naked kneesin high school,
you tore your acl playing
a sport you didn't care for,
and you hate that scar: pale
thick and protruding, saying,
"look here. ignore the golden
hair that collects at his thighs,
ignore the bruises from kneeling
on the floor. ignore his calves,
the sharp angle of them and look
at me. look at his knees, how
ugly they are. the thick skin
callused pale and littered with
you don't have to stand but
in lines you get uncomfortable
and you never wear shorts which
is okay. i don't wear them either
[for more irrational reasons] and
i think your legs are my favorite
part of you, contending with your
shoulders and chest and biceps,
with your eyes and cheeks and lips
and bones, blueish veins and feet,
your smile and copper eyelashes.
and you let me rub the softer skin
behind your bum knee, smiling
ways i have been worni. mistsways i have been worn2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like a vapor.
a wisp about a finger
like cosmic debts.
like a drought.
the rush for everpresent
of desperate haste.
like a flood.
a tide without a valid
of a crush immense.
like the first.
a taste of infinity's
by a depth unmet.
like the vast.
the promise of intertwined
beyond history's test.
the all goldenleaves rattle past,the all golden2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
ushered like so many children of the wind,
and the wind has left them dry and brown like
milk-tea. he drinks to warm his hands and belly,
lemonade glasses in the glass door armoire.
when he stands,
his bones creak like branches dried by the wind,
grey and peeling, potpourri of autumnal whim;
when his wife comes home, she will collect the scraps of bark
and rub them with rose oil or maybe tangerine and leave them
in the parlor, beside the glass door armoire.
in the evening,
the sky has forgotten its stars but a few peek through
suburban haze. he lived in the country, once, and he told me
he wouldn't have left. he would sleep beside barren fields and
leave the pear tree in its native soil and uproot all the flowers
first known to other homes. he would marry a woman grown on corn
and forget his youthful reveries.
and in the summer i daydream; i pick the ripest pears and let
the others fall for the birds and sweet rotting stench, because
hope is a sweet r
Paperback SpineIn stories,Paperback Spine2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the lucky ones
have their lives changed
by one little moment-
one dandelion puff
between your palms.
And the author stresses
this moment, how tiny,
that seemingly unimportant
into a novel.
You have to be
My eyes have gone dry
and my lungs are about to pop,
and my tongue is oversaturated-
Browsing HistoryI really enjoy pornography, and that's nothing to be ashamed of. I think most people like porn, even the women (and sometimes men) who adamantly deny it. It's nature to want to see two (or more) other humans fornicating. Even chimpanzees like porn, according to a study I skimmed, but all I could really think about while I was reading is that some scientist had to film chimp porn to facilitate his experiment. That's pretty disgusting, but it does prove my point: pornography is objectively fantastic.Browsing History2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
No matter what kind of mood I'm in when I sit down to masturbate, I tend to go for obscene porn: interracial and threesomes and sadomasochism and gangbangs and twins and really any combination of consenting adult men one can imagine. I don't do any of that stuff in real life. I'm a caucasian cisgendered homosexual man living in a New York suburb with my caucasian husband and two adopted daughters who are sisters-by-blood. I go to work every day, and I have been told by my husband's friends t
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.
when we get homeso, let's start this off honestlywhen we get home2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i've been drinking and maybe kicking
back a few hits off of something
and let's not talk about the and i
mean that, really. because once you
get to thinking, and once you get to
thinking, you start to have that
epiphany, burning down like vodka,
and you never liked the taste, but who
drinks for the taste? no one, you aren't
gonna find someone who drinks for the
taste; i gotta bad taste left in my mouth,
and i had this, this epiphany but i can't
quite remember and has anyone ever
told you the lake is beautiful?
i like the sun gleaming off from it, and i like
that you're kissing me here, now. you don't
kiss me all the time. not in front of or around
or in front of people, but you're kissing me now,
and the sun is in my eyes, off the water reflecting
like it knows i don't wanna see, knows me
better than i do, and that was it. that was it
the sun knows me better than i do, i do.
when we get home, i wanna get to a s
sister yesterdayeven our plastic flowers had faded—sister yesterday2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
an overgrown garden of concrete and pottery,
wrought-iron furniture under the sunlight, paling—
a broken lawnmower in a rotting wood shed, a swingset
creaking with each gust of wind—
but she said—
let's gather up these old tin cans,
empty the pool of its stagnant memory,
relight the candles and mend this picnic table,
recall the laughter we shared here when
our summer was in bloom—
when mother wore that sky blue dress
and planted shiny pinwheels,
thisyou told me you didn't thinkthis3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
so many breaths had ever passed your lips,
that your lungs never ached like this,
and your heart pounded like hummingbirds
trapped in the cavity of your chest,
their little wings against your ribs,
your eyes in the reflection of mine
and i told you, firstly, i don't believe in love
or superstition or happiness or anything besides
dimming lights, the color of your faded sheets,
and the sweat on my palms
when we kiss, i name the chemicals
that make me press closer and think of my nerves
lighting up like christmas, and i take the pulse of my blood
to yours, and yours is faster because you're older
not because you're in love
not because this is tender
because these feelings can be replicated';
i read once that cocaine
is physiologically identical
don't take this personally,
don't look at me like you're hurting;
these feelings are the conception of biology,
the oxytocin, adrenaline, dopamine
a hand over mine and you squeeze;
so many heavi
PhotographerAt parties, she hides behind her camera, just soPhotographer2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Someone gives her a smile once in a while.
