The Perversity of WeSometimes on a quiet night
due to my perversity,
or perhaps my common nature,
I dream awake of what may happen
should my twin die before me.
I may be walking calm and laughing
down city street or red rock ridge
and she would reach me over the miles
reaching straight to all five senses
reaching intense with her actions
Stronger than telepathies
often had when we were kids
stronger than futile restlessness
unexplained 'til mail arrives,
stronger than what may surround me
I know she would reach me.
I would see her clear as day,
clearer than the sights around me
and I'd know her way of going
and how she takes it
and what she knows if she goes.
It would bind, it would blind me,
it would choke me up completely.
I would stumble, likely fall,
and knowing all, be speechless
in the face of reachless
closeness sundered by her pall,
Whatever takes her liveliness
I couldn't stand at all.
As I inaudibly crumbleThe first thing that I can assure you of is the fortitude of my soul: I am a pact so strong that even the hurricane which caused my house to tear apart couldn't budge me. So strong, that even the earthquake that cracked the face of my school building couldn't chip me. So strong, that no amount of tidal waves could crash and break into my walls, my being. I am a pact made of several precious trinkets, letters and colors bound fervently. My frame has become a watchtower and my spirit, its sentry; I fulfill set duty. I am a pact so strong that I crave for certain commotion over what it is that I am, I wear and bare my vanity. I am a thrill seeker, a bungee jumper. I thrive off adrenaline rushes brought about by the feeling of close calls, the always present possibility of a snapping of the cord, a real potential to, not just fall, but truly crash and burn from grace. I am of a life wanting to be fully fueled, felt and fulfilled. I am a draconian as an experienced freedom fighter.As I inaudibly crumble2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
On Identity Doubled In the old days, which means when my identical twin and I lived in the same state, we were often asked, "What's it like to be a twin?" At age twelve, I got tired of that and answered the question with a question, "What's it like not to be a twin?"On Identity Doubled2 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Good question. My sister and I were born about six years after our one sibling, so I was the "baby" in our family by one minute. The age gap between our older sister and us also made us ever more a firm two-some than twins from larger and closer families. My twin and I were called "identical mirror twins," which means she's left-handed and I use my right, we had opposite hair parts 'til we both went to the middle and such like that. I guess we were nearly conjoined.
Biology books taught me that identical twins are the result of an "asexual" process. In other words, it's a pure accident from the separation of one egg. We were "freaks" from age zero
the girl who didn't get shoti am all aches and pains and coffee stains--the girl who didn't get shot3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
am i the smell before rain, the blood in your veins?
my life is composed of memories and scraped-up knees,
failed attempts at surgeries
of my mind and of my heart, of whatever stops me
when i'm trying to start.
i am all the shores they never graze, that haze
when the sun burns rainwater on roads.
i may feel warm but know this--i get cold,
i get frozen stiff and when i'm bent i won't fold.
the marrow of my bones hold blue-grey skies,
murkier than the rampant clouds in your eyes
but when i'm rib-caged i still have someplace to fly.
i am all the forlorn poets, for i've lungs and a tongue,
i'm rung and stung and a song unsung.
there are secret meadows in my mind, with
lacklustre dews and tarmacadams that shine;
it's where the blood of my bruises tastes like wine
and the words in my throat tunefully intertwine.
i am all the streetlights telling you 'no',
telling you to 'slow down', and eventually, 'go' --
am i second hand smoke? does sp
Three in Five MinutesDream one was a bright white flashThree in Five Minutes2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
and sounds of things breaking
I opened my eyes and saw it all.
Now I think that it was me.
Dream two was my child yelling
"Where are you? Where are you?"
I opened my ears and heard it all.
Now I think that it was me.
Dream three was a sudden knocking
on the door in deepest dark.
I opened the door and saw nothing.
