pseudo-taoistic tendencieshere, to live in obsolete measurements of stasispseudo-taoistic tendencies1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and find solace in the way time bends in sweet detriment of itself
to listen, enlivened
by the sound of ten thousand and one parched persian tongues
rasping of emancipation
from the underbellies of our mirrored drunkards
where the universe is felt
and God is swallowed:
on her salted fountains
on his derelict fingers tracing unadorned love
on another woman's hipbones
an elephant's dying breath, and
the smell of climax and unsettled wombs
felt, and tasted:
in hospital tubes
failure of recognition
the partisans of our cause and command
the ebb and flow of our saturated, wrinkled seas
you taught me
the only time impossible is applicable
is when i iterate how broken this feels (i am)
superseding god has now become second-nature
and wisdom only found on the gravebed of noetic trees
pure, unadulterated peace.
JackIn my 57th year there was JackJack10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
grey curls, leggy and long,
and warm as August
from head to thigh.
"You're the best thing
and the worst thing
that ever happened to me,"
he whispered into the night
giving love in parentheses,
and I fit just under his arm.
"We should have met
when we were young,"
he said, my hands tracing
the broad spring of his chest.
"This is going to be hard."
Air dry as cotton.
Heart, too heavy to fly.
PositiveLeft to me, your worst historian,Positive10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
to pick up, in a daze, some depth of diction
I never found while you had lived
and I can only now pretend that words are capsules
of sanguinity, that they’ll unmask the symbologies
of sound that bore your binaries to their realms
like sacred dreams of Hypnos.
Regret’s a simple word.
I always thought of "A Separate Peace", and in those scenes
you were this Mozart in the rough, a perfect chord, one
which I would meekly channel through cracks of light
shown through the fist of my own interference,
Why this wisdom, now?
The cosmic clown who wrote this song
does not annotate our endings with an epilogue.
I do not see the irony in celebrating
your new found space.
There is no iconicity,
no special shape
that serves the world
as you did serve,
to bend and writhe the streets
into a wellspring, a circuitr
I took offMy day off.I took off8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I stand in sunlight
I can watch it being day.
The mud is soft and cool at home.
I'd bury well without a casket,
I’ll be a naked pill for earth.
I build a garden box from wood,
smash my thumb.
too late for lettuce.
I had a premonition
I would live like this.
No one will remember me.
I’ll forget by Tuesday.
In Self I Trusti. my being rests between each pink-to-charcoaled layer of heavy lungs.In Self I Trust2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
ii. freedom is felt in the spaces amidst the limbs of a lost psyche, and forever falls one step short of breathlessness, invincible. reel back and forth, in and out of time and celebrate: you are the product of your own starving attrition. pour every emotion resulting from beautifying lost causes into the basins of fugal minds. i promised my countered self to live through the art of manic insanity, to pull free from the daisy chain amusement my body was motioned to be, setting blackness free to elope with stark-white light felt in the pigments beneath this barren skin: peace.
iii. some days i find myself descending into the choked, charted waters of kaleidoscope hallucinations; each ebb and flow a glorified example of my ruptured seams. i lay my head to break gravity's consuming cry, trying to find the smallest of silver linings in the gold-streaked sky. twilight, i trace god's melancholic fingertip paintings, canv
hyperdontiasometimes it feels as ifhyperdontia9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
I have too many milk teeth,
too many parts of me that belong
to a time when I climbed trees to touch the sky
and I swam in sunflowers
and fireflies -
to a time I have long since
painted in sepia tones,
long since pushed
to the back of my mind
with hands so tired
of being filled with splinters
- too many seeds
and not enough light.
there are too many parts of me
that I have placed underneath pillows,
that I have kept behind closed lashes,
that I have slept upon, waiting
for the morning to arrive and them
to be g o n e ,
replaced with coins that I could place
underneath the tongues of the dreams
that I could not ferry to my
but in the morning, they return -
one by one into my mouth,
daring me to speak them,
daring me to sing,
daring me to find someone who will listen.
it feels as if
I have too many stories,
too many secrets,
too many sins and not enough space
for the words to fly out of my mouth
and into the world -
feelingfunnycatfish in a fish farmfeelingfunny11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
staring at the sky
to dream about the sea
UnlayeringThere are words queuing in lineUnlayering1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
for the page, simple words, trite
words, words of circumstance, words
the world could have never gone on
without their repeating; as day and night and fear,
the kind of words you never wanted from me,
void of Eutony, a simple psalm
of sound rhythm, but
they cannot go unspoken any longer:
My heart unfolds like an infinite peel,
an onion pulled fresh from damp earth
that has forgotten it was once fertile.
