Birth of PoetryI tangled my fingers in the curls of the universe,Birth of Poetry4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
pulled. The earth fell out: round, warm, spinning.
Awkward and shy, she wondered how she got here; how
a rock that got wet and grew moss could be significant.
So I scooped her up in my fingers, breathed her scent:
(lilies and oceans and ozone and forests and fish and birds
and whales and rain and the empty elegance in wolf howls)
death and life. I found chaos
and knew beauty.
if a tree falls in...a fenceless gardenif a tree falls in...3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
defenseless and unguarded
she watches you grow
Quick Fire SketchA man walking. A dog barking. The man's head is on fire. The world is on fire. The fire is on fire. The fire burns unevenly down one side of the man's lapel. The man is naked. The man glows from within, red razor slash smile, concrete eyes. The man is gone, and a moon appears. It rises quickly and disappears. A tree is barking. The woman's eyes are taped with black electrical tape Xs. She looks for the man, then leaves with the trees. The fire has missed her somehow. The dog is barking at god. God is on fire. These words are on fire. You are on fire.Quick Fire Sketch3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the end and also everythingthe end and also everything4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
listen with the skin
I've lost the album of my life
vistas and their episodes
ones that you were in
the wind is warm
than nights or vessels
the wind is
all there ever is
it comes: the universe
is not adding
light to darkness
we are the shadows
we'll leave the outside
from one to One.
Willing FleshFlesh the means, spirit the end,Willing Flesh3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
yet still the unintended. While deep
embedded in the pulsing rhythms
of the body's routine life, it transcends
physicality, flourishing in realities
never imagined before. Spirit is the key
to unlock the heavy door, to make
the great discovery of joy.
DrownBlackness at three AMDrown4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Books of hymns
Ribbons, wreathes, smoke
Phone calls from the dead
These things I know
rhetoricrhetoric4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
they say insanity
in failing strategies.
what is living,
What is loving
letters to the universe 1my shapeless beloved,letters to the universe 15 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
my 15-hourglass catalepsis,
my universe in an air castle above a snowglobe,
too much illimitable time has passed
already and not nearly enough stands left to unravel
your cotton mysteries borrowed from department store racks;
eternities, painstakingly dismembered to hallow stills
whence im granted pro tempore life to smear your magic shadow blush
to chasm depths where parabolas are ocean-wept,
will someday verge upon (my) collapse.
for even now i doubt theres reality left outside your arms,
mass beyond your lips, or breath more than moments
after you close your lights.
made from killing sleepmade from killing sleep4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
has murdered you;
poppies and feathers and gray impressions
are all that's left
Grass AngelSunsplashed buildings, clear blue skiesGrass Angel4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No traffic, no pedestrians; silence.
The end of June, the end of music.
No birds, no wind, no dreams
except this one.
This clinical, sterile dream,
Inside looking out
As the sun slowly makes its way
across the sky,
The only sound is the ticking clock.
I'm going outside to make a grass angel.
Lambchops and RazorbladesLamb-chops and razorblades, barbed wire dessertLambchops and Razorblades3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Shadows eat the light, he eats the shadows
Blackheart bound with rough twine, engorged;
with sweet dreams turned to sour mash
with fear of echoes on twilit playgrounds
with summer's sudden screendoor slam ending
with attic wigstands cooing sick-sweet things
Head-cheese and shrapnel, red lipstick dessert
Blackhand man resurges, gather 'round;
Moths eat his clothes, he eats the holes
Blackheart bound but bursting out, engorged;
with severed birdwings falling from the heights
with rotten fruit boiling in fly-filled bins
with spineless slithering things that were tomorrows
with hollowness, vertigo, stitches-rending pain.
forget about meforget about me3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
don't listen for it, anymore:
the ugly balladist, the poète maudit
unbosoming his delustrants,
strangulations and subglossal annulments.
i want you to find my secret life, the arrhythmia
of spoondrift oblivions.
open out your palms to me; i'm over-swelling with octonaries, octonaries!
that is where i've been these years,
in the night between kneeholes.
Grandmother's HouseThe smell of hot concrete rising from the sidewalkGrandmother's House4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the tar on the wooden bridge
The sound of trains coming and going
So close that the small house was rattled
It was always summer, there.
