Thought often makes a black bird of me,
Leaves me perched on the storm clouds\' gray.
Claws scraped into a watch post on rotten wood
Abandoned by termites left for lichen to exude.
Flea ridden wings twitch irritably to conceive
Finding no cause for flight or reason; no drive
To do, just to watch the shadows cavort about
By the fires of intent or deriving thought,
Undulating on the dirt, making monstrosities
Of branches and tree trunks before black skies.
Even the vengeful desire to join the eagle in abuse
On the mountainside on the innards of Prometheus
Is an untapped and muted humor. Umbral caws
From the distance leave me presiding subdued.
Appelt ParkA paper taped to the tree statedAppelt Park9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that fishing was strictly forbidden
for two weeks so the river could be
repopulated with fish.
I'd rather have gone to the dam,
but I didn't realize it then.
Davor and I sat on a bench
watching this outdoor aquarium
while we smoked cigarettes,
talked music technology,
and cleared our heads of the week.
"If you took me out of my environment
and dropped me into a new one
with hundreds of strangers,
I'd probably bite
the first hook out of there
"Probably," he says,
"Excellent metaphor, a poem in the works.
Write it down."
I don't really do that anymore."
EtudeEtude10 years ago in Typographical More Like This
He said those words
He didn't like the way he said those words
He didn't like those words
Upon a revision
he felt more comfortable
with the way the words read
The Glass Moteperpetuates lonesome in the sand,The Glass Mote11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
belonging to the shelves and miskept stacks
of a bedroom. It is a cooled chaos, a verdant
wolf eye bead in which we are by movement trapped
in lunacy! A mid-game molecular Jenga tower in which
I play a part as you do, tenant to a tentative position
bearing the weight of every thing on the shoulders of
every one, captured frozen at the fall.
Wooden cheques suspended en masse descent, pieces fixed
clacking against each other or finding themselves
harsh against their neighbors' back - or lucky to
touch vertically momentarily and proclaim soul mates.
The beach extends beyond vision and having no golgi
apparatus it is clear the dusk green shard of glass
in which we are transfixed is between sea and seawall.
Particles are playing like children peering into
Cheerios trying to find answers in the alphabet,
all torched god gave you was, "O!, O!, O!, O!" and a Sun
that always rises after twilight, raising temperature
like days and giving Sisyphus' descent in g
Thesis DeconstructionThe walls of Mike's bedroomThesis Deconstruction9 years ago in Open More Like This
are a collage of friends
and moments in history.
He likes to call it
"Art Over Time" -
you can even hear
the Capital Letters.
It was fair game
to write or draw
whatever you wanted.
I used someone's squares
to prove the Pythagorean Theorum.
There is a haiku
It says goes on clear
But my armpits have become
A frosty tundra.
Everyone had to add
To the timid folk
he'd say, "You say,
'I can't draw'. But
anyone can draw.
Maybe you mean
you can't draw
But that doesn't matter,
it's Art Over Time.
all my friends."
On a whim,
we'd ransack the box of pens
and express our nights
or our selves.
It's not like that
will be his Thesis Project
for a Fine Arts Degree.
The walls are cluttered
with invisible Plans,
everything has a Plan
that it needs to cross with this
or intersect that
or this one space
must remain white.
One time I picked up a pen
to write a haiku
and Mike said,
"Are you going to write?
AC ExpresswayMile after mileAC Expressway10 years ago in Other More Like This
in the backseat trying to contemplate sleep
between the nucking sounds of the two next to me
the only thing that comes to mind is semantics
and the shore
leaving behind large cement blocks
adorned with neon lights
painted on the insides with desire
as electric rainbows, containing colors
Josh.Or:The fear of boring him-Josh.Or:The fear of boring him8 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.
two tired children'when the sky falls,' she whispered softly, playing with the ends of his hair, 'will you hold my hand?'two tired children8 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
they sat in plastic chairs under the streetlight and staring at the stars. the road was empty and the city was hollow, littered with neon advertisements for underwear and french fries. the wind was cool, but not biting, soft and fresh around her neck as she hugged her body, grasping her shoulders and crossing her heart. she'd only brought one bag and she held it between her feet. her little red case of cds and jewelry. all he had was his guitar. she'd never seen him without it. they traveled light, perhaps hoping it'd rub off on their minds, as they sat with their tickets in their pockets and no money in their wallets. she looked up at his face.
