Ancient Cosmonaut Theory
we are such things
and not cryptids of Eden
banqueting on apologues
as two magicked statuettes
living in a glyph stone,
frozen in tableaux)
do moments or millennia pass each midnight?
What the Hell has happened while I wombed away my life?
What is left to live on, the bones of ancient mania?
Do they still build man,
firestarter songs to enslave the very sky gods
with the filaments they used
the height of you . . .
low Tlow T3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i'm too soft and rotten
sacred blood oaths,
or thresholds; a frozen inch of face
the same as light years, oceans,
i'd rather brush my mind with pills
and stick these artifacts of wealth
hard inside your origins
and keep the grass
newshours no longer whittle into daysnews3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
strangled and uncalendared;
forbidden rituals of a new dark Eros
clothesline sheets and bed throes → blunders in a blue face
and sensing your reversals, i’ve grown and grown impossibly old;
god’s bad math:
infinities as remainders.
however they lapse
i spend the better part of them
burning through the flyleaves
for mandalas sealed in hell bank
for ashes of your epilogue
for the end of throats
in songs and news.
no one can regret their past
but of futures . . .
like when planets will re-purpose you
into interstellar fruit bats or thyme pulled from the brink of comets
and you’re wondering why i'll never find you
when datebooks write us in the living.
MusingI'm too young to spend my lifeMusing3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
running from the thunder,
staring at the kitchen walls wondering
how life would be different
if they weren't the same color.
shallowit's not your beautiful faceshallow3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that i love
it's how you ruin it
beneathbeneath3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it goes without saying:
the air that settles
on your chest
the language of your local fruit
the swirl of rind
their glyphs and runes
like sun-bent cheeks
and creatured time
that sleeps between us.
i needn't tell you anything
or speak my way inside of you
you've doctored in all my aspirations
your furious dreams' wild successions
no longer carry
i am written
RoadYou said Kansas was too flatRoad3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and dry, nothing but a sullen map
in the dust as the truck lumbered
down the highway.
I watched you slug back
bottle after bottle of malt liquor,
tossing the bodies in the back seat.
Dead cowboys you called them,
your jaw spoiling for a fight.
I kept my hands on the wheel
and watched the heat move sideways
through the wheat,
trying to pretend your chin lived
somewhere else and that the sun
had something more important
to do than watch me drive.
We ate egg salad sandwiches the way
your mother made them - too much salt
and celery and without the crusts
and drank grape soda warm and fizzing
from the cans and I prayed the rain
would soften the landscape and
lull you to sleep.
The radio was a better friend than me
peeling the vinyl off the dashboard.
I listened while Glen fixed another
heart in Wichita and you drowned
your hangover in some dogeared novel
you found in a gas station bathroom.
And we just drove
with the sound of people
only echoesthis new selflessonly echoes3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm a hermit/crab (shell/fish)
a shell game
with selves switched
still the same
shameful nerves twitch
Embers in dark placesThose little kissesEmbers in dark places3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
turn into blazing flames of
Spring is the perfect time to give up, completelySpring is the perfect time to give up, completely3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in place of being
our dual contours and divinations
spooning needle eyes of space
and throwing hands at truth the way
a stroke of grass will seem to seethe
with secret oaths
you've been leaving braille and bokeh
wings of Hypnos and slow debridements.
won't you swallow
all of it: Spring,
. . . marry him.. . . marry him.3 years ago in The Great Valentine Exchange More Like This
he will gleam like photons
tangled in sheer joy.
where i harvest dead localities,
he will sheath the touchstone nerve.
his voice will soothe great quandaries
like growling cicadas solve summer nights.
his eyes will break into blessed anointments.
his lips will pierce the frighteners
and spill their silver antidotes -
a cure for every blasphemy,
a pardon for every criminal.
remember who he was,
a mystic lisping empathy
for pure, unbottled moments,
a silence worming through bicycle wind,
a gender scribbled on a brainstorm,
the flashing of satori
in the scatter-shooting cosmos,
a wonderer, wondrous
with no guilty body,
a boy's fond familiar
who keeps a tail feather of god
stuffed in a bag of beetle legs
and cats eye marble galaxies.
i suppose i was never
the one who was meant to apron you,
to feed the thirsty virginities
that open up
beneath your womb. . .
i'm not the one to paper you
with sanctuaries and closet troves,
sadists are people, toothis sun has found its nihilistssadists are people, too2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on cold curbs,
on concrete roads.
everyday, one of them guards the subdivision.
i thought, “a sphinx, a totem piece, an angel of death.”
whatever, my sleepy projectionist.
it’s on my way anywhere.
it’s on my way home.
silver-brown maw, it’s at its ugliest
shriveling inside of possum flesh
in a slow taut hug
of the last empty
i won't be caught up
just lay there
geneticandgenetic3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i was a landslide; you should have seen me
desperate for the
alcoholic lungs in my chest
to swallow the sea
like it had done before
when i wanted to drown
in the same
rigor mortis of my ancestors
turning over bucketsperhaps it isn't beautiful,turning over buckets3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lying halfway underwater;
pouring your palladium hopes
down your hands
looking full of shale and broken glass
half lighting whiskey-paper on fire
with that sun tossing in your chest
and all of you rattling
in this thin-skinned pineapple percussion,
the things you're so very sure of, sweltering under
callouses, under sea-
a kaleidoscopic mass of stinging cider-riviera
twisting into your human frame;
but when i say something of protests
you break in,
with too many pinecones waking in your chest, saying,
how lucky how
lucky we are
to be alive to be
our aging seasonwinter comes in wavesour aging season3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
warmth enough to leave you weak
softly slips away
CometYou told me to be a comet -Comet3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to grow new wings
and sit out on the roof
and watch the men gather
like seals upon the rocks,
their voices threadbare
warping the wooden pilings
underneath their feet.
