Creativity's CreatureCrack open the spines,
Let the lifeblood of literature
Run warm on your hands,
Stain your eyes with its inky
Spilling soul, tumbling words
Over words into worlds.
Use your finger as a crowbar
To prise paragraphs from pages.
Be aware of rustling parchment, whispering words:
The sound and the light conspire
To damn you to sleep.
Escape: paper rushing by like a train's view
Drain the last dregs, as grounds
From a well-brewed mug of coffee;
The sweet settling leaves you achingly alone,
Wishing once more for the feel of creativity's creature
At your fingertips, tainted with its inky blood,
Its bloated, papery flesh indulged by imagination.
WordsmithsHow long did you thinkWordsmiths3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we could pound our vocabulary with hammers
before it fell flat?
dust-centred bones she can'tdust-centred bones3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
say she holds
the world on her
drags her down
like nothing else:
until she thinks
Remnant of a RequiemI. I don’t want to dream anymore.Remnant of a Requiem2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
II. There’s the distortion of stardust and twilight spreading inside downtrodden lungs.
Somehow, the sky had learned my secrets, and it has forced me to bury its body in my system like a funeral despite the fact that these hands have scratched its constellations back when they were bare remnants of dust and gods and ice.
But all these brittle bird bones could do was nothing but fracture an expanse of glass and grind the fragments through broken teeth
[and I couldn’t weep openly.]
Who knew I could drown in my own ocean?
IV. Maybe I’m still sober, or maybe I’ve learned how to remember too much it hurts. The door ways through my chest have refused to open for me, and I realized how much I could starve from trying to forget.
All I could ever wish for was rain.
(the pitter-patter of petrichor,
a rhapsody billowing with every note,
the taste of autumn in my mouth...)
V. And it started to unfold like th
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skinPocket Universe2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
metallic, halting, smudged vibrato
wavering note stretched out far beyond
the edge of the universe tucked in your front pocket
breathing out in time with your heartbeats.
All along the wall I find notebook pages
old teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirling
while you sit in the lean of the willow tree
and watch the play that is my life
chew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.
You pull your scarf in
and wrap the scars in burnt umber
while the show goes on
Call Girlshe stayedCall Girl3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for a moment
with an arm
draped over by the shadow of a curtain
a dress folded in a half
in the crook of an elbow
one of her cheek twitches
you touch her empty mouth
tangled up beneath the covers
her lipstick gets under your skin
a nerve irritated by the shape of a lace
half an hour tops not longer
you kiss her onto the lips eventually
jamming a tongue up the tonsils
in the end a whore is just a whore
a poem about driving in pennsylvaniaI'm driving west and at the state line all I can seea poem about driving in pennsylvania3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are canvases of steaming light waiting to be painted
in the brushstroke forest that lies like a crescendo
across the reservoir where the grass washes over our ankles
and my eyes will never open so wide again.
June 12th had all the markings of a fine poem:
thick music scattering lights to the night city
reflecting in the same warm cadence of breezes
and your head resting on my bony shoulder.
You asked me with such sweetness if you could read my poems,
but please don't leave me with my love, with the cats
spilling out of your arms into the contaminated water
of taking in the divine ecstasy of just existing.
I want you to be so happy that when I swear to protect
your solitude, you will promise to escape for me,
to tear off the anxious rivulets that keep us netted
in the seasons as they appear in the Hudson Valley:
three sadistic ellipses promising comfort with the turn
of the next gentle equinox and rattled atmosphere
and my eyes are di
slingshot words.there are a million worlds living in your headslingshot words.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
begging to be wrapped around your tongue and released like a slingshot
into the heart of some stranger you may never meet.
Dry BonesSometimes I replenish my whiskey bottles with waterDry Bones3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
And swirl it around. I drink up
To make sure I didn’t miss a single drop of that alcohol.
Diluted or not, I ache for it.
But not as much as I ache for you.
I would rinse you out and sip all of your insides.
Then I would drag your skeleton out of your skin.
Help me. Worm your way free.
I would jumble our bones together. Mix us up.
Not so we would be two with replaced bones.
No, I want us to have four arms, four legs. I want,
I want us to have two heads and a long twisted spine
Of vertebrate upon vertebrate.
I want us to clank out hollow sounds
When we come rambling along.
Our ribcages would be split and spread.
No longer cages, but wings of rib bones.
Your hips would jut against mine
And our fingers would intertwine.
Our skin would not go to waste,
Instead, we would tear them to shreds
And weave them together.
We could nest on them.
With all our empty bottles.