You wash away packed dirt and tear
roots with your fingernails. The inside
of your thumbs push away at skin, first
the dark layers. You believe there
is something sweet further in, but Lord
only knows why.
God of my mysteries,
The Daily Sentence ProjectShe shifts her thighs to the same anglesThe Daily Sentence Project10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
where tectonic plates exchange glances.
The infant in her arms coos in haiku,
the phone crouching on her shoulder
barking in blank verse and bank terms;
where has the affection been displaced?
Perhaps the both of them are three full-
time jobs past romance and two cases
of chickenpox past the seven-year-itch
to be able to tell that dishwater softens
and oatmeal baths becalm their hands.
The kitchen tile is a haphazardous haven
for cloven shoes. She prefers slip-ons.
flameslost lovesflames1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
we call them flames because we burned
we were oxygen
we were fuel
and when the fuel was gone
we were ashes floating
rain took us down to earth
mushed remains together
and when the sun returned
the dry remains
piled into something that had never been
alone as something new
In TotalityIn totality I find inebriation-In Totality1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
A snick of latches undone
The stitch-heavy cloth
Sighing, whispering off
And boots dropped like thunder
The lightning dry because
Our skin is sweat-bare
As from an impersonal fever.
Savoring your whiskey breath
That starts in the crux of my shoulder
Rolling up my décolletage
I labor to find your beginning
Wanting to uncoil the storm
Urban Evisceration there is a thundering of one hundred buffalos-Urban Evisceration1 year ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
the metro awakens
and stampedes across the pre-cast
terrains of my intestines
welders busy mending on one end
cutting on the other
surgeon handed precision and each moment costing another man's life
whether or not he may set food on his table
cool breeze across sultry skinorange morningcool breeze across sultry skin6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the wind
like a bridge
in my breath
and my two lips cross
your soft skin connection
to reach the end
open and waiting for me
Before The Stars FadeThe world has grown smaller, more insignificantBefore The Stars Fade1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
Little men run about in the darkness, screaming their inanities
Quiet listening is abandoned in favor of shouting louder
over the top of one's neighbors
Dreams once soft and sweet have become meat for them
to tear apart and grind with their teeth, demanding recognition
But no one is ever fulfilled, untiringly grasping at shadows
The world shrinks a little more, and children grow up fast
I can hear the screaming and shouting from my bed, through
closed windows, all want to make their presence known
Seeing like a cat, hearing like a bat, I feel the need to go out and
shout with them, to howl my existence, to
eat fresh dreams
Dying is no way to live, but its all we seem capable of doing
Last one on earth, please turn off the lights
Maybe we can remember one dream that hasn't been mauled, one last time
One smile before the stars all fade and we're left with nothing
and become nothing
low Tlow T1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
i'm too soft and rotten
sacred blood oaths,
or thresholds; a frozen inch of face
the same as light years, oceans,
i'd rather brush my mind with pills
and stick these artifacts of wealth
hard inside your origins
and keep the grass
Keepers of My Hearti.Keepers of My Heart1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
you are in love with being in love
like you're caught on the train tracks,
tied down by want, waiting for that
insistent collision to
steal you away into the land
of concussions and self-medication
and hearts that barely heal
and stories confessing the notches
in your bedpost, the lines in
your smile. the sour note in your
liberally dissonant melody.
you did not want tangibility
cotton trees cascading and butterfly
innards, serenading clouds and
(until the sky came crashing down
and you reoriented the earth)
you did not want me
I am solid and as notable as
the ghosts sleeping in your ears,
their snores telling time as
the days blur together
I am not of starry kisses and
back porch promises-
I am the wrong kind of accident
on the train tracks.
I am broken,
(but not in the right way)
I am real
these are the things we carry with us:
a knife in the side and a
cramp in the lungs; a longing
in the mouth for words or tastes
or people or something m
turning over bucketsperhaps it isn't beautiful,turning over buckets2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lying halfway underwater;
pouring your palladium hopes
down your hands
looking full of shale and broken glass
half lighting whiskey-paper on fire
with that sun tossing in your chest
and all of you rattling
in this thin-skinned pineapple percussion,
the things you're so very sure of, sweltering under
callouses, under sea-
a kaleidoscopic mass of stinging cider-riviera
twisting into your human frame;
but when i say something of protests
you break in,
with too many pinecones waking in your chest, saying,
how lucky how
lucky we are
to be alive to be