Now I think that it was me.
the girl who lost her feet.she is the type of girl to bleed a number of different coloursthe girl who lost her feet.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
instead of the too-common red; to dress the stars up in smiles
so they'd stop crying starlight on the earth;
to clean her mind with the dustpan and brush she hides beneath her
bed sheets when the sunlight disappoints her, and the
sparkles of the water don't look like anything but water anymore.
she knows the secrets of those who'd long ago stitched their
lips shut with lies of insubstantial beauty and inferiority,
because she's been around the block a few times and can identify
Mrs Nosy from Ms Heartbroken right down to
and she is the kind of girl who zips the secrets into the
lining of her pockets, who walks around and smiles at those
who need it at exactly that moment, who drops all her money
into the bent tins held out in hands of dirt and a world
forgotten underneath concrete dreams and whirring machines.
she is the broken kind you see when you're driving to your workplace
and there she is, sitting
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,windstorms and labwork2 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
beta physicsi.beta physics2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the rain wrapped impatience around your roof,
bored through the wood like a thousand million termites
(or one you-sized termite, blind, breathless)
and seeped from the cold clockwork like battery acid.
you lived in a widow's closet -
a house swarmed with antiques
that collapsed in their own gravity
and combusted -
and then you lived in widow's charcoal.
"galaxies are either lovers or termites," she mused.
(earlier, her fingernails bored into my back
Hubble's thousand million stars, all drops of acid
branding my spine.)
"they are drawn to each other for years
and in an instant, once together,
eat themselves alive."
Name That BabyI'm gonna lay it on the tableName That Baby2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Do the tell
Get the spelling right
Got called "depressed"
Took it up to "manic"
Bipolar in the head
And they said --
"Make it longer,
On taking pills,
To flatten my hills
Knock out the frills,
I got double-damned.
'Cause a this shit --
Father dies in a pool
Mother dies too,
In love with a fool
Mother let days pass,
No food or water
How did she last?
I closed her eyes,
They felt alive,
Like little butterflies.
Hector also dies,
Left alone by
The very unwise,
Young white cats
Die like that.
Spat out with
All the cancer-dead
She too went back.
And nothing stopped.
I saw them all
Saw them all day,
Blood and flood
Not from me
Not my feed
Just these -- "things."
Small cold voices
In my ear
None could hear.
Little people sat
And they stood
And they spun,
In colorful fun
They had their run,
comatose.i never told you:comatose.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i hated the way you smelled
like winter, like
fog or listerine or
something long forgotten.
i guess i miss you the way
i miss brooklyn,
all thirsty for a song
i've never heard, pining for
a place i've never been.
i never told you:
i keep your old promises all tucked up inside,
like bruises sleeping fallow
along my hipbones.
i promise i'll love you always, i promise
i'll fix the coffee machine tomorrow,
and if you let me,
i'll fix you
well, you never were a fixer.
what you are is tired, and you never understood
why this fucked-up little town
unmade its bed, swallowed an ambien,
swallowed you. listen:
we were always comatose, clutching
hands gone cold
Recipe for Disaster196 NationsRecipe for Disaster4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
1 Nuclear Strike
1 Retaliation Maneuver
6 Billion Dead
Don't bother baking -
the radiation will take care of it.
CharlieCharlie couldn't dance anymore. His legs went bad, arthritis in the knees. It was a real tragedy, because Charlie always enjoyed the attention his dancing brought. It was the one thing that he could do well, and now it was gone. He'd never been much of a singer, and it was rather pitiful to hear him trying now, trying anything to grab the spotlight just a little longer. Charlie could feel death, and it wasn't far away. He couldn't speak about it to anyone but me, because it wasn't something you went around telling people. But he knew it was near, he told me. I was his confidant. Why? I don't know. He just took a liking to me for some reason. I was as young as you are when I first met him, when I was sneaking into bars and badgering people for drinks. Charlie always bought me one.Charlie2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Charlie hobbled off the stage with his cane to a smattering of applause, mostly sympathetic. I guess some were drunk enough to think they'd just heard Sinatra. Mostly sympathetic, though. We sat at a table and
Grandmother Spider Bears the Weight of the SunDecember.Grandmother Spider Bears the Weight of the Sun3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The solstice smells of wet soil.
A rising sea of dusk washes over her,
pressing on her mind
like her fingers press the lump of clay in her palm.
Grandmother keeps her hands busy,
forces nervous tremors into the small vessel
emerging like a snake
from the earth.