Too bad she only sneaks candid photos.
A Bad DrunkAnd the drunk man leans against the hall,A Bad Drunk2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
tipping with it while the house fallsslowly,
only righted when swollen lids hide a rheum;
and we have stood within this room too long.
Too long, we have stood tipped with the house
and fallen out of the windows higher than my head
or yours. When the drunk man leans,
he leans with the house: pushing cold plaster
and uprooting the foundation, concrete torn
like paper in the hands of a child impatient
Chipping paint from ragged corners where you
sit while the evening blackens. I am drunk
like the man but tipping sideways to the floor;
you are drunk like my mother, sipping cheap beer,
smiling to the ceiling fan, wondering which way
it turns. I wonder which way you turn, and I wonder
Does it fall? Does it always fall? Does it fall like my legs,
like the drunk man tipping his sip back from a bottle
nestled between his thighs when he grabs me roughly
and smells like tequilalime? Does it fall like the picture when
youslowly, stumble l
SeptemberRed leaves bowed to condensation,September2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the curdled air upon our skin;
black birds were carried on a breeze
exempt from Autumn's sullen temper.
I sought beneath great folds of flesh
colored by the sunrise and bedsores,
arousing the vessel unbefitting
for the natural beauty of your charm.
Though unsatisfied, I yielded,
eyes closed to your piggish flush,
the sopping paste of your thighs,
those tiny irises dull as paint chips.
You admired me but soon discovered
I cringed beneath your every breath,
weak in the heat of an Indian Summer,
clutched by wet effeminate hands.
You have been alone since then,
pining for the yellow flowers of June
with too much sadness to resent me,
even when the winter fell at once.
I still revere the sculpt of your mind:
if you call, I will listen raptly
with a pierced yet unprejudiced ear;
if you die, I will write the eulogy
in the voice of a bereaved mourner;
if you wait, I may return to you
like a butterfly nostalgic for milkweed,
but today, I am vain.
there's something.there's something—there's something.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i don't know if i can tell you
or just leave it on a wordless breath
with the rest of these confessions
that pass from my lungspace
to your neck.
but i'm not keeping secrets;
there's a garden of seeds unsprouted
buried in your fibers, where i
laid my last guilty conscience and
slept unsoundly, pressing my hands
to your chest, clawing until my nails
were black and gritty.
and i'd like to tell you, make sense
of the nights i just can't. i just can't
when the azaleas are dry and the rattling
begins at your thighs, when your touch
is the gardener's seeking my tongue
for rain water, asking for another
someday, i'll climb the trellis and
end your drought.
NamesakeThis letter is addressed to a man I don't know yet,Namesake2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and I'm not sure who you'll be in fifteen years or less,
but I am sure that I will send this, unlike every other,
because it will be long overdue by then.
First, I don't hate you.
I never hated you despite the right to,
and everyone likes to remind me I have the right to,
like I have the right to never see you again,
but I think that's petty,
and you've been petty enough for us both.
Second, I would have kept the secret
where it burrowed in my flesh
and let it fester through my cells
until they found a chemo for thought:
something toxic to take toxins,
but we've tried that before, haven't we?
Third, I did not tell her what you did to me,
only what I thought you did to him
because you became a monster
when my pain was no longer exclusive but,
fourth, I don't really believe you're a monster,
and I'd like to talk, someday.
Maybe after you receive this
or maybe after you decide you can explain
or never want to.
Last, if you never want to,
halloween isn't here yetyou, my dear, have a thick middlehalloween isn't here yet2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and gorgeous legs: thighs dusted
golden by hairs sparse, and calves
angular with a coarser gilding,
tapering to a weighted ankle and
elegant feet complemented with an
arch carved by an artist of no less
merit than michelangelo; the ladies
may have whispered of his crafting,
but you were the name on their loudest
breaths: do you know how often i have
thanked god or coincidence that i can
count the virtues in your broad shoulders,
tucked in moral meat and marrow?
and how often i have loved your eyes,
the color of noon sky not quite clear
but not cloudy, either? [please recall
those autumn sundays spent on the porch
parting clouds like we knew the shape of
and your chest, cage to your love of me
and cage to my love of you when we beat
in the same moment; never doubt, never
let that doubt on your smile.]
