Ocean's SongForgive my weakness, woman,Ocean's Song4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and my albatross-hands that roam
from island to island, in search of rest.
Forgive me also
for my fish-school eyes, they dart from side to side
in search of something that glitters - prey
or the great white Kraken, or both:
"I have wrecked too many ships, and seen
them scream, I have held them like a lover;
come, my children," it tempts, and lies
softly at the bottom of the sea, singing.
Forgive my oceanic absence,
and the lapping and the lapses of my tongue;
it writhes in my mouth like the Kraken -
a treacherous, twisted creature
is love, and I do, make no mistake.
Letter to a former loverI wrote you lettersLetter to a former lover1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
of these hollow woods,
perhaps your tongue was tied
or planing out your teeth with supple motion
licking forth a better smile
a brighter future, at least
you never answered or gave word
that you had seen the fog riding
from beneath the trees on grey stallions
or that the woods themselves were
leaning out and giving way and
turning grey, mist breeding
hollow spines on brittle branches.
On conversationsIOn conversations2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
have upset the order
of things, birds
fall fast and featherflappingly from
shaken skies, and leaves
curl backwards into trees
from frost in summer, my heart
is a bell that rings until
glass shatters and frost falls
fearful on the ground and I
just do not know how
to tell you.
A MeetingYou will notice first, the bone juttingA Meeting2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from my meat, it is called teeth,
These are my lips;
This, like so, is called a smile.
And then there are the fabrications that I wear
The layers of silk, of wool,
of iron air
(indeed there is an air that I am not quite there)
- And feathers I have wrapped into my hair
And Afghan pearls, and finally
My hands, hare-fleet, and meeting
no titleI have carried this, my heartno title3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from the stones and the smoke and the dark
in this black minecart
from the dark and the smoke
from the yoke of a man whose soul
was a hole deeper still than this;
And so I ran.
and the beat of my feet on the rock and its teeth
and the bone when it eats at the meat
and the marrow that longs for release
and the blood when it lies like a starfish
in the the dark and the smoke and the ground
Bright blinding light.
of coffee and loveI have lived too long on coffeeof coffee and love3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and of sighs in coffee cups.
Powderdays are blowing
from night to night.
I have stained and strained
my heart, dear heart, with coffee
and with you. I have held
the sun off my nose, and known
there are no easy roads.
But if there were, here:
This is my hand, I am your man,
let us walk, or run, this place
has frightened me too long.
Northern Haikuwe have become pinesNorthern Haiku3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
groaning with cold, and with winter
frost on each prickly part of us.
When I turn 25When i turn 25,When I turn 252 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My needs will decrease and my shoulders will broaden.
I will not drink, but I will be watered.
Each word will be weighed, but never wasted.
My breath will be God's breath,
and I will Father -
When I turn 25,
I will grow a beard.
I will not drink.
When I turn 25,
I will be a garden to be stepped into,
cool, calm, warm-smiled and
"I know your pain
and your path" I will say.
"Let me show you the way. There are stones ahead, and waters,
wild, white, and cold-fanged. Here:
Put your foot like this, and this. I know the way."
When I turn 25,
I will be a pillow and let
your head and your body rest.
I will drink, and in the morning
your tears will be gone.
For now, though,
I am fabric, a bit of lint,
pre-shrunk, ready to be stretched,
frayed at the edges, and torn.
a narrativea crow,a narrative3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
perched on my shoulder,
on my shoulder,
and soon his crowing,
his gorgeous crowing
he turned his head from my ear
so he could point his beak towards a man
catching his gold-haired daughter in his arms,
and turned back to my ear,
that man, that man over there, over there, over there,
his is as filled with dissapointment
as the sea with water,
look how he drowns;
looking at the gold-haired girl,
a bundle of giggles,
a bundle of giggles,
in her father's arms,
I brushed the crow
off my shoulder,
off my shoulder,
and watched him go,
and crow, so beautiful,
and crow, so beautiful,
in someone else's ear,
I miss him so.
DementiaThe old man sits with stooped back.Dementia5 years ago in Other More Like This
The room is cold, just like his hands.
Thoughts have wandered like small children.
He wonders if he will see home again.
Thoughts have wandered home again,
with stooped backs and cold hands.
The room sits with the old man.
Like small children, he wonders if he will see cold.
Back stooped with thoughts, he wanders.
Like a child the small room sits, wondering.
Home again is cold.
The old man will see with his hands.
Thoughts have wandered with stooped backs.
The cold hands sit with the old man.
He wonders if he will see like small children.
