South of Oklahoma
at last, we are here
and still, the sun is real!
how i've missed myself in this grassland palace,
brome or bluestem or whatever it is;
to live as a lapwing in your grandmother's dreams
eating at the inland wind,
brimming turtle quietude
just as i had left it:
pond oaks mired with a hundred broken backs,
burrow holes of rabbit tribes and trespassing fawns
whittling the woods while lake cranes are jumping ship
and who knows what else out there garroting the breeze,
riddling the miraculous
cow track heuristics
that seem to solve barbed wire,
boscage and gravity;
that disappear my blues with ease -
i wait for these simplicities
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,windstorms and labwork3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
i lick at what is manifest
beneath your hair
each poison tab
and religious studies
i know, i know you never mean
but do not say “live for yourself”.
i’ve come online to see the god
that came before me.
we are so poorly married
like bookend spines of Plath and Hughes
up on the shelf
religionreligion3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Autumn mornings can be like this: near to nothing.
they do not sing
or hold to land
but mangle in the chimes
as gaslights huddle for permanency
and so, failing.
where have we left our-
i feign allegiance to it: eyes and dreams
and life, as dyes turn glass to hollowware
and wax to fruit,
as brindle on these bones
makes me your passersby.
but somehow, i still believe in you
like fragments of a mythos
which have calcified to faith.
you’re lingering in setscrews that i cannot touch,
waiting in the code of loins and blood-belief.
and as sudden as October sun,
you will rebloom from every pore
and bleed from every divot in the day
and i am etched into this world, again.
i am only real because . . .
a resin fire irrupts into a flock of afternoons,
inures into the space between my seams -
i am a circulant to swim within this massive beast,
its servitor, a fetus in its folds, a race of beings expressly birthed
to raise you from the Summer’s dry and dead.
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,
Harvest MoonThree a.m. moonlightHarvest Moon3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
across lazy dust motes; a
tree scrapes the window.
Your arm weighs on my hip like
whispered promises of love.
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
rimrim3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i've stumbled here
in an old dream
that i have known
but where can i set my eyes,
two lonely, runaway balloons
that crawl and stretch and fail to frame it
all at once: bloodless, mindless revelations
of a place without a body to clasp onto this intelligence,
red womb of space?
the roots of oblivion
are fed to great skeletons of air
and i can watch the pines hug at their endings,
an abysmal tongue that licks through
the soul of stone
as easy as water
will find water,
as gravity has found
of its peace.
and i can say this, now;
has never been the world.
newshours no longer whittle into daysnews4 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.
my flickering fortunesi live larger than i should,my flickering fortunes3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
barely lower middle class,
or sorta upper bottom...
with eyes always bigger
than my skimpy billfold.
but i have 'money karma':
- when i need it something turns up
- when there's extra something comes up
which is all a plus for me,
works out as the cosmos tends,
not too much or too little,
a living nonzero sum.
llp - jul2012 - dA
fright of flight responsein tall thin housesfright of flight response3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
dare we descend
as we are?
hard on the shins
hip crammed against rail
where is that step?
where is it?
llp - jun2012 - dA
Missing GirlsMissing GirlsMissing Girls2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
These snippets of girls, broadsheets, ballads,
a one paragraph whisper in a smudged newspaper
beneath an ad for a pizza, two for one.
But they are singular despite their raveled tangled names.
They are still awake, a litany of how young girls die.
Delia is gone, 14 years old, cinched and muzzled with rope,
two bullets. He was pardoned. She sleeps somewhere unknown.
Her bones whisper to the unknowns. At least Delia has a song.
Johnny Cash sang about her, the Man in Black.
Did they bury her in black, a thrift store school dress
with sweat stained underarms?
They tell Delia of truck stop stores gaudy with harsh beaten light,
racks of DVDs of Country’s greatest hits. A bus stop smelling of aged urine.
He promised he would leave his wife, girlfriend, so many words.
In a church bathroom. He had a kind face.
Grainy posters stapled to telephone poles, taped to smudged windows,
small store billboards cramped with fading pleas
amidst ads for babysitting, massage and guitar le
and you shall have no other godsbroken nailsand you shall have no other gods2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
digging into palms
made of soft and foolish skin
made of lifelines made of heartlines
made of veins spreading out like spiders
like trees like rivers
paper skin made of stories
made of the sleeping beauty sopor
beneath scrubby khaki trees
made of salt-scented prayers and
glitter-shot sighs and a tension
swollen and creaking as
damp wood as concrete
cracking in the heat. still as a statue,
lungs’ hushing hum, restless
like the sea. summer
pressing a hot and heavy breath
on the back of
adoration and sweat
gathering beneath my clothes.
