1 cup pecans, and yes, perhaps you're right.
i wave away at nothing.
though i've sympathies that plagiarize
their every eye-bright neuron,
you cannot even be a ghost
if first you don't amass in space;
1 cup sugar, i give up all maternal knowledge.
feed her goddamn cookies in the morning
and tell me how we'll raise messiahs
from rosette martyrs in our driftwood genes;
½ cup Karo syrup, there is a grain, a liræ to skies
that pull our empty animus. we're river rocks that turn in floods,
the lungs of dirt have issued from their deep sepulchres,
these pipe-iron suns
to your thirsty horde
of bright red anthems;
3 eggs, i've been a borrower, i know this now,
time and blood,
and if the hungry fauns will come and overrun
our great design,
i'll raise my arms like some damn fool and scream
"oh, won't you train your dots
on this dark spot, on this blue soul!"
2 tablespoons butter, renounce your bankmen,
desert your myths, deny all raptures and calamities
DivorceBefore that day,Divorce2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sunday mornings had never occurred to me.
I must have slept through their every summons:
I never knew the time sensitive ritual of finding matching socks,
forcing “nice” shoes over misshapen toes,
the silent pact we would share with the warm cushions of the divan
waiting for Mother to ready us, memories that settle in the guts
like a madstone, which I could then pull out of my old cadaver
to save myself in the next life.
There were a few moments. Like that time, in the garage,
basking in Father’s sunrise sorcery as he fired his magic timing light
into the fluttering lungs of an engine, or when he let me aim
the water at his bucket, poorly, while he carved something
otherworldly into stubborn dirt.
I held nothing near of Sundays, nothing sacred, nothing dreaded,
save for the occasional shameful confusion
I would coax from my belly with dogged chimes
of christmas bells haranguing the church congregation
with their infernal sequence, hanging like nervou
souls high kites with holessouls are high kites with holes, the sky is like a crystal ballsouls high kites with holes6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Blue sky harrow:
How lost for adjectives
To break our fast up there
Sugar, tea, and birdsong?
Of course, kites, souls
Curiosities, wind being free
While we, ground strung Gullivers
Flat beneath the
Of the wolcen burnspot
What do I call myself?
My sex deliquesced
An epicene, I'm a lover of honey bees
A curling fern:
We slip around like
In Lilliput ponds.
We dive in as
The tadpoles stop
At the empty
Of an underwater statue-
Arms like levers:
Blackening the coats
And peeling back
Stripping time of
We see the sky
Where it is skyless;
It remains an opal;
In the bowl
NowNow and finally,Now2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I’m stopping down.
It's here - I’m here
within my depth.
I’m in my moment,
I’m on my road.
There’s nowhere else to go
to sing an everlasting song.
This is the end of bearing loads
and of shirking them
and then pouring into that old
impression in my bed
to dutifully pass from the realm of sound.
There’s no more scrawling
back and forth
for nights and nights
and lines over lines
on the same seven streets;
a tool that screams
in black crayola.
for the last dark winter,
I’m weightier than the fullest moon.
I feel the curbs,
their buckles and cradles of destination
suddenly smoothe into an empty plane,
and I know my radius
has overlapped some phantom twilight,
and I must stay inside the viscera
of twin mandalas, a vesica piscis.
My life’s no longer premature,
I found the end of the bullet wound.
And in the vapor of my final seconds
at my backdoor screen,
I belt the porchlight out into immensities
of space and sile
PetrichorI walk without an errand for the mind.Petrichor1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I must be homeless.
Neighboring enclaves separate our spaces,
belie their builders’ mirthless exhaustion.
Not even necessity can be blamed
for these mud-struck, brittle gourds,
these quick nests of vasculous organs
pulsing with their peculiar tyrannies,
briefly scuttling from their hovels
like sun refugees
darting into gleaming storefronts
waffled in concrete misery
all to forestall the end of their souls.
Where can we go when we only want to breathe?
Sitting in a park bench,
trillion-visioned, crowned with galaxies,
I can rest my weary invention.
