FatalitiesFew can successfully negotiateFatalities3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
with the furies, or with their engine, fate.
In youthful vigour, see, they grow tall and proud,
ignorant that the robust body must yet become a shroud.
On the seas of fortune, the storms of passion drive
fragile vessels on to fearsome rocks. Some will not survive.
Even those who navigate a steady course
must fail at last, overwhelmed by the pitiless force
of circumstance. At last the ragdoll body is bereft.
Of passion and vigour, nothing is left.
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.Recession3 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.
A Promise of No ReleaseI will not go outA Promise of No Release2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Hard or bloody
As so many I know
I will not wake up
On the inside
To open my eyes
I will not stand still
I will experience life
As my grandparents did
The last I knew
To have done it right
Around a table
With Grandbabies at their feet
So this is a promise
I make to myself
I sincerely hope
To be the glue
That holds us together
Of no release
Watch Your StepDelicately placing light bulb in trashWatch Your Step4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Delicately climbing in through the window
Delicately cracking breakfast on the rim of the pan
Delicately planning future with the lawyer
Delicately pulling the skin off the foot
Delicately appraising the new music
Delicately allowing the thoughts to flow
Delicately closing eyes against the showerhead
Delicately accepting the pain inside
Like some respectable host
Like, pile it on the bed in the room no one uses
But the doors are urgent now
With the weight
A barn door kind of red
Like aliens arriving outside
To take away, but run without
And everything's bursting behind and now
Captured, kicking and thrusting, feet waving goodbye
Like new angels
Delicately watching the needle change hands
Delicately seeing through the passenger windshield
Delicately taking the steps back inside
BesiegedIf, while thinking of me,Besieged4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are overcome with noise -
Noise that causes
in your synapses,
disrupts the signals
Noise that hums
with electrical impulses;
Noise that stiffens your bones
by arresting your nerves
with interfering frequencies;
Noise that swallows your serotonin -
I release you.
If, while thinking of me,
you are overwhelmed with honey -
Honey that sickens your stomach
with sweetness and hardens there;
Honey that covers your hands
and works its way through your hair;
Honey that fills your mouth
the way you taste,
the way you smile,
the way you breathe;
Honey that leaks gold
out of the grey folds
of your brain -
I release you.
If, while thinking of me,
you have one memory
that incites you to movement,
that reminds you to breathe -
tu sangre es muy bonita.in the leaning vertebrae of august thetu sangre es muy bonita.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
city and its shoreline
become their own ghosts;
the house was a lazy thing
its leaking drainpipes and creaking doors
while outside the ocean crashed and wailed
full of brine and fish and the froth
of each spent wave
groped after the next.
on nights i slept next to you our bodies
rested like cutlery: your
breathing hung in the air like ellipsis
cupped lamella of our adjacent scapula our
spines coiled like bicycle chains
motionless in the iron lung of each numbered night...
from far enough away it won't matter
if any of this is remembered or forgotten:
the twist of sandalwood smoke through tiled hallways and
the melismatic staccato of raindrops on tin roofs,
moments that swirl across the maxilla of night and morning and the
pink heat of summer skin, hungry, outstretched,
bitten raw in the dark.
Piss ArtistPollock threw pigments at the world,Piss Artist3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
drenching his canvasses with the paints he hurled
When not an abstract expressionist,
he was not infrequently pissed.
impuritythe moon, rusty and fattened for slaughter,impurity3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lapses grim and full in the empty night.
I wait for the harrowing obstructions to fade,
but they do not die and do not die.
forgetful Autumn has stained her hems
Glass workWearing a stain one lessGlass work3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
signing in unison
under sheets of observance
in poorly dreamt nights.
The kettle song, just listen
Mama's words let smitten;
But conditional vows as such
you may sneeze endearingly
and watch 'em
like lilting fear get
tinted with the sketchiness.
Roam FreeLove her like a foreign capitolRoam Free4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
because she is overbearing and sharply lit.
Admire from afar,
she is known to excite and exhaust.
She will lead you through her festive gardens and palatial estates,
past her grand clock tower and her lively market square.
Handinhand and burgling brief breaths,
you will find yourselves down a shadow-rampant alley.
everything you want.
Lights tempt and deceive.
She should have known you would have to leave.
You should have known she would have to leave.
Let's love like foreign capitols,
separately, desperately and overbearingly
silent sirenwomen, true, our gifted gender,silent siren3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
seeing further, nigh forever,
beguiling men to gibbous wonder -
asking, 'does she really know?'
his cratered dreams and jagged plans,
trespassed by hands of other men,
she fades from sight a later night,
leaves a luna'd afterglow.
more graceful is the distaff face,
appearance feminine as lace,
dawn and dusk her path shall trace;
mother's pull declares it so.
men, they moon o'er lack of touch,
'poetic waxing' not enough.
llp - jul2011 - dA
made from killing sleepmade from killing sleep3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
has murdered you;
poppies and feathers and gray impressions
are all that's left
joshyou would notjosh3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(almost would not)
notice the way
he avoids sitting down.
the freckles skip about, across
his forehead, one-scar nose; below
the hair and sun-streaked eyes.
they dart, often
landing for a moment, like dark butterflies
on the edge of wind.
cheekbones, the kind of face you would trust
with your affection and smiles,
would he take them.
he is a very beautiful creature
and has recently learned to lie.
let me in tap taplet me in2 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
on yr. skin
let me in
the devil's grin
let me in
white swan, gulag, stalingrad
piss and rubber, you've been bad
free from sin
let me in
cardboardcardboard3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i had ears for the undersea
i had ears for the words
"you are the most beautiful thing
in this world."