Bone Marrow and bone Structurei.Bone Marrow and bone Structure4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I carved your name into my ribcage
The doctors had taken away my pens
I made due with knives and scalpels
Precision and care; I had none
I clumsily wrote you in my structure
And I cracked the bone by accident
I found you in my bone marrow
Begging for escape
But I couldn't get you out
Use, use, use, use;
that's all I asked you to do
instead you just took, took, took
I'm left; bone marrow hallowed out
I walk like I'm full of helium
Tethered to the ground; fearful I might escape
Then I wrote your name
in the crooks of my elbows
and you erased it
My circulatory system fails me
and I hate, hate, hate that
I've been emptied out
I'm still and cold,
I bare my teeth and grin;
I cannot handle the loss
I try to be calm
but I'm loose around the edges
and I boil instead of melt
You crawled back in my bones
I tried to scratch out your name
and write mine instead
I felt the cold damp air's sting
as I walked out
and resurfaced in reality
You smiled back at me maliciously;
your knife dr
an attack that is massiveso,an attack that is massive3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
here's my hair
and my knees and legs
and even some of my shoulders
and they are dressed in purple -
don't ask me why though
an artist told me
purple was dangerous
'cause purple is red and blue
and red is fire
and blue is water
and i am red
and he is blue;
it doesn't matter now
''we'' is not me and him anymore -
here's your hair
and your lips
and your eyes, and just maybe
some of your fingertips
and you still don't have a colour
and maybe that's better
i'm a mess
and you're happiness
and you use
like ''phantasmagoria'' and ''ephemeral''
and you use
cologne that smells like heaven
red ink to write me love notes
every opportunity to see me
and you use
my name in every sentence
used to use
strangeryou came clinging to the grace of a summer storm'sstranger4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
underbreath, came cold hands and tired eyes
and a bruised lip i'd longed to kiss
when you stumbled on night listing
too far to the left
cross my thistledown garden by old dusks
that wilt between, i'll keep my door open:
your lady in sepia doesn't live here, only
the ghosts and i -- and Grandmother,
in the far-between wanders when she can
but i've a place where you can
lay your wayworn bones to dry, and
if morning should come calling, i'll not
tell her where you sleep. and stayed awhile.
SpringtimeIt is winter on my breastbone,Springtime7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Across my nose,
Down my arms,
Snowbanks of pale skin
At my shoulders, elbows, knees.
But a sudden spring emerges on my hipbone,
A rioting vibrant mass
Brought on not by the warming of the weather,
Or a gentle rain,
But by a forceful collision with a table.
This bloom will wither soon,
Just like the real daffodils and irises.
The colors will fade,
And my skin will return to the tundra.
BibliophiliaTo all the books I haven't read:Bibliophilia1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I have become your bookshelf
of dusted titles and busted spines
with arms that are full of fantasy
and romance and a head full
of memoirs I haven't written,
their lexicon curling my tongue
around five dollar word-plays
just behind the sheaf of my teeth.
With definitions straight to the point
and description airy and lofted
a dictionary defenestrates pages
that whirl into the night, petal
papers gliding like elegant
prose in a blank journal.
There is no table of contents
to map your way; follow the veins
ink leaves in the margins of my palms
because the books I've read tell me
if they give you ruled paper,
write the other way;
you are someone else's collage,
all the worn sad evidence of humanity,
stirred and sorted by a poet
because good books,
like bad people,
don't give up all their secrets at once.
Va'eiraThis was a lesson in just how quiet it can beVa'eira4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you don't make enough noise.
Me, holding a toy gun to a stranger's head
"Remember when things stopped being ridiculous?"
You, eating dandelions in a midnight field
"About the same time things stopped making sense."
A boy in church camp carved a small crucifix
for his arts and crafts project. He won the blue
ribbon and a brand new Bible. The next morning
I found it hanging over our cabin door.
A toad was nailed to the cross.
Sometimes we wake up early enough to hide the evil from our world.
Instead of a PhotographInstead of a PhotographInstead of a Photograph4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
There is a consequence to photographs:
Whichever way you trained your face,
Or posed to laugh
Can never be erased.
It's a contract unbreakable,
Your likeness unmistakable,
Printed on a page
Trapping you in your youth for years
But yellowing with age.
There is no escape from Polaroids
Only the fraud and fake;
Compounding and resounding
With every shot you take.
You cannot change the shadows cast
By the way you stood up in the sun
The image is indelible
The prison inescapable-
That frame of darkness lasts.
Who would ever give their soul
Without the ephemeral chance to change?