I sense the weight of an unseen player,
a secret stratagem
as she moves her piece into the glade.
I’m set in place, yet unopposed.
Uncombined with lovers, children,
the slow parade of trees and heat,
I lay beside these stalwarts,
at once, still and hurtling
throughout the travesty of time.
I assemble a cumulus intelligence
near the playground,
threatening Summer with three days
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
letters to the universe 2crawlingletters to the universe 26 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on the floorboards
who knew they held so little weight?
i am still an apparition
despite the skillful stuffing.
how you cradle the colour of spacetime in the sparkled crevice
of a canvass thread! you gave me knees, so i beg of you, what choice do i have?
what intensity of being-
belongs to me
that didnt first reed out from under your dusty jar of marble-worlds?
whatever it was that i was, i am crushed,
(oh, not without some ceremony)
but you remade me into a fabulous pulp
and sulfured me to a hellion match
to wand me ferociously ablaze
to the meter of your cheironomy!
oh, godless goddess! i convulse at your
and lo! ill flame high and happy for your concerto
though ill not survive
The Missing SoundI can’t bear to read themThe Missing Sound2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
any longer; accounts and dialogs,
the manifests of spindly travels,
referendums and shopping lists
scrawled on braided brown sack paper:
that flake from old sea crust.
Another mantelpiece, perhaps.
No one knows the reasons you horde them
in piles of cadavers like a miniature apocalypse.
on a gasp of memory.
A counterweight to your long gone lover,
painted and re-purposed, staring out from hallway sheet-rock,
desk drawer compartments, and garbage bin bottoms.
from a river bed
for the many windows to her soul.
Arrange them like a sundial, in arcane, hermetic patterns,
like runes without an acolyte, or throw them at her spectres.
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
friendsto the extentfriends6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that anyone can be a friend,
(despite the endless oceanwalls, flattened fisheyes, abysmal wingflaps that span our interstice;
despite that i am a box of words)
know that i am yours.
Moon CratersMoon Craters4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the smoke hut
that is melting
by the bulb,
I am this
of fragile-ware and crocheted filaments
that vein out in disparate quests
from the patterns of your
God, I have some
Spaniard lust for those pearly little drop-
chorales of your twin diviners
clotted up like amber marbles
and left to summer
in the charity heap.
Damn their colours, they're all mania degrees
awash in recollected prayers,
that bare your dark coal
and purpled burn stone
of the Goddess
made (on top) of you
finger through me
How you de-gleamed in reverse, a light-ascetic
black (pin)holes in a mime;
when I thought to thresh
you out of boots
to a craterous
chokechoke5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I've added nothing to [your] nothing;
the complexus came complete.
For all this pathic humming,
one hundred watts,
a pyre of withering
to the clock-lyric,
for hungry dream theorists,
i'm no more solid than a fist of pure thought,
a bleak syrup folding across the eye-burn brilliance
of the real and actual Cynosure;
I've dug through miles of experimental gist
for the throat in your song,
diving for the chromosphere of the Precedent Star
where breath first meets with broken phantasma,
where I was given semblance
by the moth eaten coverlet.
My amygdala oracle
should be disallowed from speaking.
She has a sort of prideful spite
of my touch; I need to gag her disbelief,
make her feel the depetaling rapture
of cruciation, something uncontained
by these leaky gourds,
I want to break it open, egg or specter,
it doesn't matter!
There must be freedom for the milk of angry hornets,
I'm glad you are aliveI’m learning how to dieI'm glad you are alive2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in every way;
on my skull,
cradling my stomach,
touching for the space
between the motion
and the skin,
for a shadow
on the wall,
unbuttoning the vials
that elbow out like
stubble on the world,
arising from an ancient sleep
in my little corner street,
all to ache again
her ministries of moments,
with heat beneath my toes
pushing down upon the planet,
expanding like a cloud
And after all,
it is fine
that I have known you.
the shut-inthe shut-in4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where are these keyholes to the Equinox? the stars huddle
like alien nettle,
a gray chime of wrens scaling tree limbs and middays,
Darwin has no lines for me
i've sheetrocked the blistering ivies and blossoms.
i've glassed out daubers and frightening mollusks
pillowing through mud honey and minute old ruins.
intimate with my quiet desk, my paper hoard
i'm still a coward; the envelopes, Obama glass, the dozen unused spiral
diaries are menacing concoctions, minotaurs of lost dimensions.
i used to sleep in creek-beds.
