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.
EtudeEtude11 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
Appelt ParkA paper taped to the tree statedAppelt Park10 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."
The Glass Moteperpetuates lonesome in the sand,The Glass Mote12 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
Hush Little Baby - FinalHush Little Baby - Final12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
-Hush little baby, don\'t say a word-
No one cares why you're screaming
No one will hear you anyway
-Momma\'s gonna buy you a mockingbird-
And Mock is what it shall do
It\'ll wipe that grin right off your face
As you sit there, crying in disgrace
-If that mockingbird don\'t sing-
It\'s because I let it die
Let it waste away
Just like I will to you
Don\'t worry, it will happen someday soon
-Momma\'s gonna buy you a diamond ring-
You can\'t say I didn\'t treat you well
Just to be fair
It\'s gonna fit just a little too tight
Watch it cut to the bone
As your finger begins to swell
-And if that diamond ring don\'t shine-
It\'s because death\'s reflection
Got lost in your eyes
As you begin to realize
It\'s now your turn to die
-Momma is going to always love you-
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.
Losing timeLosing time13 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
zoloftthere is this beautiful poemzoloft12 years ago in Open More Like This
every time i read it,
all my poems dissappear.
two tired children'when the sky falls,' she whispered softly, playing with the ends of his hair, 'will you hold my hand?'two tired children10 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
she decided not toshe decided not to12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sometimes, I just pray
for another attack.
Bombs, planes, boxcutters.
I don\'t care how.
I just pray
I do it because
I really just want
everyone to hold hands,
and to be able to cry
That\'s not a bad thing.
It\'s really not.
(she wasn\'t sure
why she decided not to.)
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.
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,
wishful thinkingwishful thinking11 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
Thesis DeconstructionThe walls of Mike's bedroomThesis Deconstruction10 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?
The One Where The Cake IgnitesThe One Where The Cake Ignites10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Phoebe is in Central Perk with Ross.
Ross is writing a poem to Rachel,
unlikely as this may seem. Phoebe
listens to him recite it, then Chandler
walks in on the last few lines: "And Joey
is a noey like Hannukah with Monica,
so you see, you're left with me." "Monica
and Hannukah?" says Chandler. "Gee, Ross,
I thought you quit poetry." (Titles) Joey,
elsewhere, is cooking with Rachel.
They're baking a birthday cake for Chandler.
Joey's idea. They're counting on Phoebe
to keep him stalled. So, naturally, Phoebe
tells Chandler to write a poem for Monica.
"It's Phoebe's poetry workshop!" Chandler
relents, but writes four lines for Ross:
"Oh Ross/So cross/Becoss/Of Rachel."
Monica arrives in the flat to find Joey
and Rachel cooking. She screams. Joey
belts her - she falls unconscious. Phoebe
senses violence, contacts Rachel
psychically. "Something just happened to Monica!"
Chandler's ode has riled Ross.
He demands satisfaction from Chandler,
produces two pistols, whereupon Chandler
The Best Poem Ever WrittenThe Best Poem Ever Written12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Someone is going to produce
The best poem ever written.
It will be blessed with one hundred and three lines
Of genius, and a hint of luck.
The lines will not be overlong
But not too
Each stanza will be written
With vigor, on purpose
And will never exceed the limit of
Or something like that.
In this poem there will be a man.
This man, though, will not be a hero.
Nor will he be a loser.
He will be just the right type of
Everything and have only one tragic flaw
Which will be...
This man won\'t hate women.
He will respect them, but not to that
Too much point; this man will not
Be whipped by anyone.
The man will do a good deed,
And that deed will be rewarded.
Perhaps with diamonds, or a
Lovely maiden. But that maiden will not be
Too love-lorne; she may have had her fair share of men
And is waiting for the right one.
This maiden will not be a stereotype.
She will not belief in fate, but rather good fortune.
Her facial features may be slight and pretty
P.C.PreachingI just spent 30 minutes on a bus staring at a wall;P.C.Preaching9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
someone wrote in Japanese, English, French
CamaroAs all good stories start, this one begins with a dead man.Camaro9 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
AC ExpresswayMile after mileAC Expressway12 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
Well AcquaintedWell Acquainted10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We shared a cup of tea, she and I.
No milk, no sugar,
no honeycoated words to weaken the taste of departure.
We were connoisseurs, and well acquainted
with the many blends of coming change.
Understanding kept us mute, our ceremony quiet
as we stirred the aging, aromatic leaves.
We drank darjeeling once,
when the grass was frost-glamourous
and our eyes danced a dawn tango.
She wore red; I read her Blake's secret;
and we smiled over brimming cups.
'Your eyes are earl grey' I whispered,
when a mountain's shadow embraced us
and day turned into dusk into her eyes
as rain waltzed all around, enchanting,
to the scattered orchestra of rustling leaves.
We danced then, she and I.
I share some cooling tea with her memory.
No milk, no sugar,
no passing of the spoon in ritual comfort.
I am a connoisseur, and well acquainted
with the aching thoughts found in an empty cup.
New JobFirst day on the jobNew Job9 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
"So," he said, leering at me over the table, messy sandwich in hand, "how long have you been eating yogurt?" My yogurt laden spoon paused in mid air, and in the moment it took me to think, (how long had I been eating yogurt? When was my first time?) I watched oily, shredded lettuce tumble from his sandwich onto the table. The question seemed loaded.
"Oh, probably only the last couple of years; you know, like, seriously." I said this airily, as his tone of voice had implied that this yogurt-eating habit of mine was a potential hot spot in our relationship. He said nothing, but continued to peer intensely across the table. His eyes might even have been narrowing. I felt, justly, exposed. I turned the yogurt cup nervously in my hands, and my averting eyes settled upon the nutrition facts. I suddenly began to read them off, and espouse the healthful qualities of yogurt, not for its defense, but for my own. He leaned back in his chair with revulsion as I finally dealt w