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untitledseducing the writeruntitled5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
is pointless;
he'll seduce himself
if you're silent.
daliin that second,dali8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
(when the sun beat so hard i could hear
every waving particle, see the color before it was
swallowed; i closed my eyes and felt the concrete
blaring, the refracting windows aching, and each
bird crackling in the parched trees, feathers rustling
and beaks clacking, blackness bleached orange and
my hands sought in the silence of my pockets,
imprisoned and pallid like a dog yapping in that hot car)
i became.
a string drawn tautthere are so many new starsa string drawn taut5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
in your skin that i can't believe
each neuron is its own world, alight
with spinning planets and gaunt aliens
breathing god
in the absence of your name from
a dull life: dim cars on the paved street
and the cat walks sideways here, beneath
a ladder that clatters and you shudder,
saying god
i just had a chill, and is this room cold
or are we in the gut of a giant who's strung out
seven days and lifeless, biting the apple and
a dragon, wishing for his mother to coo
mijo, dios
es magno: the earth is spinning in the eyes
of a turtle with a red shell who swims in
the flowers ophelia braided, who swall
Eighteight.Eight3 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
i felt most violated
when you denied it—
evidence may have mounted
in the mouths of other victims
but i haven't spoken—
even in the wake of certainty,
family and loyalty
forked my liar's tongue—
maybe it's enough
that you know what you did—
because i can't bring myself
to hate you.
seven.
your son's beautiful—
you were my first
and i don't regret that—
in your arms,
i realized myself.
six.
it wasn't my fault—
i received the letter
years too late
and suicide
has never been sympathetic
in the eyes of those
who suffered to live—
yet, i write for you,
remember your face acutely,
long fo
her depressions used to wrinkle the bedsheets.she lay around for hours, then called out,her depressions used to wrinkle the bedsheets.2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
"i don't know whether i'm too old or young for this,
but i'm just too tired to face today and tomorrow
might be the same. will you get your brother for me?
i left him at school this morning, and i'm not sure what time
he needs to be picked up. i've been forgetting so much lately,
so maybe i should work less, take a vacation somewhere warm,
or sleep until the year settles its dust. but we can't do that now,
can we? responsibility's a bitch, jorge. don't get married,
at least not to someone you'll divorce."
like a good son, i collected adrian from the pavement
where he'd been waiting too long,
a
Misconceptionsthe extrovert isn't—Misconceptions4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
self-possessed shining,
sun in the sky of a million
blue silks sewn together:
that summer to come,
a laundered morning strewn
with white yearning—
no,
and the introvert isn't—
scraping coins in an alley,
smoggy eyes above a mouth like
lines: red-cracked but parting
when stars break gray clouds,
calling on their mica beds
to reflect off his face—
no,
the extrovert is—
the man sweet-talking the first ideas
of his tongue,
waiting for reception—
while the introvert
thinks.
To His Coy Mistress[es]i. earl and lady greyTo His Coy Mistress[es]5 months ago in Letters More Like This
gentle kin,
you have often graced me with your soft-spoken company, bergamot blossoms adorning your dark hair, fragrant as your steamy exhalations. you remind me of simple home and something untouchably elegant, pale and supple when i dress your skin with pallid cream and soften your thin, graceful hands. on a bleak winter evening, snow glittering by lamplight, you are a royal pleasure: a warm complement.
ii. darjeeling
bengali goddess,
i will lay you on the finest saris, those embroidered with gold threads and flawless diamonds that shimmer like your black eyes. you are the champagne of my harem, floral yet astri
IntimacyI asked to be slapped—Intimacy2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and your palm met my cheek
with constraint, cupped to lessen
the ensuing redness, the responsive tears
that welled but only in my left eye.
There are things like tealights
and dinners after midnight that we agree
to be romantic: that we consume
through antique filters, lace
between our fingers, but your palms
sweat when we hold hands
and I've never liked skin webbing,
nor the catch of calluses—
So, I propose to rewrite
a definition: mostly for my sake,
but also for the sakes of others
who have found themselves wondering
if they might be a-something
because they don't like to be touched
softly on the sk
stillyou lust to make his long legs quiverstill6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
like two blades of grass
heavy with morning dew
but you're the first frost of november.
a streetcar to nowherei.a streetcar to nowhere5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
he must crack
when his hands are tulle:
paling dry,
rough and tearing,
bought by the yard
or cent-marked minute,
spin a skirt
that won't last a winter,
shed bohemia
and snort ballerinas,
hope he's flexible
like tulle:
thin and shimmering,
don't stay another minute,
clear the aisles and say,
halloween's over
and he must crack
when his hands are tulle:
quivering
wind-burnt dancers,
caught aflame
by a craving spark
like tulle:
crisp and seething,
acrid burning,
black waste and thin ash
ii.
"name,
like your real name or
just something i can call you,
something that won't make me
feel like i'm talking down
to you. not because
i r
novemberthe sun is a dim pearlnovember7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
beneath a blanket of gray
hung low from the heavens;
i'm your yellow tremor
paled by the cold, aching
for a proper sunrise.
terminali.terminal7 months 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.
ii.
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?
iii.
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.
iv.
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 yo
dandelion winethe dandelion has made its appealdandelion wine7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
to wine and whimsy,
but it's plucked— regardless of nostalgia.
