The Angelic AnachronismMy turn-of-the-century French Boy
An anachronism, lost on his way home.
Walks by the stone angels,
Growing out of the ground.
He spoke with the tip of his hat
And French love letters
Waiting on my doorstep
I saved them,
Unanswered, and unopened
In an old hat-box
The frivolous-French boy
Traded his pea-coat for a business suit
And his eloquence for a profit
Sometimes he still walks by the angels
And wonders if they are sprouting,
PillsAm I made of matter?Pills3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
They fill me with this
swallow, three, four,
one mistake means
and they wonder why I freeze.
I'm not unsure of who I am.
I'm unsure if I am
Painting ThunderstormsI will remember you in flowers, dead and never given.Painting Thunderstorms3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
We are broken promises and shattered glass.
In your traitorous arms,
I wish I'd never closed my eyes,
You are like all good headaches
in that, you will fade away,
In painkillers and flowers on a grave.
a string drawn tautthere are so manya string drawn taut2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
blue stars in your skin
but i can't believe
each neuron is a universe
alight with planets,
gaunt aliens signing god
in the absence of your name,
dim cars on the street,
beneath an awning
like a glowing orange womb
you shudder saying,
i just had a chill,
is this room cold
or are we in the gut
of a giant
who's strung out
seven days lifeless,
biting the apple,
wishing for his mother,
the earth is spinning
in the eyes
of a turtle
with a red shell
who swims in the flowers
who swallows supernovas
and they pass through his kidneys,
we could burst any minute,
a fly's nerves twitch,
a city laid,
between microscope lenses,
clutching wife to child,
do you know my name?
do you know you're shivering?
do you know i'm the son
of your nucleus?
i live in your cheek
and die at your
Night Never EndsNight never ends here -Night Never Ends3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the thin blue line
a stranger packs in his bags
before losing his mind;
the scratch behind our eyes
that keeps us moving
down the highway.
It is a jail cell at three a.m.,
the warden playing cards,
whiskey wetting his dreams
where a spark lays waste
to a family left behind;
the backlight of a slum,
a thousand rooms of winter
and water leaking in a lightbulb
over your head.
It is midnight in a foxhole,
the strafe of friendly fire
like a flashlight to beat
into watching for a sign;
the last drink festering on formica
six inches of crushed tafetta
wearing out its welcome
on a barstool called home.
It is dawn in the mortuary
last night's pickings
carved up for christmas
special delivery to no one
who will care;
and the silent mourning bedlam
left thinking on the drainboard
carted out for the trashmen
to haul away
a streetcar to nowherei.a streetcar to nowhere2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he must crack
when his hands are tulle:
rough and tearing,
bought by the yard
or cent-marked minute,
spin a skirt
that won't last a winter,
and snort ballerinas,
hope he's flexible
thin and shimmering,
don't stay another minute,
clear the aisles to say
so he must crack
when his hands are tulle:
by a craving spark
crisp and burning,
thin black ash
like your real name or
just something i can call you,
something that won't make me
feel like i'm talking down
to you. not because
i respect you, i never—
no i don't think i
respect you, but
something soft like i can
pretend i'm decent,
or normal maybe, don't
look at me, i didn't pay to—
where are you going after this?
and maybe i won't laugh."
Eventthe stars are sharp and the wind has teethEvent3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
night is black as a bodybag
clanking, buzzing sounds surround
as the wind has its way with the town
dimlights from the hospital over there
cheerios in milk over here
the night ripped in two by the surgeons saw
the dreamless, the hopeless, the flawed
(sometimes the world shifts on its axis
and never settles right again)
the wind is sharp and the stars have teeth
chewing through the darkness
eating dreams, vomiting dust to the ground
the surgeon pulls his mask down
nothing more that we could do
goodnight, i've other things to tend to
bonesaw and flatline sounds surround
as the wind has its way with the town
HandsThe red ribbons around her wrists,Hands3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
were tied by her own hands
and my portrait of her was stained,
with the blood left on my hands.
Witches MarketMidnight fell like an old black bird;Witches Market3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I meant to wait for you.
There were tables rich with
amethyst and pearls,
and fragrance by the fistful,
mint and petrichor.
