oubliettethe dark is more of a hand grenade
than a lightning rod,
and my eyes are halfway shut,
but i'm almost certain that was a flicker
of l'appel du vide
and maybe that's not such a bad thing,
the antithesis of nubivagence
is just a step away,
and introspection makes the corners
that much darker,
but that's not the problem,
sciamachy in a puddle of ink;
my, how the circles widen.
caught betweeni.caught between4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i am falling apart and the discolored threads that once
held my limp and carefully lifeless body so
unwillingly in place are coming loose at the seams, fleeing the
crime scene before all the omnipotent details
have been rudely stripped of their post and tossed aside
like yesterday's personality. spare me no pity, but don't
look away. it's not the first time this has happened,
nor will it ever be the last.
underpaid tears take their bitter time falling down, but only
if i force them to, along with these reluctant words
dripping from my dirty hands and empty eyes and broken
mouth like so many drops of blood and i can't take
it anymore because the paltry effort is just
not worth the outcome these days.
these feelings are not what they used to be. they used
to be smooth and slippery and the undercurrents were
fast and sweet and filled me without the sickness i've
gotten used to handling even though i know it can't be
healthy. now the sensations are rough and jagged and dry
nothing works.the moment my foot touches the ground,nothing works.4 years ago in Emotional More Like This
i look up. the clouds are flourescent.
birds circle, magnetically drawn
to the abyss of white.
my watch says zero.
my vision is clear.
it has just begun.
my wet eyes calculate the fathoms
left to go until there is
no return. until my breath
stills. fingers lost
it is not a pretty motion,
but an ugly entity,
the pulse of a ghost;
ornately jeweled carapiece
folded like origami roses over
my wiry hands spin the webs,
sticky with your
trapped in a hideous laugh.
you say you like my body. maybe not
where my bones are starting to
illuminate and itch under
their blacklights, but
you would find little words
at me, to add into
while i lost four friends, and part
you created a new one for me.
constructed out of a stable fluid,
it was not my nature.
nor was it yours. but it held like glue.
I became more ornament than person, glittering in
Music in the FireBut there is music,Music in the Fire7 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Lost in the fires and flames.
It gurgles and dances
With every flickering light.
And the music is soft,
But grander than the sun.
The words to which are lost
In the dance that is never
Learned nor taught to anyone.
Even the ashes dance
With a wordless joy,
And the wood gives light
For its silent harmonies.
Remember all the days long done
And all the time we've never had.
Remember the air, as it burns
With a heat now harsh, now soft.
And all the words spoken above
The flames. That's the dance,
And the music of our time.
That is the hour spent "wasting"
Away. And yet still more meaning
is left there than anywhere else.
Her KissGolden butterfly -Her Kiss5 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
lips of tender radiance
that flutter on mine!
winter footnoteswinter footnoteswinter footnotes6 years ago in Surrealism More Like This
your elbows were anchors
in a softly-lit parking lot,
where you sang to glass and paper:
and your visions are quiet hills
your visions are shy sounds
your visions are sheep covered in frost.
like an old shoe-
that dry rasp
that leaves me covered in skin flakes,
brushed onto the wall .
I am the raised bumps in spackle-
ripped off with the sound of a poor phonograph:
in my chain link home,
a residual ghost.
You and I,we're a stunted little paragraph blowing in the wind,You and I,6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
full of maybes and we could have beens.
We're winter nights dancing through the sky,
dreaming of warmth and summer, burntskin sunscreen.
We're fruits hanging from a tree,
ripe with promise and fearing bitter seeds.
We're dripping photographs in darkrooms waiting to become something beautiful.
You and I, we're not fancy like fireworks. Sparks
are the little lights that dance between us when we smile.
Sparks are private things and they shine more prettily
when no one else can see them except you and me.
So when I write poetry about us,
it won't be about mountains and kisses
and rosebushes vomiting bouquets.
Because this is what I want to tell the world:
the both of us, we're stones and branches and imperfect things.
And that's exactly why we fit.
hushdon't even let mehush3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
open my mouth, or the words
will consume us both.
WordsThese are my unstable wordsWords8 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
They continue to be rerepeated
They sound familiar but
ding echo is new
Will they understand the sincere meaning?