'sure,' he said, touching her leg. 'sure i will.'
they turned their heads, looking straight ahead, watching the streetlight shudder and flicker, blinking and fighting as it struggled with the inevitable. it was silent, save for the quiet flow
Some Nights are OkayYet another tripSome Nights are Okay9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to a diner with
a lot of strangers.
Coffee and cigarettes,
the typical opening
of a poem
or a day in the life.
I bought the coffee myself
but the cigarettes flew
out of other people's packs
into my hands.
sketched me, generous,
on a napkin.
"You are so serious,"
"I know, I know,
I need to smile more."
"No, you don't.
You look good,
if you smiled all the time
you'd be a goof.
Like me," she stammered
through fair English, all smiles
and no goof.
Her friend Vitaliy,
theater major, dropped another
into my fingers.
I got his number
Somehow pornos became
the topic on the ride home,
and it was,
that we should watch a
gladiator gay porn
in this girl's room,
but her roommate was sleeping
"Wait, you're gay too?"
says Lou, in that way that
life sometimes rhymes.
"Yeah, sorry, I'm just used to being
the only one in the
Episode NineI said goodbye to my friendsEpisode Nine8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and stepped outside
to smoke one last cigarette.
The chorus, "Tell me lies,
tell me sweet little lies,"
was playing in my head -
the windows displayed me
in a long, black coat,
Like the final scene of a television show.
I remember thinking
that was the point
when I put out my cigarette
and walked inside:
But the windows in the hall
were also reflecting me
and maybe that would be the final scene.
Getting into an elevator,
what could be more final than that
except, of course
for the long silent scene
of descending alone in an elevator.
What could be more lonely,
Surely you'll tune in again.
there's always going into the dorm room
or sitting down at the computer
to type a poem.
Far too interesting
for a proper fade out.
The last scene:
laying down in bed
eyes wide open
staring at the ceiling?
No matter what,
it seems like the credits would roll
before the part where
actually have to
scissor ninja vs paper robotAnd if you should tear it right, myscissor ninja vs paper robot11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Origami heart bleeds
Ink onto paper,
Spelling out in words
No one's used for years,
That you can only find in
Old dusty dictionaries, the pages of which
I have a habit of tearing out and
Folding into little abstract characters and
Making them have fights on my desk.
Producing strings of sentences,
Words arranged carefully as
Thos flower arrangements
Your order by mail
To give to someone you barely know because they've
My flowers are made from the same
Pages as the little monsters I play games with,
The same games that everyone else plays, with the minor exception that
Paper beats scissors.
EchoicEchoicEchoic10 years ago in Other More Like This
Your core is refracted and deflected from
the straight path which
continues to lead you here.
although well documented,
lacked any sub-stantial
or clues on how to break
your punctuated fall.
R E S U R G E N C E
Fresh diffusal of cool silence
in this echoic theatre of beauty;
imitation of speech and gesture,
You are replication,
my draft and fuzzy focus -
clearly defined fractal lines;
my better half
and improved reflection
lying in wait for me.
ApplicantYou are only one and I could have so manyApplicant11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that I hope to see you buried by the end of the week.
Your knees look like they'd buckle from the required weight
and your elbows are ugly from time,
I wouldn't kiss them.
Clever mind, but with an eye for gilded paper.
Keen eye, but with a mind for catching.
Your handwriting is neat - on application
but your narrow fingers are probably like rook's claws.
Jagged nails would need to be cut
before they could be any good on the keys.
Your face could be warm, but your nose is so large
could you resist sniffing out stacks where it doesn't belong?
I'm afraid although your eyes are blue, they're dull
and really not sought after for today's position.
It says here you room with smokers - do you kiss them?
Is that the sort of person I need on the job?
Your lips match your ears and that smokers cough.
I don't think you should be expecting a call.
Procremationso he said let's make a babyProcremation9 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
What I KnowI had these ideas onceWhat I Know9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of writing a play.
It was genius, I thought,
taking place in one long
People would come,
drink coffee, smoke their cigarettes
But most importantly,
they would talk.
It would show everyone
for what they were.
eager to please,
So many characters,
so many dramatic cliques.
But I never wrote it
because I'm lazy
and because drama
It would've sold
would have fallen in love
with the characters.