MorphologyMorphology4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
See for yourself.
Strip the pinbones to their teeth.
Use a microtome to thin each veil; engram to sacromere to the chest-pulp of chromatin,
You will find the same sweet euphonies:
Filatures spinning bliss from irrationals,
Rose-cloud billows from bluebird mandibles,
Shinplaster brewed to a platinum tea.
All that I'm made of,
Whatever you need.
forget about meforget about me4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
don't listen for it, anymore:
the ugly balladist, the poète maudit
unbosoming his delustrants,
strangulations and subglossal annulments.
i want you to find my secret life, the arrhythmia
of spoondrift oblivions.
open out your palms to me; i'm over-swelling with octonaries, octonaries!
that is where i've been these years,
in the night between kneeholes.
hymenopteracompassionhymenoptera1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
is full of surrogates
like those brushing in the yard;
I would grant them their aspiration
one last, exalted scream
before the crisp disintegration
to be a crystal in the honeycomb
some edge of necessity
not yet worried off to the nub
I do see you
it was me
made from killing sleepmade from killing sleep4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
has murdered you;
poppies and feathers and gray impressions
are all that's left
when they tell you to kill yourselfthey allow you just one beliefwhen they tell you to kill yourself3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as long as you can hold yourself
i’m not worth more
that someone sunk
into a shrieking hive of cooling fans
and the peculiar reticence of diodes.
don’t believe me?
see what happens
when i topple them.
i’ll be disowned.
they’ll banish me from bars, from grocery aisles
set fire to my house
boil my children in street cauldrons
and sell off my lover.
whatever it was
you put in for
on day one
when they knocked on your door
and left the world
strapped to a timebomb
in your porch swing
what cavity you craved
with all you have left in you:
the burden of your beast
what groves you’ll seed
in spaces they’ll provide
between the sidewalk
and the donut store
or off the interstate
leave it in its shell
round and smooth and purring through the womb
like it was the day before its breach
or the night you fist it into being
and for christssake
the end and also everythingthe end and also everything5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
listen with the skin
I've lost the album of my life
vistas and their episodes
ones that you were in
the wind is warm
than nights or vessels
the wind is
all there ever is
it comes: the universe
is not adding
light to darkness
we are the shadows
we'll leave the outside
from one to One.
stay pretty, glass universestay pretty, glass universe4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No one must see you
like they do.
in the starlit
the one which has polemicized
is the shape of this world,
should never lay naked
for their vain
Their nonplussing fingers
will murder you.
in my glass
redyour swivel head now fixatedred6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
rouge flush, bruised with pink
your slick lamella glows
from the dying occident:
a halo that crowns your blood-lighted skin
the night hoods and blinks
and i dawn into you
an urgent spate of motility
daggers out your buried volt
harpooning my cardia, my bursa collared
i'm hoisted up like ocean game
and into your ready teeth
shuddering at the thought of words
murdered in each sequent
The Pale Likeness of a Colour The Pale Likeness of a Colour, SpokenThe Pale Likeness of a Colour6 years ago in Open More Like This
the rampant eddies
have torn from the corners
of long horizons
some ancient colour:
a scarlet furrow
that air divulged, raving
in an afterlife
i'll never reach.
letters to the universe 6its not about this coursing dye, brittle gelatinletters to the universe 66 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i dont complain about my broken patterns.
my Precious Sublimity,
long through all thats become
of me, my hopeless architectures, drawn up with crayola
on crumpled napkins,
i am Yours,
and raise me again
or leave me unmanifested, untroubled by abstraction from Your quiet Perfection
but do not leave me
here, alone in this world
without a hole in Your birdhouse.
(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,