The DrugI want you,The Drug8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
right here right now,
like a drug that i am addicted too.
I must give in and bow-
down to the cravings soon,
or be driven insane.
You are more addicting than the moon
As it sets, leaving me in pain.
The time between every dose is maddening.
I find my mind wondering farther and farther,
as I lie awake, I fantasize you saying,
those words that make me higher.
I wish i could shoot you straight into my veins,
or spill you into little streaks on a mirror.
Even take you like a pill.
Hold you forever.
Drug me into oblivion...
FaceI.Face1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
When you are born they will lay you on a magazine cover
and wonder why your face is not the face beneath you yet.
There is a woman set high
and the man beside you wonders why
your face is not the face above you.
Your mother wonders why her face is not the face
in front of her any longer.
She wonders when you will become her.
You try to leave your face behind you,
and wonder why you're running in place.
GroveThese paths are lined with your twisted-root intentions,Grove2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
growing up into twisted trees.
They grasp empty hands at astrological signs,
and shadow me.
The night breathes fullness into shadows
and steals the hanging dust from the light,
leaching everything from gold to white.
I don't know if this is peace within your mind, this stillness,
or a slow and steady rot from inside- oaks that survived
fire, only this way to die.
Guide You HomeYou study the stars on my arms,Guide You Home2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
blended constellations set in negative,
as though they could guide you
from your grinding teeth and furrowed brows,
to the final release and the following calm.
You have not asked a question of me.
I, therefore, have no answers for you.
The wheeling sky is paused, silent, skin.
I cannot lead you home,
though you searched my astrology and I, as we
hovered over your body. I am not, I never was
truly set with sky, infinite, omniscient.
I cannot divine the questions caught
behind your open mouth, closed throat.
I am human, and fickle, and finite.
There are no answers in me.
C h a o s.The love that I feel for himC h a o s.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It seeps into the core of my being.
Until my blood runs hot
& my heart pumps gasoline.
He's a hellraiser
a love maker
& a heartbreaker.
He's not really my type.
But that's my favorite thing about him.
War SongWar Song2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I feel War as he was:
soothing bloodlust with cunning
of the tricksters, with the calm
of a savage. His heart is windless,
stirring only when a bird shrieks,
when the pitiless sun burns,
harsher than flint.
He is treacherous, travelling
underground, but oh,
lovely to see his labyrinths,
to reach the crown of his fort
and gaze below.
These bricks have known
a bloody sun.
I know him as he is now:
rotting in the high walls of Time,
soundless, stale, secreted away
by piping bats, who echo night
with hands of wings.
These grasses have known
a history gone.
I see him, as he will be:
overrun by dry wilderness
and yellowing jungle, and alone,
a bridge gently folding into a moat
of moss and water.
He will strew stones on the floor,
like snow in summer, lull trees
to sleep in front of the doors,
and close the gates.
These walls have known
a silence of drums.
in his fortress of wrecked stone,
lying above the hill of the gods:
bloodied, but unbowed.
On Preparing Beautiful DescentsIt's necessary to annotate the appearance of rainOn Preparing Beautiful Descents2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
things are brief now
We can not go on pouring through music,
your voice departs and people become religions about witnessing a sun
stumbled into words on the green rivers of that country,
collisions and collisions of light recalled post-facto by a girl who was there
The promise was not of perpetuity but rather of the existence
of a manuscript which explains the business of preparing beautiful descents
And let me tell you I've imagined its insistence of clouds, the blacker the better
a singularity of bodies more tree than water,
and red deserts that exist to be wandered upon by love-story refugees
You don't have to wash your hair that morning. Dress casually and
in suspension of belief
you may smoke as many cigarettes as you need
I am asking that, because things are brief
you come and grieve with me
Chemdawgit was often violet and an argument for compressionChemdawg2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the cities redraft in a shale from which
all ideology and unchecked airport baggage pour
like oil through the layers which is how archaeologists tell time,
so I ask the psychonaut if his people know and he says
we embed poets to report on the wars, sometimes
a sediment constructed entirely of heroes will open
deep in a desert nobody named so i ask again and he says
and then the poets come home and try to write
but all we get are bills and soft plays about girls who die
on an airplane in a dream and when they wake
everything is actually blue except blue is actually violet,
and then another hit and the airplane drops 298 feet
so that by the time your soul catches up to you in a cold swell of water
you will have already become the photographs that remind your family of empty fields.
* * *
he thinks of words like retrovirus in a foil revival
by refined supercriticals until revolutions occur frequently
on each wall like pre-depression film
in the republics they speak of1.in the republics they speak of2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
not a single war made the headlines today
instead, missing people assemble near a bank
and a woman asks from whom
did we invent these hauntings?
billboards on the interstate
mean these universes are inert
you are born with them.
some say mountains possess them.
they say the sorrow of their saints is perpetual.
