Eurydiceyou keep secrets like souvenirs.
your heart is a postage stamp,
your lungs, a pair of dusty
snow globes; I trace
a model Eiffel Tower
in the lines of your neck, an Arc
de Triomphe in the arch
of your back, a collection of
to rival the Louvre
assembled behind your eyes.
I gather each glimpse,
each fragment, every hint
of the things you've tried to hide
and hoard them
in the galleries of my mind,
curating my love for you
like a dense, Orphic art.
AcquittalWon't you leave me? I will love youAcquittal2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
more than if you stay, transfixed
to the point of reference, our bodies
melding a sad, soft sublime, the back
spine of a little universe blown out
like a crafter's hot glass, the growing
moment, the wonder, the expansion
before a chill.
lapsedyou've eaten my clairvoyancelapsed4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and I've nowhere left to turn;
vermin stray like fingers
down my gullet.
"I do not love you"
are five words fit to kill:
I close my teeth over my tongue.
Before You HowledI had forgotten for so long why I sang,Before You Howled2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
so many, my song turned into tumbled
bedsheets, bodies strewn,
nectar of a kiss overdone.
The lonely hoot low and languished,
I loved, My Love, I loved strong
and solid, the hollow notes,
the lonesome bones.
Crow, she came and whispered in my ear,
said your song is lovely dear,
take a feather from my wing, we beat
somewhat the same.
But the song, it was the same,
beneath the shadow of the bat, as
the love of a man
I nearly slew.
When she would call, month's later
the chiming at my ear, o' my heart
my little heart,
I heard her and she was me,
and I, without us, her little
black wings, my greedy perch, months
I'd call back, filter through the poems
I hear your notes in me.
Some nights she whispered love stories
of a girl, small-handed
across the mountains, a candid song
of love and loss
and loving loss, that which learns
to rumble after. She wrote of you,
far across, the distance
a somber color.
O, I listened to her song an
visionsthe night is a terrorvisions2 years ago in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
the ships in the bay
struggle for an answer
but can't bring themselves to stay
silence folds over
like a funeral pall
there is no other reason
I've given this my all
but imagine an evening
stormier than this
riding the feverish waves
in apocalyptic bliss
think of a season
deadly and depraved
our hope's our only lighthouse
and we both need to be saved
and she's there
the ocean is stirring
the water is blurring
could never have dreamt this
falling to pieces
in your eyes
in my mind
it's never a struggle
there's never any strife
when her hands reach out like marble
to pull you back from life
the heart of a being
so vast and so sublime
but so afraid of seeing
what she's done this time
but imagine a story
headier than ours
a delayed masterpiece
we've been held here for hours
think of the rest
of our lives to be lived
but the sea's deep unrest
makes me fear we must give in
'cause she's there
the ocean is stirring
the water is blurring
preludesi.preludes2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
blue rose into the city backdrop
like balloons, a million for the
morning sun prelude.
i've not slept a dream
but i have cried a salty face
and letters spilled like beans
into my moleskine,
almost as virgin as i once was
with few stories between my covers.
the kettle's belly boils
like my head upon a pillow.
i am guilty for rarely finishing my tea
even when i use the small mugs;
pour, rinse, repeat.
perhaps today i will play dead.
perched behind my blinds
it dawns on me that i am surrounded
by walled neighbours, strangers,
they're just preludes to lovers
the way i am always
prelude to the one.
motionI love you like amotion4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a half-pause in a torrent of
during which life
stutters into being.
I want to take you
in the breathless spaces between
where passion builds and shudders
into a trailing afterthought
sci-fi stories about the end of the world1.sci-fi stories about the end of the world2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the species invents prophecies
all of which contain terrors
a beleaguered sun collapses into itself
It's not yet night when the committee interrupts the regularly scheduled programming
and describes the inertia as unforgivable.
Outside the grief, the cardboard:
Every time you teach a computer about distance
the terrorists win.
In every scenario: No colorado left,
and survivors leave messages
for the future.
Before the last people on Earth forgot how to speak,
he thought of that day.
The committee was right
to describe space as an absence.
The more artistic
of the species' prophecies include fields
such as here and there
relative to the everywhere of the other thing.
The other thing is often the cause
of whatever terror has been imagined.
The terror, of course, being another word for nothingness.
someone is remembering the pacific-
a maniac fires his rifle into a crowd
later, the news interviews a woman,
"All i remember are balloons"
they say this is w
untitled from the lost weeksI'm not that girl anymore,untitled from the lost weeks2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lost in the cornfields,
waiting to be hurt.
You live the only way you know how
until one day, maybe,
you wake up.
See there are people who will love you,
but just because they do.
Learn a new way to love yourself,
stop believing you don't deserve
happiness, take a risk,
Know it's okay to start expecting
to be safe,
practice saying no. Catch a glimpse
of your white face
in the mirror and whisper to your ghost,
I won't let you get hurt.