I meant to wait for you.
You were gliding through the haze
with your knotted bag half full-
shadows flicked their tongues
above your knees;
you meant to look for me.
Moments ran like mice;
a silver pot, a cup of tea.
She stank of vinegar and thyme-
the hand was hers, the heart was mine.
Her iron eyes reflected flame;
she took my lungs, she took my name,
though you had meant to look for me,
and I had to meant to wait for you
amid the black salt and the brew.
Ash for the handle,
Birch for the brush,
Willow for the cord that binds the twigs.
MorbidMoldy icing on a three-week old funeral cakeMorbid2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Party hats on corpses sitting around a table
I dreamed you again in vast fields beneath the moon
Where the silence screamed out it's nothingness
You were so alone, so alone, and me so far away
In the farmhouse of blue light with my dead
I wanted to pour gasoline around and burn it all
But it would be improper to disturb the sleeping
My head is splitting with your obscene absence
And the rattling noise the dead make when they laugh
imminenthushimminent3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
there is a nothing inside me
i am lying fallow with my
split skin and hollowness
capture me here and hold me
wrench apart my ribs and
let me feel your hands
around my heart
i will not be remade.
whisperscuttlethey whisperscuttle across the ceilingwhisperscuttle3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like spiders, black hairy legs and peppered
poison and squashed letters under
barefoot dances with heavyhanded
secrets like broken branches in a summer
storm. they burrow beneath
fearstenched skin where the purple
strings wait and my collarbone creaks
as they crawl inside with pink marrow
and dirtyblinded tales of betrayal
because the word friend tastes just the
same as love and they both leave
the lingering scent of mould like
winged nightmares, with dusty
surfaces and thin dying flights out in a
tissuewrapped world. they whisper-
scuttle across burnt walls with black
edged paper crumbles on
coffee skin where the pink turns
to brown and lightly glides with shiny
scars. a barefoot dancing partner
with scaly curved nails whitespotted
with lacking just for me in our night-
crusted eyes, blinkblink when
the yellowstriped curtains drag
back and the madness cracks the egg
shells of tiny girls whose bell
anklets jingle with every grey-
Act of the GodlessThere used to be the comfort of the words-Act of the Godless3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
bereft, bereft, a woman drips her opalescent tears,
where thin-lipped men look on, away.
As common as cats, lives are.
have Iheaven is not a place forhave I3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
women with words
between their teeth.
for a woman, any passion
is a sin, any determination
a grievous error.
I am not to taste of
love, that potion
I am a bondservant only.
and so I'll not say a word
but oh, have I lived.
blood-rushed riddlesI miss you.blood-rushed riddles3 years ago in Philosophical More Like This
I miss you, like a gash misses the knife that caused it.
Once upon a time, you played jigsaw with me.
You made a onehundred parts jigsaw out of me and hid one part,
the one I miss is..-
[Takin' a deep breath.]
Blood spilled out and I tried everything to fill the hollow spot.
Other knives. Spoons. Forks. Tea-bags. Memories. Ash. Clay (Even burned
clay). Paint particles. Book pages. Sand grains. Dust. Wine. Salt. Ink.
N o t h i n g matched. Nothing..
The mélange, out of cells suspended in a liquid called blood plasma, turned my clothes purple and my hands red.
And nothing fits.
I puzzled for a long time about what might have been the reason that you
made this cruel splitting with me (By the way, my heart sounds don't fit either..)
I think I'll never come to an end with this riddle.
Once I escape the box you built around me, there's already a new one.
But the colours inside are truly pretty.
Ninety-Nine versus One.
-the one I miss
is you and your sharp body.
2012The sections are scattered,20123 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Little secret crumbs
That we all miss,
That we all misplace.
I've always been a curious person,
An eye-hole watcher,
A treasure hunter,
The jigsaw queen!
Before I found a womb to grow in
I lived there
Where all the pieces fit,
Whole as a fresh egg
Sitting in a Cleopatra milk-bath.
There I was,
How they tinkle in my mind
Like an old music box,
A cuckoo clock,
Or a midnight owl,
Hooting out old skeleton songs
Into a surreal forever
Fitting into micro moments
Of déjà vu.