A bundle of flowers had held the sweat of her hands.
The trip to the hospital bore the scent of old leather,
worn bus seats
and lilies too long without water.
He'd been badly burned, they said.
His fingertips were flame-marked,
smooth and new-pink
when they came to change his bandages.
Grandmother flexes her parchment fingers.
Clay rims her wrinkled knuckles,
turns her hands to dusty grey spiders.
She clings to her secrets so tightly
her hands start to burn.
Her feet take her across the road from the bus stop.
In the Oklahoma fields, the long grass breaks against her legs,
the winds drag a tide toward her.
No moon rises tonight.
Grandmother lifts her eyes from the little clay pot in her hands,
eyes the stars
and the st
bonesi. there are some nights when the fear is crippling, overpowering; days that consist of staring at the bottles and wondering how much it would take to drown your sorrows, to drink until you forgot why you came here and why it’s so very hard to leave. there are moments when you scream into the silence because you’re scared, dear god you’re scared, because this boy loves you and you’ve gotten used to loneliness.bones2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
ii. you came here because the colourful nights and the lazy afternoons enticed you away from the house where you fell in line like reforested pine, with the garden where everything grows a little less wild and a little more hum-drum-ho-hum. you stayed because the bar was always mostly full and the girls were always welcoming and the boys weren’t selfish or silly. there is one boy who looks at you like you’re the stars and the moon and you hate him for it, because he makes falling in love with someone else so much harder.
fireweedi have planted my city heart in the dustfireweed2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and set it aflame.
my new one can taste the wind's origins,
it knows how to ponder heavy thoughts with dark clouds,
it knows the motives behind the rain drop's dances.
the sun was eating my skin but
no matter, i can regrow.
i could feel the quivering earth in the bees' hum and
the rhythm of each passing second in the ants' march.
i wanted to tell you i love you because
in all the beautiful expanses of raw earth and passion i have never seen a face so fine.
it is four at dawn and the world is tumbling,
lights and numbers are exploding,
we are dying,
time is not waiting.
people are always gone when you need them the most,
and i hate you.
this is the world's fault.
can you take my hand,
can we tread to where fireweed is free to grow,
where souls are pure and life is love,
oh can we.
in another life,
i will learn to sing with the grasshoppers,
for i have heard the earth speak.
where i dance alonei. I mistook a shy boy for a thunderous one in the days when I lived inside his lungs.where i dance alone2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
ii. I wanted your hands in the early morning, or in 8 o' clock light. (Does it matter? I just wanted you.) Hands like paper cranes, hands like wind chimes. Then we could've been like lovers in a parody: "I love you, I love youno, I don't. But you are beautiful." And while I was not your lover, neither was I your queen. Either way, you wouldn't hold my heart.
iii. Our fingers would've taken flight and then the rest of us, too. Then you would've known of the ballroom in my chest, the migrations inside my body, of the tiny secret nothings that make their way like monarchsas if by instinct, as if they have been here beforefrom ballroom to piano hands to the museum that is my mind to my stomach. But you are the only lost boy afraid to fly.
iv. I was a foreign land and you would not dare travel without a map. But I do not possess a souvenir shop in which to purchase one. I am a des
AdieuStrangling myself with this silence,Adieu2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am one rung closer
with every little death descending deeper
into Gehenna's bowels,
brandishing a soul through drawn eyes
and watching it all burn.
A plea for deliverance
stretches thin over this thrust
my masochist thirst insists.
If asphyxia is Heaven,
my throat is the horizon.
You can't sever midnight sky from sea,
the black from the blue.
Rolling back on my spine serpentine grande,
I at last experience revelation.
To dream in grayscale and melancholy
is to never suffer disappointment
at the hands of Life's disastrous folly.
I feast upon the fruit of despair
its seed binding me like Persephone
to Hades' throne.
If I die before I wake,
I need not pray no more.
There was a time when songs rang out on high
in glorious appraisal
for lettings of blood, conflagration
of flesh and bone.
Every man was equal under the Gods' gaze,
gaining favor through slaughter.
I see priests eviscerate the sheep,
I see flames 'round the martyr creep.