catholic guiltMother Mary, made of porcelain,catholic guilt3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
painted in easter pastels, rests
atop the dresser and watches over
my sister and i playing uno, but that
becomes a game of chase when i shout
"cheater!" and run as she shrieks after;
Mary teeters when my back hits drawers,
but she topples when little sister, gleeful,
pushes headfirst into my arms. "jorge!"
but we stiffen, hold our breaths, and
glittering Mary, Holy Mother, rests upon
the floor, and i find her more prayerful
shattered, catching sunlight, but mother,
made of organ-alma, follows a noise and
in the doorway she is pallid like sheets
she folds all year. "jorge, maria
don't tell your papi," and i think
this is an odd thing to say because
figurines belong to ladies and Mary
was a woman and mother would kiss
the hem of her cold gown, whispering
no matter; little sister, named for savior,
helps mother with dinner, and i sit at
the window, anxious waiting until papi
opens the door; he lights a smoke, he takes
a shot, he settles on the a
love poemsi write youlove poems2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the winter
of each other
in heat, sweating
like the garden
when the sun
neo-Freudian idealsin 1886, Sigmund Freud employed free association;neo-Freudian ideals1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
the idea that a sick patient, terminally crippled with a nameless plague,
could list off the reasons why his bed sheets had holes in them.
paraphrased: the art of free speech.
my mouth is a gun and your name is a shooting range.
damp grass, our backs, semantics.
the psychoanalysts say we establish long-term memory
by stringing it all with prior meaning.
a flurry of sweatshirts and ripped jeans, stroking skin
in sign language only lovers speak.
hands, tongue, everything else.
Freud said that sometimes, a cigar is only a cigar.
i tell him how smoke spilled from your mouth into mine.
stale breath and gentle fingers probing, squeezing,
i trace my steps back to the night we crushed leaves into potpourri.
the scent of cold coffee permeated into the forest,
the tree roots soaking up our caffeine.
i remember you most clearly in the heartbeat between page turns.
you are full and real, the lump in my throat.
you are the holes in
breaking clockswhen the desire to disembody arises,breaking clocks2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
do not wipe the sweat from your forehead.
cut your fingernails with a sharp tongue
until they bleed. do not launder your bed
sheets, do not dust off your insecurities.
& everything else.
make an excuse to visit the cemetery;
try and fail to put to rest the festering
that has become you.
hammer the nail so deep into the coffin
that you can hear your late grandfather’s
welding tools mold metal abstractly.
gargle salt water and then spit at the mirror.
tell yourself this will be the last time you caress cursed skin.
tell yourself you never saw him leaving.
call yourself a liar.
resist collapsing like a purposeless mess.
give in like everything else.
pull yourself together for the time being,
then break all the clocks.
April, 2004I was fifteen. eight hoursApril, 20043 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the waiting room remembering
the ride, lights flashing, you
crying through your oxygen
mask, saying I'm okay,
I'm okay. I still hear you
when I close my eyes,
see the man across the room,
folding paper cranes out of
magazine pages &
pamphlets about every
kind of pain. after six hours
he taught me the right way
to fold a wing
& it was, I think, the one thing
that saved me: each
smooth and steady crease
sexi.sex2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sweat collects in the basin of my fingertips.
open for business, covered in you.
sketched a mirage of tears & orgasmic moans
into my shoulder blades; the skin beneath my
left breast bears a bruise the shape of your tongue.
shaking in our skin, we haven't felt this
way since we put down the razor blades.
form-fitted, cowering into each other like
the lion who lost his courage.
we are fucking (done)
our bodies, 102 degrees of
& things mother would never approve.
neither of us smile - we're not sure we like this.
you work your way inside me more times than
i've had birthday parties; it smells like grandpa's
cognac. i inhale the scent of (y)our s(k)in & i see
my old man's old man building the brooklyn bridge.
if my back breaks again, i won't know
which brand of soul-glue to use. the 7th
stick of incense burns out and the stale
scent of alcohol turns into God.
you thrust yourself into me, force my morals
out of my lips
SliverThey say that if you stand in front of a wall of glass at exactly four minutes past midnight and tap your fingers on it three times, you can open a door to the void beyond this world. It has to be somewhere you can see your reflection, and see through it, hovering like a ghost over the darkness beyond, somewhere dim enough that you can't quite tell the difference between light and shade. And unless you hit the glass where you touched it, shatter the half-formed image before the fifth minute strikes, that door will never close.Sliver2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Celia Gray has never been one for urban legends. So much so, that she would never turn down a chance to prove one wrong.
The girls are in the middle of their third round of Truth Or Dare when it's brought up for the first time.
"Come on, Angie, it's almost midnight!"
"What's wrong, scared?"
"No, II just ...it's my house! I'm not smashing my balcony door."
"Jeez, guys." The five faces turn at the third voice. "We're fourteen no