[i am that lion's ragged blooms, and you are the strong winds that blow my meek seeds away, and he— he is the brawny child pulling me like another weed passe. and there have been other gardeners with hands mortared in black veins by fertile soil, savaging between tame dalmatian tulips and mums the color of fat tabbies embellished by aureate mornings; there have always been these potted plants prettily set as if all of creation planned them so.]
and its roots remain tucked
In the good earth,
flirting with raindrops and shelved rever
the all goldenleaves rattle past,the all golden7 months 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
thisyou told me you didn't thinkthis1 year 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
nirvanafeigning euphorianirvana4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
on the outskirts of joliet,
i saw You between red glowing streams:
weaving the horizon like a tapestry,
recycling gold beads from a pale morning sari,
dyeing blue-violet fever, shivers
leaking from my head down my arms,
resting in my belly beside You—mixing veins in the night,
embellishing the road with thoughts
of creation: You spin a thread and it unwinds,
fraying at the ends where the cars break the asphalt
and i convulse,
spinning out of control—You doe-eyed like the kid
who crashed his mother's car and dies heavy beneath
that semi, stuck in the pitch dark, oil blearing opalescent
under the gaping taillig
Autumn in RetrospectI became a truant in fourth grade; that may seem young, but no one was keeping an eye on me, my 'teacher' was a rotating face, and I didn't think education was all that important, especially the one I was getting. Multiplication and division hadn't been taught, the recently rebound social studies books ended at President Reagan, and while I could read and even liked to read, I didn't learn anything at school I couldn't learn at the library. The librarians were nicer than the subs, anyway, and the real teacher was on an extended pregnancy leave that she wasn't keen to come off of. I'm not sure, but I think she quit the next year.Autumn in Retrospect6 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Papi went to
the lunatic, the lover, and the poeti. the lunaticthe lunatic, the lover, and the poet7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
shadows rise;
restless and pale, they stretch translucent,
little more than spectres
that deepen—placid—as the sun swells orange
and the noon bell tolls.
ii. the lover
in frantic lush,
the snow begs its beauty from the barren,
and reflects dawn's grandeur;
when night falls, the frigid air prevails,
grotesque.
iii. the poet
the desk is strewn with photographs
of dead birds, dissected;
his hands, piano fingers and soft palms,
wring their blood to soak synapses
and other tangible things.
To That Gas Station Attendant,I owe you a thank you or at least an apology,To That Gas Station Attendant,8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
because I'm sure I scared you:
child like a coat hanger wrapped in papi's jacket,
the one that smelled most like sobriety,
loitering in the aisle marked for confections,
telling you I had no money when you asked,
and then you said something about curfew.
If I could remember what you said,
I would write it on every wall and paper,
remember why I told you, and I told you.
You said nothing, and I guess that was beautiful:
I told you, and you didn't say a word. No sympathetic pity,
sentimental promises of bullshit help—
I left and walked home,
cleaned up his vomit from the floor,
and mot
love's austere and lonely officesi.love's austere and lonely offices7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
ronnie picks rose petals
and eats them, chews the pink to yellow
in his cigarette teeth. his sister, peggy,
asks how they taste, and he says, "good,
like whimsy and perfume," and picks three petals
fat with pigment and water; she tastes the first
and likes the second and the third is the sweet on her tongue
when ronnie dies of liver failure. she eats the reddest
blooms on his casket.
ii.
if tommy were a girl and jenny a boy,
the children would be perfect:
tommy with impish nose and nymph hands,
jenny rumbling with the rooneys from new city,
and mother frets for both their blond[e] heads.
peggy buys the twins paletas
but ronnie spe
A FeatherHere, in the feigned quiet of a bedroom that's never plainly restful,A Feather2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
is not the dreamless sleep I was promised while reading novels
about human frailty and how it can be overcome.
There is no black of night when, for hours at a time,
my synapses cease to fire or at least pace themselves:
stretch like runners, envision ambition and set aside
the grueling hours of circling. To accomplish this,
I want you to visualize an object, and when you wake
from your meditation, that object will appear. Perhaps
not somewhere you can see it, but if you believe in it,
it will have appeared somewhere. It's just the matter
of finding it in the vastness of
Why I Can't Love a PoetHe said you're beautiful likeWhy I Can't Love a Poet2 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
black birds on a gray sky or
a tree that's recently died but
holds its last green leaves until
they wither and crack, swept away
by a northern wind bearing his name.
Tuesday's PrayerGod forgive me; I've been mistaking good sex and better marijuana for spiritual enlightenment again.Tuesday's Prayer3 weeks ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
chicagoi could write the citychicago1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and i could map its bones:
tell of rotting meat and market,
growling jewels and veins,
synapses placing burnt bile
back onto asphaltian blame—
but i am not the glowing night
nor am i the city's name:
i do not carry its graceless hues
nor do i speak its windy lake—
i am empty of its disease,
of urban laziness and industry,
of greedy capsule and success,
of dirty hammocks and crying song,
of never silence and constant swaying,
of dizzy streets and crowd—
only its image rests upon me,
only its scars break my tongue,
and i think home, home—
is not where you grew up
but where you grew in.
Sta.sh
