...your struggles have made you wisewhen the counsellor tells you your struggles have made you wise......your struggles have made you wise2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
ask her how useful the knowledge of how many punches it takes to lay you cold on the floor will be in future. ask her if the endless frost that shivers under your fragile skin is going to turn out handy, a free cooling agent in the heated heights of summer. ask her where she was every morning when you took the pills and crumpled the plastic cup pathetic in your fist. ask her about the taste of toothpaste and bile, how she felt when the dentist marked the progression of decay and solemnly warned you to cut down on sweets. ask her how it feels to keep all those suicides filed away in her desk drawer knowing that they were never ‘wise’ enough to see another way out and through. ask her about the first time she drank until she threw up for hours after she’d become sober again because a boy wouldn’t touch her, or a girl wouldn’t give her a second glance. question everything because there&
broken bonesI want to write rough and raw and unbearablebroken bones2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the way cigarettes taste at midnight
to a tired atheist knocking on a locked church door
wondering whether to pray or scream
I want to write cold and brutal and honest
like fog-choked dawns on unfamiliar city streets
when the silence presses behind your eyelids
and breathing feels like blasphemy
I want to write like the midnight air that burns the back of your throat
like cold fury and boiling hatred
like the panic that eats into bone marrow
the fear that runs prickling fingers down twisted spines
I want to write of you and me and everything
pin the stars behind my eyelids into letters to no one
I want to scar you with unspun metaphor
To write until my hands shake
until I break myself with honesty
until I empty myself or
until my wrist
symptoms of red a materialistsymptoms of red2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
inside of you
unknitting your sweater
& in your dream
you are a wolf eating
a flower in an orange field. the world
is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
as if she were tea
giving up to a
she writes a story: the unrequited
blurry visions of two visionaries
Of Journeys, UndreamtI swallowed red etch on blackwall,Of Journeys, Undreamt2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
stuttered stops and full-moon strophes
between breaths. I never knew in studying
an angel, drowned Andromeda, accursed
beauty (bound for sacrifice)
that I would bleed a misfit
canvas smeared uncolorful dry drawn breathless
ever under water endless
There are galaxies to rent,
galaxies to visit. And those
so beautiful as not to be imagined
distant clouds gathered on the fingertips
they might split you at the nucleus
and smile at what they've made.
the fountainthe first words were notthe fountain2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sun and moon and stars, but oh god I will wear this
power like a bearskin - like a drum machine in a chicken-bone
instinct is the sum
of all the parts we're too afraid to eat:
black wires, white bulbs, wicks from tallow
candles. if they
would let us, we could make wax
we could hunt the essence
of smoking fluorescent galaxies, all our
strange living lives and neon paradises, all our
blue planets and disemboweled sacrifices, if only we could
breathe while below us the round sky winds down
and holds bone to our throats, so we
are spilled, forced up
if sugar were
sweet, then could
voicelessi.voiceless2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I lost my voice one day. I woke up to a hollow echo in the base my throat and knew I’d lost something special before I’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. I checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.
I found my voice one day. I took long walks with silent friends, made travel plans and came home tired but fulfilled. I pulled a pen from the junk drawer, or sat down at a keyboard, or bought a journal on a whim and found it curled up around my fingers, sleeping, rusty, but alive.
Stay Dreamingyou are pale in the half-light;Stay Dreaming3 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
UnreadI found my own book in the local used book store. The one I spent half of my life writing. The one that spent two years in the editing process. The very one that I autographed for my lover and found in the fifty cent bin of what used to be my favorite book store.Unread2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
.i've written so many poems.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
about love and luck and the
unbearable sadness that surfaces
whenever i think about you.
but you isn't a person,
you is a metaphor for the
birds suffocating in the clouds and the
leaves fighting off the wind.
and when i see flowers
all i can think of is death;
because i am a poet,
and my kind of poetry is the
kind that keeps me up all night,
as i memorize the ceiling
and count every minute
until the sun rises.
it’s the kind that makes me
wish for a bridge because then
maybe i could finally be free.
my kind of poetry,
it’s the kind that kills me.
SurrealismThree a.m., andSurrealism2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
God is in my bathtub
a freshwater moon
in the mother-of-pearl sky.
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.
GreyI like the color grey;Grey2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it's not black and it's not white,
but sometimes it's a little blue.
k.n., ii7 9 13 he took a bow overlooking interstate 680:k.n., ii2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
car-comets in full spin,
his dreams planetary, saturnian -
he almost sprouted wings that night and
i cannot say it would not be beautiful;
the palpations of downtown pumping
luminous cells, coursing
through highway veins
and he, standing in the heart of his world
mind ecstatic -
his feet began
to lift just a little.
9 20 13
a few phone calls
and a pair of
.when her love left, it left.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the house empty
and she says
i hope one day it'll
come back to me,
cos i don't keep this shotgun
on my front porch for nothin'
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
EchoesShe handed me an empty notebookEchoes2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a pill bottle
and a ballpoint pen.
"Here. I can't carry them anymore."
I can still hear her heart beating within them.
cliffcliffcliff3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on velvet roads,
I impale a belated dawn
with my incisors and
shiver with perfect leaves-
I have no qualms
with the dark hills
and stagger into
a bed of scorched fly husks:
the thrum of the ground
with the rapids in
my clairvoyant ears.