You said I was a magnet -
north facing and truant,
missing my arms and legs;
while out in the street
the rain made the dogs go mad
and all the poets were starving
and swallowing their fathers.
You promised you would
take me back with you,
your charity in my pockets
and let me wash myself clean
in your lily pale whys-
my belly slit like a barbarian,
warm and inviting you in -
Both of us remembering
to lock up heaven's gate
and leave no traces
of our bleeding
or any silent sounds
our mothers could identify
and send to call us home.
The Nature of ThingsHere, with my hands in the dirt.The Nature of Things3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
I never imagined myself
as much of a gardener.
I never imagined I'd be much of a cook either,
let alone a poet.
knuckles so broken,
I can barely hold a pencil.
Every time I take a breath,
I feel the ribs that have not yet healed.
Though they should've,
So I guess I've changed.
So much so
there are times when I don't recognize myself
in the mirror.
who is this person standing before me?
Where did he come from?
When did he get here?
But I have no answers.
I guess this is the nature of things.
Though part of me longs to reach out.
To tell the `me that was,
there is a better way.
But there is no `me that was anymore,
only the `me
Heartbreak Hotel, 102 and 814Room 102Heartbreak Hotel, 102 and 8144 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'll bet you give as good
as you get, she winked,
sliding the worn kmart down her belly
and popping the cherry
of a red bull.
So, why don't you crawl
up this quilt
and try to undo
the damage my husband left?
I promise I won't break your heart,
just bruise it in places
the wife won't see.
Besides, that suit doesn't
quite fit you right
and I like my men better
dressed only in the dark.
Just let me just sink my teeth
into this quart of vodka
or your thigh
and try to figure out
why I covered the dog in newspapers
and the couch still
isn't speaking to me.
The weatherman is not my friend
but I sure can find peace
in a stanger's bed.
So put my mail out with the trash
cause you don't love this boy
and these empty bottles
only make me angry.
dead1.dead2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;
it doesn't fit
i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.
i feel it fly the smooth
from off your back. it turns
and hides behind the acres,
of jagged rooftops,
kept far and safe
has left the limb
as light would leave
i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
its reversal is alive.
it doesn't move or breathe.
the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never change
from birth to birth,
a clan of inbred
with felt umbrella
that don’t remember
who i was.
one last thought of your last thought
and all the rest become their graves.
nothing i remember, now
will reach the earth.
i have no bottom ground,
the narrow knots of wood
that span and hoard and cup my self
are laughing into holes;
a brief visit extendedcalifornia returnsa brief visit extended3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
portraits of love
etched in endless steps
and slanted streets
stretching sunburnt limbs
its languid strides
like solemn hymns
in the grass
'round grace cathedral
it finds hope
but still potent
its thrift shop moments
of battered truths
than those intended
it makes belief
not makes believe
that nothing's ended
flameslost lovesflames3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we call them flames because we burned
we were oxygen
we were fuel
and when the fuel was gone
we were ashes floating
rain took us down to earth
mushed remains together
and when the sun returned
the dry remains
piled into something that had never been
alone as something new
dowryi wonder sometimes if i shoulddowry3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
just get high and let myself crush
beneath the opening of a womb
not found in my body, but the clouds
he wants me to sing virgin songs, keep
clorox clean eyes with a chlorinated
he wants me shredded
sheep skin for only him, the caul
of my children slipping at my feet
with sin and holy ghost.
his evenings are spent in the
church, in the coronation
of a god i did not ask for
but was given,
dressed like an alter boy
on his knees.
i wonder if i mark myself
with placebo hands of another man
i would not be so desirable for him
(i could lip the lines of fabric contorted
round a carousel of flesh in shades
of white and black/
become tarnished in inky
pnumonic at the rings of my fingers, spindling
moth webs with the hands of lucifer to fit in his
but i am in white linen, taught with
dowry, womanly as
woman be, free
AuschwitzI saw you in the ghetto -Auschwitz3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with your yellow star,
and collecting shoes.
And then on the last train
(or maybe it was Belsen),
hunched in a boxcar
like cows to market,
our shadows old
as the wheels
broke us down to the floor.
We drank our urine
and told the children
the train was an adventure
that did not need
Survival is a funny thing-
not always for the fittest,
and conscience can be
a silent sniper.
on loving writerstalk to me like a childon loving writers3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but love me like a writer,
love me unabridged,
love me with all my footnotes,
postscripts and appendixes.
love me when i am alive at night,
tangled thoughts keeping you awake,
the sounds of my scribbling
scratching in your ears.
love me with all my imperfections,
the ones that allow me to run away
with my imagination
and the ones that frankly
you just can't stand.
love me when i interrupt you
to write something down,
or when i stop listening
because my brain is running on
metaphors, not oxygen.
i am sorry or
not sorry to tell you this,
but i will keep writing
until i run out of words
(and then some)