(who knows how it happens)
but the amorist is greaseless,
unguessed and gone
a hoary, haunted
howlet spitting antistrophes
above the spatterdock.
go ahead and live me down.
we all pretend
to drown in sera - this
whole entire dimension
and totem hollows
and other things
and other things . . .
Carry the MemoryI write in that dream state,Carry the Memory4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where the sun shines black
and my eyes take in a darker shade.
I write of these hidden
parts of our lives,
when we die in our sleep,
and we continue towards
death in the morning.
Open the book
and enter a cave
with smoky carvings
on the walls.
Look beneath the soot
and you will see your life
carved with a sloppy hand.
The rock is yours
and the ink is found
in your blood;
the darkest shade of red,
that is black when it dries.
Watch your life unfold:
here is where you shed tears
for dead family, the water
stains the rock wall ink,
and brings a brilliant color
to the cave, setting in motion
the oldest tapestry in your mind.
The figures move
on skeletal joints,
to where you die,
in the dark corner
of the cave.
Most do not want to go there.
Take a light, for it is blackness,
and you will see in the rock your death.
You carry the memory on your hands,
as smeared smoke, and blood.
You will be reminded
when you hold
your first born child,
his blood from the womb
Borderline PersonalityBorderline Personality3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I suppose I'm not the man that was promised (you)
demystified from between the ankles, and mothered
in a ritual plot, (still disentangling out of old supplications.)
I guess it's possible that I've no true colour, no hue essential,
and that I've turned to mirror transparencies,
waiting like a guilty prayer for the world to define my golem;
(I had hoped for a pilaster, a nuclear suit to match your aproning).
How do you draw my obsessor from your water glass? Did you file for abuse
or a pedestal? (A glimpse of my father's beard was like this personal Atlas,
the knight in search of famine, quick to martyr, proffering stability like the
drug of Christ, so I know I can go on unchanging for years, answering in rote
and fossilizing gestures.) Are you a bride for the vulnerable? I am an infantile
lobotomist, all I need is a scalpel and a cue! And so, just who is this embellisher
that limns my sadist from blind, atomic lead?
Whatever is out there, needing co
The park wardenHe woke dressed in a time-scale,The park warden3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(and set metronome ticking)
dressed in his drag
and budded his steps
In a dew-clearing
the Bracken Drag pulled
it beat its own drum
into stumpy oblivion,
His eyes boiled in asinine
dreamt up a soily stew,
sentimental broth ladled into
and had a midnight feast,
In the dew-circle clearing
a need of the ward's widow
found a commemorative carcass,
munched by a bear jaw
and stolen by rats,
the ferns cackled and dragged.
Moon CratersMoon Craters3 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
El CucuyEl Cucuy3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I do not eat children. It is important that you know that about me. Every legend has its truths and fallacies. Yes, we are notorious for feasting on youngsters, but not because they misbehave or because they wont go to sleep when their parents tell them too. Honestly, if you think about it, children are a much easier prey then full grown adults. They are light, so it is easier to carry them away, unarmed (depending on what neighborhood you are hunting in), and very tender. My father would always tell me that he felt twenty years younger after snacking on an eight year old. He compared the fear and innocence that radiated off of children to a flavorful marinade. It made him much more powerful. I am not my father though. He was a monster. Well, I am a monster too. But I never eat children. I do my very best to avoid eating women as well. Sometimes that just can't be helped.
I am engaged to be married in six months. She doesn't know about my "condition". Ev
August 4I watched the rain fall on swollen soybeansAugust 43 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And tried to hold the image
And tried to hold the this-now
And was conscious of trying to hold the this-now
And it faded
SafetyI. (Abhorrence)Safety3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
An ex parte
set up fortified legal and feeble
re-enforced by two states,
two hundred miles, and
a suspended license.
There was so much air between
here and there- I failed
to fill it
with smoke and pillows.
We abhorred and later adored
this space between us.
We embraced it until its collapse.
We frantically tried to
rebuild it, but it was nothing but air
and empty bedsheets.
(It is an odd shape. Nothing
ever seems to fit.)
II. (Graft versus Donor)
The restraining order sat,
expired, for several reasons:
release, acceptance, faith,
and fear of disclosure.
I was greedy and guarded my
newest address from your shade.
I salted the threshold, burnt sage,
and sat, silent and pensive.
I was alone and hidden
somewhere in the city that rejected
you and half of me, the wrong marrow.
(That half of me houses
all of my memories of you.)
My social security sat divorced
from my birth certificate.
Alone and largely useless, its contents
Brushing Up Against HistoryNovember 1963Brushing Up Against History3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
I'm eight years old and sitting in class (I strangely recall that my seat was in the middle of second row, on the side away from the window), when the principal comes in to tell us that the president has been shot.
I do not know
what it means, but I know
that it scares me.
My mother meets Senator Robert F. Kennedy while he is campaigning in San Francisco and gets his autograph. I live with my father in a small town in Michigan, where every year leading up to Memorial Day, I sell paper poppies for the VFW.
blood of soldiers on the field
war has come home
I watch the news and see the body count, arranged like a scorecard. The numbers say we are winning, but one of those numbers is from our town, the only casualty that week. I don't know him, but I see his picture on the cover of Life Magazine.
I turn 17 the next month
and try to join the Marine Corp
my father will not sign
As a small-town b