Heading HomeBitter-boned, I break and crumble to dustHeading Home3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
My pockets full of keys to places that no longer exist
An oystershell ashtray full of butts and ashes beside me
Testify to dreams of green hedges and white picket fences
A tapping on the door, a rapping on the wall
Ghosts always like this hour just before dawn
A bird screeches and I wake again to the stinging day
And shufflestep towards home from a thousand worlds away
Ashes and TurpentineIn the ditch, ankle deep in mud,Ashes and Turpentine3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
with a piece of rebar pressed against his throat.
The man behind him
spouts off, “You don't know me, boy."
as he pulls the rebar tighter.
takes shots from the front;
throwing a right, then another.
Ribs crack and break under pressure,
but the Vicodin masks the pain.
So many transgressions, though none
unleash broken humanity more so,
than the words spoken,
like ashes and turpentine in his ears.
They try to own him with comments like these,
as if he were trying to take from them.
Misfortune turns swiftly,
for there is no slumbering devil
within his walls, not anymore;
lain dormant for so many years,
he now steps forth to play the artist.
A broken piece of rebar, steel toe boots,
and the will to do harm;
he paints his master piece with unbridled rage
using cruel merciless technique.
And, life flight
carried them away.
The Killing SeasonThe killing seasonThe Killing Season3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is upon us again -
our sons gone underground,
our trees become weapons
and the last bloom
of our youth
laid bare by carrion.
In town the men
all ask for cigarettes -
the nicotine on their breath
stalking new prey
as it mingles in the streets
and tries to look
The women wear handkerchiefs
wrapping their heads;
and from the buildings
stream white flags
warning the children
there are vacancies
below the surface.
do not recognize us -
we leave the doors open
while the windows look
and the gardens starve.
But we shall collect wounds
this harvest -
roots trapped in soil,
dry husks in crates
and barrels by the score
to haul to market,
the slender barter
of our dreams
a final afterthought
treading on our tongues.
relapsethis, I think,relapse3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is the way that empires
there are sometimes
but I will not go out
in such an explosive fashion
my second death
is preceded by decline,
slow and inglorious;
erosion working its
upon my architecture.
the difference is this:
disaster is unprecedented.
it is a noble sort of way to fall,
at the hands of that which
you could not control.
but I am allowing myself
to crumble to dust.
the forces of entropy
have not strengthened:
I have simply stopped cobbling myself
will discover my ruins
StuckYour empty gaze was the crack in the road,Stuck3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
staring past the pool colored
almost the same shade as last summer's paint job
meant to cover up the scratches
you left on the passenger door
when you were one tequila past sober.
I am a fly trapped in this spiderweb crack
that catches the blue-red urgency of
midnight sirens that you summoned without speaking.
They can't drown out the soundtrack
of our last sixteen seconds,
all caught in my head as if to prove
I don't want it there.
You looked up from letting your fingers linger
on the radio dial when your song came on,
laughing about how it reminded you of cotton candy
and your first boyfriend's cologne,
when your summer eyes caught the headlights,
like stained glass in full sun,
and all you could say was
You always talked about how
if you had three wishes you'd spend one on flying,
but I don't think this is what you meant.
I still have dreams about you telling me
the experience wasn't worth it.
I still reach for telephone to tell you
Only In My HeadI am flesh and blood.Only In My Head3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
The darkness can not touch me.
It is in my head.
This is How We FallDreams fall shortThis is How We Fall3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
with the daily grind.
I came to my senses
back in ninety-five;
sold my soul for a nine to five.
Now I'm rotting a little each day.
Maybe they'll miss me
once I'm gone.
The lights only matter
if they get shut off
as we watch the kingdom
burn from the street;
this is how we fall.
I'm not the man I used to be.
I demanded freedom
then gave it away.
Now I flounder for identity,
this is how we fall.
leech jarand with a rusty scalpelleech jar5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(which I always have on hand)
I deflower myself,
to thwart others' ungainly fingers.
I make careful incisions
on wrists, ribs, pelvis;
but this pesky skin keeps
knitting itself back together
when I and my lancet
we make poor surgeons,
my heart and I.