heavy like a stone, you
know i’ll never let go. you
know. i am –
i am devout.
i took an instagram, therefore i ami took an instagram, therefore i am3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i live (i was elected so).
i haven’t any following.
i’m not made real by kneeling here,
before the pond leaves’ absolution.
inside each glen
that carves in elms,
the space is uninheritable.
the times are theirs, though i keep watch.
i feather in november mud
where i am bedfast,
where i am lightproof.
i try to sing the songs i’ve learned,
ordain a ministry in the brush
and transmute the world into some medium,
if even just a mandate of one
where i am relevant
and ever heard
Breakfast in Bedshe awoke earlyBreakfast in Bed4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and sent him out
for bread and milk
and the morning glory
of larks just opening their eyes
on the evening star's retreat.
the bed would stay unmade
let the cat forage
for sunshine under the pillows
and curl up
on the windowsill
with its tail till noon.
we'll sip earl grey tea
and discover just how sweetly
When I Dream of ParadiseLive OaksWhen I Dream of Paradise4 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
dot the landscape,
towering over the world.
carved into the country side,
as if God himself
manned the chisel.
Rock bottom lakes
with water so clear
it makes ten feet
seem like two.
Rivers and streams
cascading over falls
that put even the most restless spirits
God how I love
the Texas hill country,
since I was a child.
So it isn't a wonder
when I dream of paradise,
this is the place
it's already happenedit's already happened3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
how long will i prop up this poisoned messiah,
squeeze false atmosphere
from these heavy lungs?
i want to get up
drive one thousand miles
to the cauldron's teaming lip
and perform last rites by the roadside.
i see myself
as a diver
hurtling faster than your voice
from this dimension of accidents.
if i am an interruption in the blessedness,
a scarry mandala
in a blunder of motion,
if i am (to be) a curse
that hangs from your sternum spike
then i will grant you
(it is not a dream if it is everyday)i no longer have the gall(it is not a dream if it is everyday)3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to write letters to my universe.
it’s stony quiet,
it’s possum eyes in headlights,
in Victrola dust.
some tireless pamphleteer
has wrecked this room
with motorized felicity!
there must be
one bill for every breath,
and now, i see
you are the same.
you’re no magic
planet. i will
some time tomorrow,
mid morning, when the bugs have died,
and drive to work
and i won’t think
that ever came
before that sun.
i’ll trade in shibboleths
and type in pointy letters
these sharp assessments
of fallacies and
that fringe our fates
like breached reactors,
off of old yucca
and they’ll pay me well
and you won’t hear me,
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dressOtherwise Good Condition2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for four days, because
I am sick, exquisitely
black and gold, your drunk
dimestore Nefertiti. A
white stain announces
itself, a muddy star:
here. Undo yourself,
those sallow words you drink,
let the silk fall loose. I've got
a face like dirty laundry
and burial grounds --
What I touch becomes
unwell. I wear my hair
like it pains me,
like a little girl
sucking her teeth
at cars, the caked little
tombs of sugar that crumble,
under the hot milk
of the sun.
PaganWhen the tree limbs move madly aboutPagan3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And whisper incantations through their leaves
The moon is fat and full and brings gifts
To those who know the old stories
And place sweet dreams gently in their heads
These are the days and nights to be treasured
When the pumpkins are full and the grass is tall
A Pagan love song to the universe is sung
The world rests at ease for a short while
And everything is in its place
an irrevocable truthi.an irrevocable truth2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
snowflake child, you are a fine example
of the incandescence of a human light
even under innumerable umbras
i see you- ruby and blooming
ferociously fighting your way
out of a pile of rubble
my anemone, my halo
that comely wraps around my moon pith
do not fret if i self-stumble, fumble
with my fingers, and mumble to my toes
my center of gravity is oft frail and
meek to begin with
you are lead cause of the diamond flecks
scattering about the carbon of my pupils
you do not leave me
you teach me to be
snake-eyed yet shotgun-hearted-
a sapphire wanderlust livid
for life and star-gazing sights, you map
constellations on my freckles and fright
look now at how i'll find my lighthouse lover
then tend to some kids
and grow out of my gills and into grey hairs
then tend to some kids with their own kids
and reminisce about friends and phenomena
i signed my name on a patch of sky with
all on my own except
that your hand never left mine
that if i were to crumble
like the sandcastle
Drown MondaysThe best way I foundDrown Mondays4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to catch my seven-twenty train
is to miss the seven-o-five, be late
and grow a glut of yin
from the corpses of yangs
drown mondays to breathe tuesdays
but I nibbled cake and kept it too;
I caught the seven-o-five
and the hands fell off the clock,
fell off my wristwatch