, arms pegged
in sockets and their locked ears,
burying themselves beneath blocks
built to the sun. They outrun him, every time.
It's a crime. He remembers what his mother said:
do what you're able to keep them faithful,
to keep them grateful under the table.
He wonders where it all went wrong.
So he must sink into the long light, fight wanderlust
for blighted floodplains, and try not to ask why.
There are no answers, only questions.
Even his name is disguised by the way they collide in the dust.
He won't look back to watch the waters rise,
or the blackening of the swallowed
The WriterA golden eclipse was emblazoned upon the back of his eyelids. The crisp, morning light, an event horizon on the surface of his vision. He found it so peaceful to lie here; watching the fire dance on the skin of his eyes, to see the distortion such a simple veneer could have on life. Everything was different depending on perspective. A certain paradigm is an important thing; it discerns life or death, true or false, love or hate. A simple problem can be interpreted, and solved, in several different ways. Untying the Gordian Knot is either a complex puzzle or a simple chopping manoeuvre.The Writer5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
John Tullock admired and cherished this, as it meant in someone else's view; he was an innocent man, even if he didn't believe it himself. Regardless of his own beliefs, twenty of his peers had agreed to this, and according to the Sixth Amendment, he had enjoyed the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district. The trial had been speedy, certainly. His sentence howev
The Opus Of The Everythingthe ocean floor, the twisted sea andThe Opus Of The Everything4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
all the flying jacket bees, and all
the flying birds and he, the one who
caught the glint of spring, who laid
it on the downy dew, the crispy green
of May fescue, who saw the plans of built
up lights that burn to light a thousand
pools of dripping rain and puddles lay
on any given night or day, the brick by
brick, the mortar spread, the snap of sugar
sweetly felt, the brine that made it
through the cloud, the opus of the
everything, the great and wide, the heat
of flame, the sun in cold but sunny sky,
the sound of when a child laughs,
the opus of the everything
Existential CrisesThere was an odd feeling that washed over her on Saturday mornings. She sat dazed between unfinished paintings, white canvases with specks of reality, and piles of unorganized papers; they seemed to magically grow and multiply as if by an imaginary stroke of the hand. Some were bills she always forgot to pay, or letters from Dylan that always ended up, with the envelope still tightly shut, in the trash. You can read a person's personality, right to its gritty core, simply by examning their trash. She had Ding-Dong wrappers, ice-cream containers, sketches of people and people that were no-longer, and a rotting carton of orange juice with a long-past expiry date, sitting solemnly with only each other for company. The letters that occasionally found their way to the heap of undesired items would recite their lyrics in a monotonous tone, while the decaying remains of food would "ooh" and "ahh", absorbing each syllable, decomposing the crumpled paper.Existential Crises8 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She moved out of her childhood home two
FracturedCall me JezreelFractured5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
though I am not. I still answer
to the name my mother gave me,
though she is not my mother; I've known her too long
and too well. Just a woman, then,
but not just a woman, just as I am not my father.
So I shall be Jezreel.
Sorry. I'll start again.
When I was my father the thorns were mine. They were my first crop
and in time inherited everything. Their spread took root
in fresh plots every day, besieging the flower pots,
coiled like barbed wire across the neighbourhood.
I watered them, proud to be a father at last, until at last
my garden walls were no longer visible from space.
My garden was a black core of walllessness
pressed against the doors. When I was my father
I couldn't see from space.
But I began to.
My husband called to me
when I was barely alive,
when the handle of the blade was stuck to my palm.
Together we gathered the dead and threw it all
to the dwindling fires. "I'm sorry," I said. The land was now a desert.
His hands were the surface of my thighs, easi
I'll not contain youYour legs are quivering bells, my darling--I'll not contain you6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the bells of a church or the belly of a flower,
they laugh at the touch of my hard tongue,
but I'll not contain you.
I'll not contain you,
though I found you in the earth,
smelling of earth, and your hot
weary hands pushed themselves into mine,
I'll not contain you.
A thin film of years
will grow over your vivid knees
and my restless hands.
We will hunt our quick lives
like packs of silverfish,
and scoop them out of the water,
like river stones.
I will hold these stones in my hand,
still I will not contain you.
At home, the yellowing curtain
of sky sighs before giving itself
to darkness. I found you there again,
naked, smooth, smelling still of earth.
Gigantic in your peace.
I press myself against your summer body,
and see myself contained in your
eyes of iron that are preserved
in mountains and in the sea.
for exit 165.in the outstretched wingspan offor exit 165.4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
tuesday night you'll find them:
the foothills slumbering jagged under
sixteen inches of loose sand and
the city hushed and glowing, lines
of porchlights strung together in suburban rows like
beads on a chain
your house was cavernous hollow like a lung
the colors were dim and
jaundiced, a quiet rush of tepid water
bent the silence while thirty years of
smoking hung ownerless
in the air like the cling of a dead moths to a wall
you tell me of a dream that's vague like
clouds in the sky like
clouds in the sink with
your body limp and damp like
hot tea bags and
your face like spilled milk
all of my angles bisected by your limbs you say
you're frightened to nightmare
of rotary telephones and roadkill and
of a morning where there isn't any water left
to fish or bathe or drown in
of birds that
hang all over the mazarine sky like
tiny perforations in the
infinity of the skyline.