Accidentat the corner of boone trails and owenAccident2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
she learned the brevity of flight:
glinting bumper for launch pad
trajectory approximately 5 feet
across the median.
as proud, as swift
as any prima ballerina
but the landing
this I keep for her -
the listless weight of limbs
defying gravity, the beastly beauty
of a body bouyant before
stomachedyou blush and bruisestomached4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with sidewalks, stones,
the quiet doorways in your thighs
and the weight of your purple
tongue against mine
(a carnival of teeth)
if you swallowed the moon
with your agate jaws,
you could not be more nacreous
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency:Zemi2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
are recalcitrance / and you
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
To Rilke, it's a melody that floods over us
when we have forgotten how to listen for it.
I never could forget this: for how could I know
my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know
time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street?
We go on morning walks and Zemi
laughs at everything I say.
Hubblethe space between starsHubble3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the night sky,
an eyelash's breadth,
contains billions of whirling
galaxies, lightless regions,
breathless clumps of dark matter
and other unimaginable mysteries.
and this reminds me of you.
terminali.terminal2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we landed in oklahoma
and drank cheap martinis in the terminal;
you carried my guitar and fell in love
with my voice but not my tongue,
not my hands.
there's a man with a garage
that looks like a plane because nothing
meant more to him. will you make a model
of that bar? will you make a model
of my red cheeks? or will you live in a townhome
with her and three children?
the problem was you're not gay.
the problem was there was feeling
but it wasn't for us. i had you but
it wasn't for us.
i'm not sure if i resent you,
but i remember that bar and every pockmark
on the stool you sat on while i played
the song that parted your lips;
you remember every pockmark in oklahoma
like they were ours.
Leaping For Salvationi. i've been dangling off a cliff forLeaping For Salvation1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
the past year.
ii. if i don't jump to my death -
i'll die waiting for him to
iii. if you don't kill her,
iv. i'll just have to take her to hell with me.
jamaisthe truth, as staunch and without ornamentjamais4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as I can make it,
is that I did not want your love,
your voice rattling like the hoary whispers
your dreams (rustling like cattails
and half-extended to meet mine)
were as foreign to me
as moonlight, concealed
in its various robes.
your sucking fireflies,
neon mothish words meant to draw me in,
flurried uselessly about me.
but now that your attempted eloquence
is more akin to the wick of a lamp,
charred and drowning in oil,
I may vaguely nod my head.
relapsethis, I think,relapse3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is the way that empires
there are sometimes
but I will not go out
in such an explosive fashion
my second death
is preceded by decline,
slow and inglorious;
erosion working its
upon my architecture.
the difference is this:
disaster is unprecedented.
it is a noble sort of way to fall,
at the hands of that which
you could not control.
but I am allowing myself
to crumble to dust.
the forces of entropy
have not strengthened:
I have simply stopped cobbling myself
will discover my ruins
she never had eyes as brightshe never had eyes as bright asshe never had eyes as bright5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
or song as clear as
but ever into her starry skies
drawn into abysmal depths
by the promise
of a ravaged warmth,
somewhere near the centre.
at the zenith of her autumnal beauty,
I find myself lost;
her brilliant voice
in prosepoetry elegance
shall whisper "I love"
into corroded dark
and tear all of the roadblocks
from my mind.
nothing like the sunit occurs to menothing like the sun2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
that I do not love you
as much as I should.
your voice is not
musical to me,
is not by far
my favourite sound:
I prefer the skeletal
tones of a harpsichord,
the rustling of the pages
of old books,
the wild clanging
of a projector
winding up its film.
nor do your eyes
hold for me
visions of the stars,
in all their fierce, deranged
intensity: I love the sight
of a massive, gaseous
more than that of your
the touch of your hands
sends me in no quixotic raptures
that the lazy fronds of a lily
or the crushed softness of velvet
skin is skin, and quite frankly,
I've felt better.
I have no such love
as is described by the
old poets, those masters
of drama and artifice;
I wonder if I am
incapable of it.
an open letter to depressionsuicide princess,an open letter to depression3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I think you're half in love with me:
the way that you
follow me about, grab at my ankles,
tighten my veins
would almost endear me to you.
and in a certain masochistic way,
I nearly welcome your knock on my door,
the steady clink of your
instruments of torturebecause
who would I be without this
to carry around?
but sometimes, dear,
you impose too much.
it's all well and good
to write the occasional
poem, to hold you by the hand
of a Saturday afternoon
when I have nothing better to do
than indulge your caprices
but you're not an amusing
pet, a fashionable idiosyncrasy.
not to me.
you are dust in my lungs,
haze in my eyes,
the frantic screaming of a
behind my voice at all times.
when you get too heavy to drag around
you simply pull me down.
would you care to count the days
that you've shackled me to my bed,
without the will even to open my eyes
and see you?
I am not your plaything.
please, leave m