Hell, I might have ended up
the main character.
Who wants to tell
Losing timeLosing time12 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
And suffice it's said, most people think back to a time they were confused to clear their mind, thus they can learn something new. There-four we may too be confused during our days and thus will be apt to learn something too.
Box box box box box box boxx ciircle ciircle ciircle ciircclle something- hey fuck off, no fair, wait your turn, i had him first.
Hello my name's Brett Banfe have you heard of flowerrrrrssssss- fuck off! Hey, I'm doing something, opiug-buggeroff -- piss on splat.
Fuck you, I dont care what Jesus said, I'm Bill Gates. Enter my gates.
They're right now in front of you so enterrrrrrrrrrr
Hi Springtime. Just in time for tea. I've been waiting for you.
Have a glass, dear. DRINK UP BHIOTCH. Oh that?
That's the neighborhood dog, sure does have a stinky belch
doesn't she/he/she/he/she/she- I opened a door.
Oops. Did I say tea?
I/you meant blood::..
Are you confused about time?
Map [ this virus for me, Scotto. ]
Dearrrrrrrr Captain Stuii
wishful thinkingwishful thinking9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
last time i
was at your house?
you were packing;
we made tea
and didn't talk
you went upstairs
to get a book.
i was idly looking
at our shoes,
on the floor.
i leaned down
and pushed them
so the toes
the likelihood of Losing sleepthe likelihood of Losing sleep8 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;
Spanish OrchardSpanish Orchard8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the roadside orchards were
bright as peaches
firming in autumn breeze
I was broken in lay-by pieces.
a lightly-painted lady,
elephant faced with
horse's complexion, approached.
Her expression --
that of dripping canvas.
I glanced and turned politely
(screwdriver in hand)
toward my choking car.
The pointed sound of her running,
heels clicking, dress
coating tarmac lime.
She clawed onto my arms with
pushing varnish nails
into male flesh.
Her thin lips flickered pastel dust.
time stood between us, as she
rambled words of
who'd walked into the orchard
convinced he was tree.
She told me of how he stood
proudly growing fruit.
which come the autumn fell imperfect,
rotting into earth.
reali swear to Godreal8 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,
On ParabolaOn Parabola8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
With subatomic subtlety settling on his brow,
he said 'Time's a broken arrow
that points from then to now.'
Once a grain, I entreated him
to stop this flow of sand,
'You're immersed in the irreversible
until, entropical, I land.'
In that glass all is hours,
the busted bucket and the spade,
and each collapsing castle
that our spilt ice cream made.
Since his hands are tide
we can all be shore,
when the sediment slides
there is no more.
while my hands drifted.//telegramawhile my hands drifted.9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
escrevo para te dizer que
nasci torto no crescendo do céu
pútrido como a manga do teu espaço
escrevo para te dizer que sei de mim
que sou dos dias e dos matagais
das sombras frescas e dos sismos
escrevo para te dizer que soçobro da cafeína
para te dizer que te escolho
dos rios, da calçada
dos gritos dos taipais
da sombra dos edifícios.
i write to tell you that
i was born crooked in the crescendo of the sky
putrid as the sleeve of your space
i write to tell you that i know from me
that i am from the days and woods
unsullied precincts and typhoons
i write to tell you that i am
the rest of caffeine
to tell that i choose you
from the rivers, the pavement
from the screams of blind venetians
from the silhouette of the buildings.
HeldWe loved like arson:Held7 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.
CamaroAs all good stories start, this one begins with a dead man.Camaro8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
The dead man in question is the lover of my wife. Well, was. It's going to take me some time to get used to that. I worked with him at our garage for 18 years, banging away at the shit rednecks bring into a garage. Little did I know, he was banging away at my Patricia. Yeah, I call her by her first name. But she demands it. You see, the only thing that sets her apart from the worthless trailer park trash we all are is an attitude that would make Jesus pull the spikes from his wrists or wherever, hop off the cross, and take out the trash. My Patricia.
"Franklin, get the fuck back in 'ere".
Speaking of which, that's her.
"Franklin, you ass, get'n 'ere before someone calls the cops."
Now, I've just given her lover an acute case of tire iron to the head. So why's she want me back in the house, instead of in jail? Good question. Now, a better one would be why is it she's carrying a suitcase.
"Aww, Franklin, why'd you go and do that