Stay Dreamingyou are pale in the half-light;Stay Dreaming2 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
all the fire you carry with you in the waking world is doused in the sweetness of your hair across the pillow & your frame insinuating itself in the sheets, in pockets of weight & pools of shadow that say "i am a body", "i am a girl"
(vulnerable yet terrifying)
& in life you are larger than you seem, thunder & lightning inside colored glass. you are cruel-mouthed but soft-eyed, & brittle queen (you would rather break than bend for me), you are all the lovelier for your frail-boned pride.
it is strange how much i see of you when you are not looking back, how i feel as though it is only in moments like these (in not-quite-daylight, in dreaming) that we are truly at peace. for is it not that our natures may be likened to those of sea & sky? were we not born to crash & storm & shriek & boil against one another? (what is the nature of the place where we meet? for i do not believe in the horizon; blue on blue, it can only be an illusion
eventually.i remember to use my voice only when i need it least.eventually.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stuttering, stammering, i am the suicidal yet soul bearing spitting out of syllables;
sputum and spokes of cilia heavily coat every word being uttered by a mouth- yours.
A gaping hole i have often found myself lost and found in,
time and time again.
the laundry my sick, cyclical psyche impedes upon itself;
bleach self-medication must be provided accordingly.
we want so hard to believe there had never, ever, been stains;
we live placebo li(v)es.
i am residue of a bubbling cauldron morphed into an epic (yes, heroic in deed and love),
i spill over; fire fazed, i finally face the cooling rigor mortis
ah! such affinity can be found in the word 'cooling',
it is what makes the rigor mortis palatable mind you.
as such is the earth's crust forevermore in need of cooling,
also is the heated passion of entwined souls and their capsules.
we become but a splatter of secret sauce- sweet, sour, spicy,
my body is a funeral servicethis morning i emptied your ashes into the sky, hoping to watch them sift through my fingers like an eagle taking flight. but the wind carried them backwards and my face became an ashtray for memories. you came back to me, like you always do, like a kiss or a reoccurring dream that i can never forget. i became cloaked in black grain, the remnants of your body. your cremated smile was caught somewhere between the stinging in my eyes and the ash on my jacket.my body is a funeral service2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
in that moment my body became a funeral service. my lips preached your names to the trees. i forgot what it was like to feel anything but hymns pressing down on my back like the heat of the sun. i smelled of incense and bones burning in a fire people are paid to create. it was more than i could bear. for weeks, i obsessed on how someone could lift a motionless shell of a body into an inferno, watch people die a second time and accept their paycheck at the end of the day.
i wanted to step into that crematorium and pluck pulses like f
You've Been Looking at Virtues, All WrongYou've Been Looking at the Virtues of Child, Man, and Woman All WrongYou've Been Looking at Virtues, All Wrong2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In the end we're all myths, hermaphroditic deities.
Our names are the most real things about us.
i. My mother named me for the Virgin
and I carry her legacy in my blood
she is my spirit animal; the creature
who crawled first across the placenta line
outside my home. In truth, I imagine all
are wolves or coyotes drawn by the smell
of fresh blood.
ii. There is no purity in childhood:
we are simply jesters with blistered feet
and the pu
ServitudeHeart painted lips poke outwards as though mucous squeezed from an tender, shuddering eyeball. A frog pout and sucked in pink-tone cheeks battle for prominence on her round face. Poisoned yellow eyes swim, darting and floundering, in glaring ovals of cerulean paint. Eyebrows smothered, color gagged in virgin white over the chocolatey grey of her asthmatic skin. Unshined silver hair perches like the dried, immobile sand of a beach day castle on the tip top of her head. Dust hangs in the drapes of lace and chiffon oozing off her wasting body; it latches on like leeches, sticking to her bustle, her moth-eaten petticoats, the succored yellow stripes of her sweat-moistened overcoat. On her feet, shrunken forms that buckle her feet like rotten bananas; in her hands, a tray of tea.Servitude2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I stand, I stand, my darling dearest
Your patient of eternity
Your doting wife
I dote, I dote, come now, your tea grows cold
Your bed sheets grow cold, I can still give