Screen doors and a small rotator fan were enough
to keep out the mild heat of June
The train whistles sang me to sleep at night
With their wistful traveling tune
It was always summer, then.
RecessionA man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.Recession4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.
Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over the horizon he walked, never seeing the starving child scuffling along behind.
A man on fire disappeared from the picture plane today, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the road, Jack, make tracks, don't step on a crack. Leaving dust and ash, smoke-feathers and birthday candles, he receded.
PastThick mist tucked into old hills,Past3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
heavy and slumbering;
the tattered clouds gone lavender.
I won't tell you how beautiful it is.
I will only say, I am going home.
immediacyimmediacy3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
this new little truth
this robin egg
brooding in skies'
for a mercy
damn this featherbrain
with its wilding
'till they burn
to a soft nilpotency -
i'll make a bed
here's my nirvana: the ache of the ramrod's
slow dreaming death
in the waist - oh
i hope i'll be replaced
with pure eraser white
in a comfortable beheading -
there's no telling
with one less
and the parting
BitterBitter-sharp and angledBitter4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The stake through my heart
The brightest sun cannot penetrate
The cold seizures as I die
and die, everyday;
but still somehow remain.
You only had to die once.
I've died a thousand times
since you left.
Dying is no way to live.
18. She dreams...she dreams of18. She dreams...3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sprouting wings and
soaring, to the place where
every alleyway, every side road
brings promises of new adventures,
she dreams of
walking, among the solemn
winged lions that watch with eyes
of stone, the insignificant ants,
scurrying, always hurrying,
knowing they would snort with contempt
if they could (she would)
she dreams of
crossing those frowning bridges
over the green glass (it moves), perching
on the steps that lead down to a world beneath
and listening to the deep voice of the man rowing past
singing in a language so sweet
(she won't understand, but you
never have to understand beauty)
she dreams of
sitting in the plaza, watching
the people pass and understanding
what they're talking about, and maybe
after that, she would go find
the old man that
sold her the clay whistle
(shaped like a bird bath)
that trills like a bird,
whenever she adds just the right amount
of water and wind, and maybe
they could talk, without need
of a translator and feed the pigeons
now accepting applications...the smoke beneath your bed finally finds younow accepting applications...9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
staring crooked in broken mirrors
for the fire of your former features
forever and ember
still breath and false starts
'til it whispers
the universe is big business
but the fact of (the) matter is
it desires you deposit d.n.a.
demanding genetic building blocks
on which to lay its foundation
and though the future of father's daughters
the sun set's assured
I'm eagerly anticipating the arrival
of the non-linear one-liner
yes it all implodes in infinity
but buildings retain their names anyway
mountains and their silhouettes sit still
yet oppose portraits on general principal
the stars think they're brilliant
the general population favors vague impressions
most allow the words
(to escape unnoticed)
Moon CratersMoon Craters4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the smoke hut
that is melting
by the bulb,
I am this
of fragile-ware and crocheted filaments
that vein out in disparate quests
from the patterns of your
God, I have some
Spaniard lust for those pearly little drop-
chorales of your twin diviners
clotted up like amber marbles
and left to summer
in the charity heap.
Damn their colours, they're all mania degrees
awash in recollected prayers,
that bare your dark coal
and purpled burn stone
of the Goddess
made (on top) of you
finger through me
How you de-gleamed in reverse, a light-ascetic
black (pin)holes in a mime;
when I thought to thresh
you out of boots
to a craterous
futilitarianfutilitarian4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is a wound;
petrichorNiobe weeps.petrichor3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.
some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.
listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.
newshours no longer whittle into daysnews3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
strangled and uncalendared;
forbidden rituals of a new dark Eros
clothesline sheets and bed throes → blunders in a blue face
and sensing your reversals, i’ve grown and grown impossibly old;
god’s bad math:
infinities as remainders.
however they lapse
i spend the better part of them
burning through the flyleaves
for mandalas sealed in hell bank
for ashes of your epilogue
for the end of throats
in songs and news.
no one can regret their past
but of futures . . .
like when planets will re-purpose you
into interstellar fruit bats or thyme pulled from the brink of comets
and you’re wondering why i'll never find you
when datebooks write us in the living.