That these unstable words are for healing
Each with an unmarked story
With unwavering purity
Coming from the core
Seeping through every pore
These words will continue
Though only understood by few
staticfor now, my blood is flutteringstatic3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and it's raining like lazy sex
on a sunday afternoon
the thunder sticks like glass and waves
because, my dear,
you are inertia's bastard son
i look like a hangman's hell
strung from noose to noose
and you taste like meridian warfare;
i don't know how you still your hands
or how perpetual immobility
feels trapped inside your spine
but i'll be damned
if i don't want to find out
cartography (uncharted skin)sometimes the backs of your hands are mapscartography (uncharted skin)3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to reality and back, and sometimes
they are the juxtaposition of sandpaper
and sometimes they are the doors to
double-spaced nothings and the smell of
quantum entanglement in the morning
your arms--less than spiderwebs, more than
time-encrusted overhangs--are the unnamed
pillars, the unobserved event horizons waiting
for their chance to make the galaxies
your ribs are white-hot chalk lines
on a lesser-traveled road; untouched,
the smears of ink light like feathered knives
on hallowed ground to sharpen fire into clay
and they stretch from heart to spine,
a bridge; they are the link between the
liar and the lied-to and they can hold no more
than the careful weight of being
your neck goes on forever and i can't help
but stare at the curve, the gentle silence,
the one-step-away-from-smothered sort of
mooreeffoc--just short of ivory, desert glass
your mouth: forgotten wordplay, the
Your Name's My Best ObscenityThe sweetest curses are sugar on lipsYour Name's My Best Obscenity3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
If I died this evening, you'd find your name
aflame- the words I last shouted in vain
lingering on my tongue like a toxic kiss-
revenge is addicting, venomous pain,
even spent on cries I know are mundane
No fixing up this unholiest tryst,
forged by two fools who believed in their lies;
or maybe it was I, eager for light
even in spite of the flaws I had seen
Can light be fake? Were your twinkling eyes
a mere disguise to make me ignite?
Aflame, in vain, impure light fuels my screams
The Same Storywe rewrite our lost historyThe Same Story3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on the same paper,
expecting new endings.
we truly are insane.
these lessons mean nothing
if not fully dead
the mistakes were worth nothing
if not burned in my head
you can't change the veins
stitched into your skin, you can't change
you- with a day, a word,
a breath of used air.
you want to dive back into that place
between my folds of sanity
where you can unravel the strands
and manipulate them in your hands
so I can't stop to think about
you can't change the blood
which surges through the cold,
forgotten parts of your body.
but you can tell yourself
if you shut your eyes,
you can pretend the scenes played in those weary lids
are the life you finally received.
because darkness hides the truth
but you can't rewrite your story
because you think you're different, now
(and different people don't make the same
you're falling down the same hole
with honey trap words
we can't rewrite history
or deny the similarities.
RemainOur inertiaRemain4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
incited our bodies
We correct ourselves until
left of center
right of center.
At length we evolve
balanced on point
You shove but I remain.
the inchoate incarnate it's a perfectthe inchoate incarnate2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
night to be
by the militia of
dry like yellow moss
sublime forests will
burn with the charred
quietude of our
beneath a weltering
As Insubstantial As Cigarette Smokei.As Insubstantial As Cigarette Smoke3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
they wrapped me through with police tape
before i was born;
yellow silk fetters entwined among
the arches of my ribs
and along the hollow bumps of my spine
like a warning
binding back what leviathan lay
in the dusk
i've searchedandsearched and never found it,
but they promise me,
(oh promise me it's there).
i've tried to call down the sun from up high
because i didn't like the way it made everything
i prefer the darkness.
(they've told me that's
where i belong,
hidden away for what
better purpose i have yet to
i'm drowning in shadows vague and empty,
and all the wrong words
i never gathered the courage to
because with each whisper
another remnant of what sky i used to know
comes crumbling down,
and i always bloody my hands
when i pick up the shards.
i tried to tell them
that everything falls to pieces.
they shook their heads
with jaded smiles
and told me not to worry.
but they are reflective, i say
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency:Zemi3 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.
World of floods.World of floods3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Driving on the curb cured of swamplands and horizontals
my atmosphere dear takes wholesome bites of water
outed are the undersides of bridge smudged chasms
birdy hellcalls and undone song
he knows only fire pursues the winged
torn letters three years gone of the antediluvian
disintegrated into charm and clarity and the promise
of a moment in time that springs everlastingly
will be flooded
and the pulmonary one ways dripping varied shades of moving cars
in fresh killed greys keeping time with the hacks of self against love
while our hands are crossed in universes pleading
with the dying that cannot slow down but winds and winds around
the pulsed city of language tying the sacred grammar to plurals
another and another
until they grow into the flicking tongue that time will harness
to toss rogue prophets into the pockets of New Jersey
where in being shelved we meet among starships
will be flooded
and the candles that when burning exhale signatures into the air
how to become paranoidbaby black widows are knownhow to become paranoid2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to float - to alight on you
to ride you home
to grow -
to lurk -
to birth more young
right where you live
dozens of them
to grow -
to lurk -
they seem to have no plan
to grow -
to lurk -
llp - dA - mar2013
petrodollarthe hill has been butterfliedpetrodollar2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and everything that causes noise speaks
in a foreign language
a radio chokes itself
saying the sound of empty country is snow
the distance between freeways is arrested
as reports about frost come second-hand
(things the soldiers fell like:
trees, leaves, airplanes)
an owl blasts through the mountain,
angels, expatriated from our father’s paradise
do taxes in a public park
Overpasses arc like the rings of a dying planet
Nobody can find work
now kids have taken to demanding
explanations from god
while last night the anarchists
doing their best to imitate the pacific
found only the silence of constant traffic