(some don't believe it ever snowed
in those failed states)
a city in the American midwest incorporates
after a tornado
the nature of our fatalism
is all of the photographs we couldn't reconstruct
to those whose creation myths
whose transmissions of light
the risen ask often for you
a. god created bodies that fail
b. bodies that fail created god
according to anonymous government sources
much more radiation seeped into the atmosphere than was reported
"suddenly, everybody was just waiting for the clouds to come" a witness said
For Helping MeFor Helping Me4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Even when I'm in
The darkest place
You'll always understand.
You've been there.
Sometimes you're already there
Waiting for me.
But whether you want
Me to save you
Or join you
I do not know.
I release my pain
Using the blade
And you snap.
I don't understand
What you what me to do.
I can't just sit there and suffer.
I've never been able to.
I try to release my pain
Using the elastic band
But you make me
Promise never to again.
Do you not understand
How hard it is
For me to stop?
But then I look
And I see
That you are the only person
Who is like me.
And I love you
For being you.
For helping me.
When I turn 25When i turn 25,When I turn 252 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My needs will decrease and my shoulders will broaden.
I will not drink, but I will be watered.
Each word will be weighed, but never wasted.
My breath will be God's breath,
and I will Father -
When I turn 25,
I will grow a beard.
I will not drink.
When I turn 25,
I will be a garden to be stepped into,
cool, calm, warm-smiled and
"I know your pain
and your path" I will say.
"Let me show you the way. There are stones ahead, and waters,
wild, white, and cold-fanged. Here:
Put your foot like this, and this. I know the way."
When I turn 25,
I will be a pillow and let
your head and your body rest.
I will drink, and in the morning
your tears will be gone.
For now, though,
I am fabric, a bit of lint,
pre-shrunk, ready to be stretched,
frayed at the edges, and torn.
Northern Haikuwe have become pinesNorthern Haiku3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
groaning with cold, and with winter
frost on each prickly part of us.
An atheist dreams of JesusI have a dream in which,An atheist dreams of Jesus3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
recurringly, Jesus steps
gracefully from his cross
examining his hand, smiling
sadly at the remains of his tendons.
He looks at me, because
in any dream of Jesus, Jesus
looks at me, or you.
And of course, his eyes
are blue, or brown, or green,
whichever one it is, they are deep,
and they are His.
And He says:
"It is time."
And He grabs the heavens, linen-like
and, with His hands and mouth,
folds it to a square
and a square,
and a square,
and He puts it in His bag -
(the bag He wore across His shoulder
in the desert
in the heat
In a body in love with a hooker)
and He tucks it in.
And with a shrug and a sigh
He smoothes mountains,
rounds off ravines,
mends mesas into mud;
His hands are rough
but loving. He whistles, even, as he
stops streams and uproots rivers,
The world is a table, at which he sits
eating, smiling, saying:
This is my body.
This is my blood.
And He says:
"It is time."
And one by one
my thoughts dissolve like salt
NarcolepticThere once was a man whom name I cannot know,Narcoleptic6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
An average lonely man who lived not long ago.
But those who heard the story can tell you very quick-
The unfamiliar creature- he was a little sick.
On his sixth birthday party,
The young boy laughed with joy.
But when the big cake was brought in
The guests had nothing else to think-
The boy was so exited that he fell.
And on the floor they saw him lay
His eyes was closed, he slept away.
His mother said with anxiousness: This ends our party.
So harmlessly the years have passed
And when he finished school at last
They saw him falling on the floor
When has been told that schools no more.
By blocking the emotions he never could retain.
The man was never smiling.
Ill never fall asleep again.
But when a girl had reached his hand and kissed his frightening lips,
He could not stand it like he tried
It was a dreamy bliss.
Then off he went a dusty road with pitiful disgust.
He cannot live his normal lif
Back to the Woods, Front to Me Back to the Woods, Front to MeBack to the Woods, Front to Me6 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
When the night riders horse skims the skies
And your ears fill with her deafening cries
Kick up your heels and to home you fly
Outrun the shadows and please dont cry
Baba Yaga comes tonight to feed off the small
Those children who did not run at all
And who were still playing in the field.
Are now the skulls her lamposts wield.
If you feel brave my darling child
Are seeking to look for adventure wild
Then follow that path seldom tread
By those who most certainly end up dead
A house with no windows or door youll spy
Teetering on chicken legs way up high
When your nose touches wood
And the chilly wind blows off your hood
Say with a voice as brave as the lion
To show the world youre not afraid of dyin
Hut, o hut, turn your back to the woods, your front to me
Then the door inside youll soon see
Baba Yaga waiting for thee
What will you do then my dear?