In essence the lens captures all
In time, and date, and name
But the life of you, the blue of your eyes
Though brightly shown are dead:
He asked you for your picture
You gave your soul instead.
the boy with twelve bracletsthe cobwebs of your past clingthe boy with twelve braclets2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to the inside of your ribcage
and gently strangle your heart.
when i saw you for the first time
i had already known you for weeks,
taken part in your gorgeous
conversations and watched you spread
laughter like a perfect virus
among all the people you met.
you wore twelve bracelets,
six on each wrist;
once upon a time they served
to cover a mistake you made
when you were thirteen,
but it wasn’t a mistake now
so much as a story
about a boy who was brave enough to keep breathing,
and you kept the bracelets just because their memory annoyed you
when you took them off.
that was what you said, anyway.
then i learned how sure you were
that you were only pretending
to be brave.
you wore a mirror as a face,
silver and starlike,
molded to your features and well-rehearsed
in reflecting just what you
knew people wanted to see
and one night,
terrified of seeing nothing but myself
[and greedy to see your face]
i smashed the mirror.
i expected you to scramb
The Rainfall KidThere are raindrops on his fingersa glistening cluster of perfectly silver droplets that read like some shining, ethereal roadway mapthe night that he comes for her with the thunder of a summer storm rolling forward on his footsteps. The low rumble of it jolts her from a book induced slumber, the cover rough beneath hands and the jumble of last-read letters blurring on the underside of blinking eyelids as rain begins to fall. Although it's almost been longer than memory will allow, she knows that there is no mistaking the sudden upheaval of the outside world for anything other than his arrivalafter all, it hasn't stormed in years.The Rainfall Kid3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Soon enough, her shoulders and the soles of her bare feet are collecting water along with the hardback that had slipped, forgotten, through outstretched fingersnow laying broken-spined with white pages exposed and its words all bleeding together in thin rivers of smudged ink. The leafless trees seem to shudder, emerging from
The FountainThere were sixteen tall windows. She'd counted them over and over when she was small, her chubby finger outstretched as she spun in tiny circles. Eight walls, sixteen windows, thirty-two black curtainsthe arithmetic of her childhood.The Fountain4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Eight window seats, Daddy. Eight buttons on eachsixty-four. I counted."
The fountain stood dry and dead-center in the middle of the black and white tiles. Eight sides, eight lion-mouth spouts. Sixteen limestone mermaids poised gracefully around the edge. Four thousand and ninety-six blue tiles. Five hundred and twelve white.
And two doors. Always the two doors, huge and solid and radiating a sense of looming disdain. The rough oak had bitten her hands and it bit them now, when she pressed her palms against it. The doors eased open like wings outstretching, coming to rest against stone doorstops.
Her boots clicked against the marble flooring as she advanced, each click reverberating through the silent room. A mute ghost of a man stood in
I am not ObsessedWatching your metamorphosis from a naïve teen into a beautiful young woman has been the greatest experience of my life. You have enlightened me, you have changed my views on life and the world, and you have brought me from the brink more times than I care to count. My dear, you are the sole reason for my very existence. Yet you will never realize just how much I love you.I am not Obsessed5 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
For you are not the wife I married or the children I raised,
Nor are you the best friend on my street
Or my most beloved sibling.
That night you called the police about the man standing in your backyard marked the closest I ever came to actually stepping through your door. It was the closest I ever came to touching your soft skin or kissing your warm lips. Never again, I knew, would I have the opportunity to show you just how much I love you.
I am not just another man
I am not just another horny jerk looking for a freebee.
I am your one and true lover.
I am your caretaker.
When you made the police keep watch arou
The ElementsI.The Elements3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Wine as red as stained glass
is lifted up & tilted back
touch wood like thunder
having given up grace
thread across wrists & palms
spent vessels returning to the heart
Fingertips suffused with pulse
lift to lightning's loveliness
SurrogateI stopped using his full titleSurrogate2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up.
RibcageThe clean whiteRibcage3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of your ribcage
the grout as if
the white pattern
spicy gumbo in
pots and fried
bananas in rum,
sweet on your lips,
the syrup dripping
onto the floor.
For My DaughterDear daughter-I-do-not-have-yet,For My Daughter3 years ago in Letters More Like This
You will be my perfect. You will be my proudest moments in one small person. You will be made in love, or maybe anger, or maybe even desperation. But that won't matter. What matters is what you will be made into.
You will have Daddy's hair and his nose, and my eyes and my smile, the smile that happens not because someone with a camera told you to, but because you're genuinely happy. But you will have your very own heart and will be full of all the things that give you your you-ness. Whether you sing in the bath or make Valentines for everyone in your class or give your last homemade chocolate chip cookie to the boy sitting alone at recess.
I will write you poems and stories about how you are my miracle. I will read them to you sometimes, just to remind you. As you grow, not a day will go by that I'm not thankful for everything you are. You will be dazzling and beautiful and brilliant and compassionate and playful and curious and all of the things