ArchaeologyYou have been claimed.Archaeology3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I have seen my competition holding perfumed picks
and daggers in their eyes.
They know the value of the treasure I have found,
but I'm already in your skin.
While I'm here, in my space beside your heart,
would you mind if I gently took a rib?
This is archaeology, my love.
I will sew you up with kisses;
stitch you up with x's and oh's
x's and oh's
Hold me steady,
while I chisel our names into the bone that crossed your heart,
like kids in campus trees:
I will sacrifice a rib if you will do the same.
We will tie a bow around them, and send them into space,
and Orion and Andromeda will be as jealous as the rest
when they read our names upon our bones
and see our love alive inside the marrow.
This is archaeology.
Long after we are dead, our story will live on.
Descartes, My Messenger Bird'I think, I think'Descartes, My Messenger Bird3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
'we hurt those we love'
Fingers white like blind eyes, I am blunted
with the colour peach on my cheeks:
it is plastic, but that's okay under
Setting suns. 'I think'
I think, I stutter
Awake because I am not asleep, I am philosophically stunted and you don't talk anymore
because I want more and I want less
and I can't stop
This sensation of weightlessness in the pit of me, floating like spores of summer
on a breeze
between tin cans play acting phone booths and string
that could be useful one night. I think.
March flies and
August hovers like a bird waiting for something that crawls, like the insects on my skin, and
this is all about how you don't
meet my eye anymore, and I broke my first barbie doll
And I never had another, I suppose. I don't recall.
I think, and I burn, and
I think. Therefore, I am.
Rooms seem empty without us, and your face is
I think, ther
Post-ItI like to write my words down on post-it notesPost-It4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in barely legible print.
Writing the words so closely together
that you hardly know where one word ends and the other begins.
Making each small page seem like a giant secret
that should be stored away in drawers and at the bottom of my purse.
Do not read these messy notes,
for they hold too much of me.
UntitledStill (living) betweenUntitled4 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
parentheses, while speaking
Greek and ellipses...
cheaterI am not your confessor.cheater4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as to the sins, the pleasures that
flung themselves at your
I couldn't care much less.
her body is no less yours
than mine is;
I do not fool myself that I own
even this small part of you.
"it meant nothing"
was she then just a tool,
a device to use and dispose of?
you tell me that you wasted
no charms on her,
that she threw herself at you
and (almost accidentally)
but why tell me at all?
my delusional darling,
did you really think I'd give a fuck?
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 Winter MorningThe morning fires are lit. That weak little strip of light on the horizon strengthened, and pushed up the darkness of night to the other side of the world. This world is clothed in winter white, a sparkling new day, a new beginning. Every day is a new beginning, full of promise. Every night is a tired revelation that another day has passed without keeping that promise. Minstrels sing of the dawn, lovers embrace the night; the tired old holy men try to sleep, hoping that a new day will bring the change they’re looking for. King Day and King Night in an endless fight, one never winning for more than a few hours. Still, the dreamers dream with each new morning. Maybe this day will be profound, maybe this is the day that something great will occur. The morning fires are lit, and for now all is well.A Winter Morning1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
InsecurityWrapped up in layersInsecurity2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Of expected behaviors
And veils of normalcy,
And masks of secrecy.
No one else can know
Of the inner life lived deep below.
Seen and tested,
Copied and pasted
Idols in a notebook,
It's a patchwork look
Of paragons in a picture
To imperfect human nature,
With smiles, pride, and bold points of view,
Layer by layer keep the world from seeing through.
Buried deep within the walls,
Afraid and feeling small,
Fearing they can see
This crippling insecurity.
I worry, worry, worry,
For all my walls I'm judge and jury
And I drop the ax each day,
For flaws I cannot hide away.
Until I can blend in,
And achieve perfection,
I build my walls thicker,
Taller and quicker;
In pictures of paragons
I wrap layer by layer for protection.
vocationsurviving not fittestvocation1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
we follow the lyric
"a willow - now bending"
so much of the time
we end up inclining
we slide keening shrilly
then simply unskillfully
going with gravity
blending the spill
nor trusting the push
downward - fall forward
it being prefered
that we not make a fuss
llp - dA - oct2013
PleaseNo valid reasons, noPlease4 years ago in Scraps More Like This
logic. Explanations far
to seek and
further to find. Wishing
I had no mind or
conscience at all.
To be or not to be
the question, do
Fallen Angel1.Fallen Angel4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A late night wanderer discovered what was left of him,
his crumpled form impacted on the winter sidewalk,
below an open window on the second floor
- the end at last of an angel's interminable fall,
Someone from the hotel covered his cooling remains
with a well worn blanket. Too late to change anything,
too much living heat already dissipating through the night.
In the room with the open window, his trumpet lay discarded,
among a litter of clothes, some coke and heroin. The curtains
stirred on the knife edge of the frosty wind.
In my alienated adolescence, I had loved him from afar,
He filled my damaged heart with that Delphic song his trumpet sang,
In my nocturnal solitude, as the miraculous discs revolved,
it seemed as though Apollo spoke again in North American groves,
through golden Californian days. Already his shining life was cursed.
He had begun his search for chemistry to dull whatever ills
his ethereal music belied. Too often his trumpet was hostage
among the pawn b
spirit bonesShow me the way, and I will follow you.spirit bones4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Our last words, we shared in letters.
I wrote of upside down waterfalls
in adverb forests that fall into
the Hudson River, and your
pointed cursive scratched fragment
folktales and excuses onto
construction paper. Our last emotions,
we shared in language: your speech
pattern making poetry out of
the air, my lies striking you
like lightning, crystalline
and aimless. Our last moments,
we shared together. You held
my hand and the future held
my other, and it took the shape
of an eagle about to spread
its wings. You can always change,
I cried to you, but I was late;
your spirit bones were already
broken. Fated, my eagle took flight.
I will follow you, I said,
stepping out onto the bridge.