When faced with everything you fear?
no titleI have carried this, my heartno title3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
from the stones and the smoke and the dark
in this black minecart
from the dark and the smoke
from the yoke of a man whose soul
was a hole deeper still than this;
And so I ran.
and the beat of my feet on the rock and its teeth
and the bone when it eats at the meat
and the marrow that longs for release
and the blood when it lies like a starfish
in the the dark and the smoke and the ground
Bright blinding light.
NotesMy home of cirrusNotes2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
clouds and the cosmos
pinches the delicate
little silver chain
and my home is tilted
like a lung it's breathing
a Celtic song of the forest
a song of itself singing
I say that the celestial and the causal
is the natural
and the cause of causes is the house of houses
and when we find the answer, it will seem so obvious
ElbowThe root expresses itself in many ways.Elbow2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
One of these is the way
that love becomes a method of living.
Faithlike june tangled in tanquereyFaith3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there is a chaos
sometimes it burns like gin
like holding these streets
with thought we've seen
as insurrect as nostalgia
as pieces of film you'll never develop
in your hands until they've all bled through
and you're left alone once more
there is information on these walls
that remind me of theories of string
how we're all just the idea of energy
that color is a symptom of light
and we've dreamed ourselves up so many times
there is no reality we haven't made love in
i've seen this city live and die by it
like a long exposure of nuclear winter
testing the premise of an afterlife
as photographs come and go like stars
that nobody ever writes poems about
begin again? dear dylan,
it's as hard as loving
it's as hard as loving yourself
as hard as having your heart broken
by ideas and by songs
it's as hard as being human and having no one to blame
and dreaming i
a rapture backwardsleft only is an auditorium of empty chairsa rapture backwards3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
what comes next is sometimes the midwest doesn't exist
falling apart she agrees that perhaps it's only their language
slowly devolving into a flock of birds
the exchange of obsessions between objects in motion
every reference to the depth and volume of night
we do not know how to die beautifully
i stop believing the moment she realizes that
Video of a suicide bombingYou can not psychoanalyze godVideo of a suicide bombing2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Mostly you hear windows
coming to fill the position of empty space
and the theory presupposing two things:
"some trees are actually righted,
and glow for days in the fall-out"
If you watch the video backwards
it's as if she is pulled into the room
by some invisible compulsion
the way grief floods into the capillaries
to fill an absence at the dinner table.
From above, the hearts radicalized, suddenly stop,
wrapped around lamps like old lovers.
in a young countryOur people surrender to depression with elephants in their poetry,in a young country2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the suicide machines built like the helmets of astronauts
more or less proving god's absence in their wake.
We've perfected the technology to photograph an airplane
bending at the moment of impact. This is the world we were given.
In our books the bodies fall upward and nobody prays. We're left
watching spines stand and drift into an exodus of hands in a video
of unsinkable buildings. Our state is overpopulated with expositions
of the ache that some get while staring at the sky. The folk music
of our planet's oceans can no longer lessen this place's collisions,
all of the metal in our bodies is homesick,
all of these geese stayed behind and froze to death in the park.
israeli want to know people who know godisrael2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but our instruments assure his exit-
quiet, loud, inevitable.
a roar in the streets, explosion, signs
or the satellite lying quietly across the ocean
the strange sky making martyrs of mute ships.
if we're meant a return, I believe,
there will come fog and we press ourselves
through voices like old forests until we're together.
but the spirit? what do we know about weightlessness
in a dimension polluted with gravity?
a beleaguered preacher says 'have you ever loved us'
and the audience erupts.
when god doesn't answer i look for you
in a liquor store that burned down last year
Bees.She had asked him, once, why they kept bees.Bees.2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Good for the garden, Bethy," he'd replied. "Encourages .. things."
He called her Bethy when he was reminiscing. No-one else called her that anymore; it was plain, formal Elizabeth. To him she was just little Bethy from their younger days, when she'd looked up to him and adored him and promised him everything she owned.
She'd never been one for encouraging anything, garden or otherwise, and she knew Seb wasn't either. So why the bees? The selfish insects kept her away from the end of the garden, did little in the way of edibles and provided much swatting sport for those she asked over to barbecues on the patio. They hadn't much garden to speak of anyway, just a narrow strip of patchy grass running the length of the alleyway to the left of the house which was hangout to the less favourable of the society. No flowers, decking, veg. Elizabeth would have liked a conservatory, but these things were out of fashion and no doubt the Cow from ne