I'm not listening anyhow.Make them believe thatI'm not listening anyhow.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
All the people in the world are
That only you and I can
Understand when we close our eyes and
Run so far away with our thoughts like a
Buzz in the back of our brains because
Anatomy is something that we still haven't
Thought too much about
In the dark behind our eyelids that will
Only visit us when
No one else is around.
Soy Sauce for the Closed MindYou've got hips like an avalanche,Soy Sauce for the Closed Mind2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and a body made of fortune cookie philosophy.
She says, "Take your head off when you're talking to me. inbedinbedinbed."
A La Douce MemoireTo explain: Dear _______A La Douce Memoire2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
broken calligraphy drawn with wrinkled, wise fingers
across thousands of charcoaled and
frayed telephone lines, our science:
telltale tree-house stories
of success over cups of unstirred, bleak
chai lattes. Sparkles glittering behind blue-eyed metaphors
and a casualty of chance. Collateral damage.
She will be
his sodden breath, soaked between
years and earth and birds and gravity and
gravestones-- the chemistry behind
the existence of God.
À la douce mémoire.
stomachedyou blush and bruisestomached3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with sidewalks, stones,
the quiet doorways in your thighs
and the weight of your purple
tongue against mine
(a carnival of teeth)
if you swallowed the moon
with your agate jaws,
you could not be more nacreous
cyclic motioni. every sad story starts with love.cyclic motion3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
ii. there is you sprawled across the bed
with your ankles tangled in cotton covers
and the golden waves of sunlight
breaking themselves through fissured glass
to drip into your hair like bright honey,
your hands reaching upward
as if they were young birds waiting on wings.
you wept for those flightless, wet-beaked children
anchored helplessly to your wrists
but their hearts were not as weak
as the foreign fist beating in your chest. they collapsed
and only left behind
the impressions of dying constellations
they had scratched beneath your eyelids.
iii. at dusk i watched the night take you in waves, glowing,
and said you were the most beautiful thing
i had ever known.
it was a lie. the want of a thing
is always more beautiful than the thing itself.
these are the quiet things we do not tell--
the secrets touched only in the dark
when hearts are laid open
and everything else forgets to exist.
iv. i whispered that to myself when the last shadow
your voice sounds lke swimmingshe liked to scribbleyour voice sounds lke swimming2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
her hearts whisperings
onto delicate paper napkins
in the middle of crowded restaurants
while all the couples
sometimes she scribbled them down
and her tears would erase them
before anyone else could ever
be touched by them
one night she felt like she was drowning
in the way his voice would raise
and fall like a steady tide
and she scribbled down
we learn to swim
when we begin to drown.
and your voice reminds me of swimming
so i might just climb inside you mouth
and float awhile
texas II.the gulf can be smelled before she is seen:texas II.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
the air stews with rebuke in her rank fish, strapping oil and machinery,
beckoning to her daughters, wheeled heiresses on the roadways
fleeing to what they pray will be a nice condo,
draft beer, fresh oysters, and a loose peace.
ma and pa tip alcohol around washed-up jellyfish landmines at sunset,
because only on a blank canvas does romance thrive
and mix itself into full, panting color.
and the kids become role models for those intoxicated idealists,
stripping pretense for wet swimsuits and expectant shrieks.
they're sporting bloodshot eyes as
welcome-home tears from the whipping of the waves,
because shall we experience our nature or poke at it
with philosophy sticks?
damn straight. they buried the inner tubes atop the danielle steel,
digital cameras, and postage stamps.
