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-
when we get homeso, let's start this off honestlywhen we get home3 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
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.
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
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
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.
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.]
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
the lunatic, the lover, and the poeti. the lunaticthe lunatic, the lover, and the poet2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
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,
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.
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
in case you forgot: don't read this. just trust mein case you forgot:in case you forgot: don't read this. just trust me3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i have the heart of a poet
trapped in the ribcage of
a tumultuous whore. i'm
a textbook charlatan with
too much nonsense & not
in case you forgot:
i have a fetish for third-person
pronouns & third-party interference.
you are the first, second, and third person
to invade all three of my parties with your
clothes still intact with your skin; with your
tongue still intact with your mouth-
an ampersand curled between your teeth
in case you forgot:
this stanza is a haiku.
god, i hate haikus.
in case you forgot:
i will drill your brain
with mindless repetition
until it is sore enough
to develop amnesia.
in case you forgot:
i'm shit at endings
mad houseyou are a moan thatmad house2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
crawls like a tarantula
down the hall to my room.
papier-mâché girls dance
in the garden, wild women, burning
with their dreams of becoming
skeletons, and through their
parchment skin i can see their
wasted hearts struggling to beat.
a dead boy visits me at night.
i lie rigid in my bed, paralysed
while he stands by my window, white
as the underbelly of a fish,
still dripping with water
from the ocean that stole his life.
and i can still feel their hands
as cold and rotten as the hands
of a corpse,
the prick in my backside while
they fill me with their venom.
they rape me of my life
and i hear someone wail
in the darkness, as godforsaken
as the howl of a dog who has discovered
its owner dead.
i vomit and it comes out black
my heart is the ugliest part
of me, but no one will ever see...
and these walls,
oh sometimes these walls scream so loud.
This is not about you .These words are not about you.This is not about you .3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
The curves of these letters are here to imitate the shape of your spine when I have you pressed against the wall. They mock the shape of my breasts against your burning palms, the sharp prickle of your jaw resting at the base of my neck as you moan the name you could have sworn you've forgotten but it always just wiggles its way free from between your teeth.
Don't misunderstand, these words are not about you.
This is purely and solely about me and my battle between giving up and giving in. Either way, the winner turns out to be you.
I was counting crooked stars and telling you that snow feels hot to my touch when I'm high on apathy, when you caught me off-guard and set fire to my fingertips. I trusted you when you promised to leave me completely undesirous, and accidentally misheard that you can only promise to break every promise leaving your lips. For one second I believed that I have learned to keep my heart in a pocket, and then suddenly you stripped
nostalgianostalgia is for the things i never had;nostalgia3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
for summer days spent in blooming fields
instead of empty lots,
for moments under a careful eye
and hands that were callused but never rough;
they say a boy's first love is his mother,
but i preferred my father, maybe wrongly because children
love with their heart and not their mind,
they think in bold patterns,
and i return to those days when i traced the sidewalks
in tattered shoes,
when i hummed songs in a language i've half-forgotten;
i still dream in spanish and
i have nostalgia for wire, for mariachi music,
for boats and afternoons that never ended,
for the fairwe never went to
and for lakes bedded in crystal, for the fish that never bit,
for the long nights spent
in love, in love with nothing but the steady beat of living;
in love, in love with nothing but the thought
nostalgia is for a man i never knew.
lungburningyou get the lungburning after midnightlungburning3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and you're dying to be demeaned,
leaning up against the window and
breathing like you wish to inhale, to
swallow, and you've choked into your
stomach things other men would loathe,
and you have this bruise on
your thigh: you're trying to forget that
thigh, with a skinny scar and the bad
memories, recalling purple colors;
like that man said, you were easy, and
like that man said, you have thin legs and
a wandering mind: you tap the glass and
think about the zoo, except you realize
you're the one encased in something smaller
and the world could look in on you, but
they wouldn't care to, and you're dying
to be humiliated: you're getting the feeling
you don't deserve any of this, the thought
you don't deserve any of this, the
persistent nag you don't deserve
any of this and the lungburning,
stomachturning, ribcrushing, bloody
you're dying to be squandered, to be wasted,
to be worthless, and it feels better to be nothing
promisethey're unspoken promises: need he exhales into my lungs and want that was woven into the tapestry of my psyche before i could speakrumors of stability when his hands brush through my hair, when his calluses catch on skin softer than he says he's known. that's his favorite thing to say to me; you're soft, and he means i'm ethereal. i am not the warmth beside him in bed so much as the dreams he still has. when he whispers my name in slumber, he clasps around nothing, and that is how he knows me: an unspoken promise.promise3 years ago in Emotional More Like This
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,
daliin that second,dali2 years 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)
reminiscencesomeday we won't remember thisreminiscence3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
no one will, not the dirt or stars,
not the dust scattered when a sun
dies and the universe swallows its birth
not the men who wasted lives
proving theories long debunked or
the whores leaning in doorways to fuck
soldiers who won't come home
and no one will remember the dog
hit on route sixty-three, the first guts
i saw glistening in summer heat
just as no one remembers i was the kid
they called to crack open the fire hydrant
because no one else could and they
shrieked, soaked in water no one remembers,
soaked in water that could have saved lives,
water circling into the sewer,
waste no one
What they never teach you about grief1.What they never teach you about grief3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You will not cry demurely in socially acceptable situations.
Instead you shall perform the walking
and cry hysterically, calm down, and cry, and calm
as you try to gather yourself on the way to the station.
You will be late for work - you will see the dress you wore
last time you saw your lost one -
and you will hold it and breathe into it as if maybe just maybe
you will smell them or feel them or it will change things
and then find you cannot hold it together while wearing it,
change, and miss your train.
You will find this happens over and over and you buy new things
so that they are not 'oh I wore this with you and now you are gone'
but also, you will stand in the fitting room and sob
because now they will never see how smart you look in this.
You will keep face 95% of the time and then ruin it
by crying in the toilets and being sent home.
You will still want to laugh and socialise and drink and kiss
but all these things will
polymerasethe furrowing ofpolymerase2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the brow is caught at a
and every horse stands
still in its pulp. the ground wants us
to be more than trees. don’t
tether yourself to me. I can’t stand
being needed. I will contour every
question with another:
where are elbows kept?
--in jars of plastic moths but
I won’t tell you how to plug in
your telephone there are too
many beads in you
why are apartments so full of corners?
--once we had a child made of
clay and we fed him to the wind.
he was so full of trees. and polymerase
and such. i watch the reactions
race each other down the blue gel.