The room is home again.
i said, "it's alright, i stillTo know completely in yourselfi said, "it's alright, i still3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that you have love inside of
you like a clamorous reservoir-
and to know the pressure of
inner space reluctant to
explode like light from
to know the only neck
your fingers will ever
articulate with is
that of a
I will reside inside of your
boyishness like an ever
darkening sea ready to
coagulate like the
blood that stirs
within my guilt.
An atheist dreams of JesusI have a dream in which,An atheist dreams of Jesus3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
recurringly, Jesus steps
gracefully from his cross
examining his hand, smiling
sadly at the remains of his tendons.
He looks at me, because
in any dream of Jesus, Jesus
looks at me, or you.
And of course, his eyes
are blue, or brown, or green,
whichever one it is, they are deep,
and they are His.
And He says:
"It is time."
And He grabs the heavens, linen-like
and, with His hands and mouth,
folds it to a square
and a square,
and a square,
and He puts it in His bag -
(the bag He wore across His shoulder
in the desert
in the heat
In a body in love with a hooker)
and He tucks it in.
And with a shrug and a sigh
He smoothes mountains,
rounds off ravines,
mends mesas into mud;
His hands are rough
but loving. He whistles, even, as he
stops streams and uproots rivers,
The world is a table, at which he sits
eating, smiling, saying:
This is my body.
This is my blood.
And He says:
"It is time."
And one by one
my thoughts dissolve like salt
The dying of the fairies.We have been dying for some time. Some say it is the children, that they do not believe. They say they have forgotten childhood, that they have forgotten how to play in the streets with scrapes on their knees, like we did and do, still. Others blame the clouds of poison that roll across the earth, carried by dark winds across the country. Some blame the metal of the modern world, the iron that is everywhere you turn these days. There is even iron in the air, and we breathe death with each lungful of it. The flying ones among us say the skies are turning gray. They say they can see flames and blue sparks everywhere they go.The dying of the fairies.6 years ago in Fantasy More Like This
The truth is, we do not know why the gates are closing.
The birds speak numbers these days, and chitter air-wave nonsense. Their necks twitch violently from the strain of too much civilization. The squirrels are starved and dress in rags, and the foxes no longer trust us. They once had such beautiful red coats, and now they look like children wearing their parent's c
SoftThe rain comes inSoft4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from the mountainside
and the musculature
quietens. The birds, the beasts,
the slanting cliff,
the light, the restless
the bits of lava and bits
of heartbeat and bits of
racing animal mind.
The rain comes in like a slow blink.
amphitrite IIif my lip will still be split when the austral summer starts,amphitrite II7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and, all wrapped in rising sun, we're coccooning,
if we're throwing all the good things into a bucket of riverness
(and lawn flowers),
will we want to wake up?
I know I'll want to pour
my slice of eternity into a bottle of coconut essence,
make my foreverafter sweet and tropical,
and if your hands are balsam I can
carve my song in stone,
and I will never die.
But don't you ask yourself
why paper boats always sink, in the end?
I don't think I care.
I think they just sail off to a land without horizon
deep in the underwater of the bathtub.
You'll know when, and
you'll hear me sing a sea shanty, maybe.
I want to take my ship until the end of the river.
I want to see the spring pouring down blossom offerings
into the ritual water, I want
our coast of muck and destruction to be aflame with
I'm a shellfish and my fingernails are painted green,
I'm silent-all-these-years and fallen,
I'm wondering where my watercolor
annabbelle(two ays, two enns, two bees, two ells, to ease)annabbelle3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i met a girl who wanted two
of everything, to
reach out for your hand, so she could have another one, too.
SilenceSometimes I dream of porcelain and tinsel -Silence6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
your lips against the window of my door and
the rain outside it.
When i think of the door, won't you knock and
bring me, please, a cup of coffee
filled to the brim with sugar.
The HologramsBefore Casper we were a quantum band,The Holograms2 years ago in Scraps More Like This
an act that only happened when unobserved.
Our drummer maintained we'd split
the world, then took a full-time position
in PR. Auditioning his replacement
round our Crouch End front room,
with his white vest, buffed All-Stars
and holographic principle patter,
Casper shone. 'These,' he said,
nodding at his drumheads,
'are my event horizons;
it's where the beat really happens.'
To prove it, he worked up an almighty storm,
while we puffed on our cigarettes.
Short of a singer, Casper made a call.
Yume Shirakawa, he explained,
would beam in her performance. Jay,
sliding milk down his thin throat,
looked pleased. Dispatched to Budgens,
strangely, no complaints. We jammed.