"taste the freedom, it's soggy, it's blue, it's great."
mama, are your eyes misted with
we call this
it took a six-mile walk to the pier
When The Stars Collapselie in the garden with me,When The Stars Collapse2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stranger, and tell me
your tale. map it out
in constellations -
virgo; there's the girl you loved
and there, cygnus, that's the
swan-dive she took
from the tallest building in town
the day you turned her down.
you see vintaged memories
in ursa major - your father
shot a bear once. you were two.
the skin decorated the floor
for four years afterwards, but
moths got in and flew at you
and your momma threw it out.
draco. another shot for tragedy
gold here. that girl, the one
you loved - what was her name?
doesn't matter. i've heard it all.
they're all the same. tell the story.
she had a list of things to do
before she died. (she's the one
who took her life, remember - yes,
the very same). a chinese dragon
on parade, and you made one for her,
sun-spotted and starry. she was
in too much of a hurry to look and later
you found it crushed in the bin out the back.
who knew. she'd already given up.
there, pisces - that fish,
the one that got away, three
summers back, no
London MMXIA glance at London ablaze.London MMXI2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I took you away, down a
smoky side street, housing
rats and cats and frightened debris
pushed by the wind into the safe hands
of drunken tramps who knew no better.
With a walk zigzag, our hands
were tight together. The batons crashed
against shields of plastic and metal,
as ash and petroleum smells lingered
through the midnight air. You smiled
when it was most inappropriate.
We threw ourselves against the shadows,
the hooded crows committing their acts
of self-appreciation. You stopped, said
this was the best and worst night
you've ever had. I just stared, squeezed
and pulled your sweaty hand. I moved you on.
Glittering SnakesGlittering SnakesGlittering Snakes5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
If found unchaste, a Vestal Virgin would be buried buried alive,
dirt becoming her speech.
But instead of an unending fire to tend, I have pills.
They are shaped to be the same, eternal dull moons of grainy sand.
If I wanted, I could fill my mouth with death.
Each pill slithering down my throat, some dull poisonous snake.
In circuses, they juggle snakes, glittering hoops,
a patter of words so darting it no longer means anything.
Eve sits transfixed, plain cotton dress faded apple green,
in the wooden stands. She was given a special invitation.
She waits for the finale, the applause, the snakes no longer hoops,
but hushed still lines, ribbons to woven into hair.
She waits for the spiel to end.
With cat sharp teeth, geeks bite off the heads of chickens,
a flurry of feathers, blood and shrill shouts from the crowds.
This is their language, their mouths pools of blood.
I count my pills. On the TV screen, glossy ever so smiling ads
tell us to take their pills even if a sid
end scenein the operating theatre,end scene5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
every function of life
is a performance.
each organ is an instrument,
sounded by lungs like
each nerve impulse
is a scintilla of inspiration.
here, Sir, and
here, Madame: take your
seats; observe stage left,
observe each beat and
watch practiced, lissome hands
carve out the body into
constellations of scars,
a dalliance between the medical
and the mellifluous:
this is the sort of scene
that turns us all into actors.
Catharsis (Slam Poem WIP)In the psychiatric waiting roomCatharsis (Slam Poem WIP)7 months ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
you asked me if I believed you could get better.
I don't hail Mary or believe in ghosts,
but I've prayed until I heard thirteen footsteps on the roof—
and heard it enough times to not question if it was you.
But the hierarchy of monarch butterflies
in my stomach are hesitant to take precedence
over the moths quick to blame
you when your twitter hashtags are hashmarks;
like high scores in psych wards.
Spaghetti SauceTomorrowSpaghetti Sauce8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
lurks beneath your tongue,
with hefty promises.
I'm false bravado
in human confinements,
the goodbye exists,
beneath your baggage.
I pile more sauce
onto your spaghetti,
praying it will settle--
in your stomach
and keep you loving
the flaws of me
for one more day.
solitudechipped bone china,solitude8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
two lumps of sugar
and enough blackberry rooibos tea
to drown in
(if one is very determined)—
the silver service arranged
gleaming and precise
as a skeleton.
one day, the silence
of this house
will have drunk me
to the dregs.
HomecomingA bone choker wrapsHomecoming9 months ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
her slender neck; a pregnant
moon calls the tide home.
The Old Poet's WifeThe old poet's wifeThe Old Poet's Wife10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
clears his stained papers
from his desk in the house
they shared. She stopped
believing in poems
a long time ago.
She presses them into piles,
the only love letter she has.
(He never wrote;
except in verse.) Outside
her window, the sun flares up
and the frost all across the pane
is lit afire.
bunny fishi've been broken and undone,bunny fish11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
since the moment i was born.
fragments of glass and paper
strewn together and laced with
ten-pound-test line (only
they forgot to test it and
it was something more like
when you snapped
at my garlic-loving fingers
i didn't make a sound (good
girls don't cry and tattlers
everyone knows to leave
the puzzles missing pieces
in the closet (along with
that dusty rug from under-swept
secrets and last year's
i choked on all those dust bunnies,
trying to cough them all out
(but like bunnies do,
they burrowed and nested
and i'll never be rid
OctoberOctober was born, forget-me-notOctober2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Blue dyed auburn for autumn.
The air smelled of rubbing alcohol
And paper snowflakes, cautious
And not quite true
You crept in once more, a wisp
Of smoke, tucked behind my ear,
A stray lock of hair.
October, month of the phoenix,
Of rekindling, of unhinging,
Too mildewed, too damp,
Too waterlogged to burn.
inhale, exhale. repeat.sometimes it's good to chalk up the little things as wins.inhale, exhale. repeat.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you wake up in the morning and realise you're facing another day of solitude and emptiness, if you don't learn to appreciate the small
things, you'll spend the next several weeks or months or even years moping around staring at your feet.
sometimes something as miniscule and seemingly unimportant as sleeping through the night without someone entwined in your thoughts for
the first time in forever, or realizing you have no real reason to feel guilty for something you did.
occasionally that's all it will take to lift you just enough to drag yourself out of your misery and face the world.
it's just enough to get you through the day.
it's understanding the difference between real and pretend, love and in love, actual feelings and leftovers.
and it's when you recognize this, you'll see that you're only theirs out of habit, because you've spent hours with them weaved into your very
fibre and you didn't think you could
380the night does not belong on a west Texas highway,3808 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
the stubble of 1960’s mobile erections
glinting off the headlights
through blockades of wire brush and cold, naked toilets,
the gut of old houses and giant tractor wheels
brimming in prairie grass like ancient portals to the Hells.
i am different on this road.
what comes across my window sill,
of raging shadows,
quiet horses nodding at barbwire,
barn roofs squeezing into splinters,
opposite travelers colliding with my reflection,
i let them pass,
the world passes me.
i left you in a dirty tub of leaves
just before New Mexico.
I’ll drive another hundred miles
before i stop to stretch my grief.
nothing really happens.
oklahomamy father knows how to travel like a man steeped in tradition,oklahoma1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
so as we puff into the country-style chicken lot,
we are immediately affronted by colonies of snickering white rocking chairs.
the latino gang, sliding in floppy shoes, cheer on
a game of redblack checkers without real thirst for victory.
the smallest is feminine in too much gel, and as he tries to flip his
wax sculpture, he fiddles with his touch screen, adjusts his suctioned pants.
they sit in rocking chairs, apart, and who says
those melanin men are not enthroned there still,
lumpy, overlooked, cheering at chips and kings?
race alarms aside, maybe they did visit cracker barrel
just to play checkers, but that's no way to run an establishment
if there's a table empty
and money to be made.
"hi, i'm kathy" pulls up two extra stools
and jams us around a listing circular table.
my sister's fried apples slither out of the bowl,
the chicken is average, cornbread tough, and potatoes crusted.
in the heartland cooks still steer cle
PhantasmagoriaThese bloated days,Phantasmagoria1 year ago in Scraps More Like This
Trussed up in bleary
Veins and circadian
These valley-ribbed nights,
These ghost-breathed moments,
Of haunted refrain.
NovemberI was to die in November.November2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No violets for me, I was no
A sneeze and a wheeze,
A whiff of cold greyness
On the bathroom floor.
I was to die unnoticed,
Fade into the crevice
Less than a shadow,
A lost song.
I was to light candles
For my own wake,
Play cello-string eulogies
For my funeral,
Drizzle rain and grey clouds
But I did not die.