Matter grew vague, the days came and went.
First gig, a full house, but no sign
of Yume, whom we'd still never seen.
Plugging into our amps, tweaking
Volume, Gain, she appeared, silk-clad,
like a switch had been thrown. Turning
our three dimensional selves to the crowd,
who thought we we
starspunobserving the romanticismstarspun1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
of hooded cemetery kids,
smoking cigarettes pretending
they are not dead.
you were always so sure
about my uncertainty,
all my pick up lines
we built the heat
of the evening from the solidity
that two teens at the park
is the stuff of teen novels
(cliches dim on
our leaf-gold horizon)
your eyes darted
from the gray expanse
of the churchyard & wandered
i wanted to ask you
if i could follow. shove
the words aside &
remember that i came here alone.
i remember our innocence
in the static b e t w e e n
about how youth without you is th-
awing out the lines in my whittled-out eyes.
look to the hooded
wonder what we'd have been like
if we grew up as nothings,
like them. teenage
nothings with chiseled
marble in our
out of our parents' adulterated
lies and the excitement of alcohol.
i settle for a star.
it's almost as luminous
as the after
Rock Meautumn blunders in, clumsyRock Me2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stiff fingers frosted still
by early winds, rocking trees
back and forth
red leaves splatter the ground
paint drops, hanging from drooping
branches, rotten fruit still litters the sidewalks
i head south for the fall with the ducks.
the train creaks like aching joints
there's a crow on
my windowsill, ruffling his feathers
the trees flash by
my ticket's got a hole in the middle
from being folded over and over
the crow says "summer ain't that great, Peach Girl."
i watch the sky and ignore his clicking black beak
"the autumn's gonna follow
right behind ya
'n turn the whole world red-yellow-red
at yer heels."
i know in a week
the only green left will be my sweater
holes in the elbows, stringy cuffs
but i waddle like a duck
towards the leftover southern summer.
"i'm not ready for jack frost yet."
i tell him.
"get ready. the autumn storms are a-comin'
an' there ain't nothin' on heaven or earth to stop 'em."
BrackishAfter the wet season, beforeBrackish3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the midsummer night's drought,
I flight for the floodplains, where
the northern downpour bleeds out
and sweeps its love to the mouth
of my lungs. I sleep in the crux
of an oxbow, let my dreams flux
and flow fractured, deltaic. For this
is the way I piece myself apart,
a resolution, my absolution
in a new avulsion.
During the day, I move south
towards the river mouth, picking
pebbles, coral fangs from the riverbed.
A loose tooth is a common truth
in these parts. Bones are febrile,
eyelashes are made of chalk, salt.
Tears turn brackish. They cake
and crack on the flats of my hands.
This is my Pangaea,
this swollen geography,
this slacken land.
The point of no return.
Here, all else ends.
By dusk I meet the saltmarsh
and dehusk, grow halophytic
in the nightlight. I pull out
my hair, my fingernails, and
fill the gaps in my spine
with reed rhythms, saline.
The final rite: turning flesh to grass.
Tomorrow, morning mist
will drag the whitewash back,
ashes to ash.
Resurrection of ZarathustraHis eyes are ash and flame and junkie dreams,Resurrection of Zarathustra2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
his split-seam voice a screen from self-deception -
he has none.
He drags on his cigarette, and puts it out.
Ashtray-ash, an empty vessel.
"It is ash," he says.
"Bit it is also embers. It is easy to be
a turtle, or a snake, groundseekers, safe,
shelled and loving.
a phoenix, though it is painful,
and fly true."
"If there is love, let it be love.
There is a time for for broken cups,
there is even time for sweeping.
There is no time
31:12N, 121:30Emy Dear i just noticed31:12N, 121:30E2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my balcony is shaped
and the wind is billowing
the moon up, up to-night
in her dusty purple garb
and i think
no Dear i do not want
to leave here: where men
build bridges over oceans
and live inside of mountains
like river dragons
where the sun shines
not at all at noon but gleams
like an orange at sundown
where the moon walks home
surefooted to where my neck
Fold Overi.Fold Over2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
across the vaults estimated by every milky tone
the curious whirl in old friends gather a surface
wholly between each divide of behavioral light
cones bend to placate our amass combustion
until her legs uncrossed absolving my repetitive
nature to forget what conditions a truth has also
to submerge and share in upholding closely
the uniqueness of love we each must extinguish
estimated by every
cones bend to
our amass combustion
my repetitive nature to forget what
conditions a truth
has also to
against the uniqueness
we each must
extinguish our self