OrnithologyI sometimes imagine us,
Years down the road, sitting
On the patio of a London bistro
Much more sophisticated than we are.
We'll waste the afternoon drinking tea
As impolitely as we can.
We'll chat too loudly about absolutely nothing,
But with such authority the woman one table over—
The one with the ugly scarf,
Because it's always the one with the ugly scarf—
Will mistake you for someone famous.
We'll spend the next hour reminiscing
Youthful conquests, like Cleopatra might,
Or Anne Boleyn.
Then we'll make-believe
Like nothing's wrong with us.
We'll call it a day—
Find a good pub and drink a bottle of gin,
After watching an English bird glide by
In a sundress, and we remember that
We came here to forget.
We used to call it "hen-hunting,"
This want for a wife,
Back when we had a sporting chance.
dressed to the nines.You wear your words like a crisp black polodressed to the nines.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
clothing you in ink and
your metaphors nestled comfortably
against your dreamer's skin
your adjectives silhouetting
your lean frame against
the sunsets you love to spin.
You wear your words like a pair of faded black slacks
with your author's notes
fraying at the edges,
sewn up with syllables
oh so sweetly
your punctuation marks
threadbare on the dark cloth
of all the curiosities you
have managed to weave
You wear your words like a fierce, fiendish smirk
all your apostrophes lined up
and beaming at the world,
splendid, spectacular, stunning
and your run-ons
softly teasing, disarming,
nonsensical sentences that
kiss lightly and
sing the stars into
you and your poetry
are just so damn
h a n d s o m e.
ColorblindI gave away my name todayColorblind3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
Oceans of the LostI’m lost on an oceanOceans of the Lost7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Born of thoughts and whispers.
These waves, which once I should have known
Are now but alien cosines, bound in a
Reflecting pool. Shadows,
Cast from their fumes,
Envelop the very fabric
Twenty-five point seven dimensions
Wrapped in a dazzling display
I thought to understand
So very long ago;
Yet my very thoughts escape me now,
Like every mortal hope, as I drift
Aimlessly across this plane -
This entire body of water condensed
Into a two-dimensional space.
Up and down: meaningless.
I am orthogonal to
The skies and the birds,
The depths and eldritch horrors
That lurk far beneath, waiting to steal
My soul, my very existence
Away from me.
They need try no more.
I’m trapped in an infinite
Square well of possibility
Stretching around me.
A standing wave, forever ensnared.
My energy perfectly compatible
With my current state
I’m lost on an ocean
Born in a thought experiment.
The scarlet waves,
Dandelion's Lamentthe warm spring windDandelion's Lament3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gives me life
no one desires to defend;
they call me Weed,
stomping me down
to the level of Crabgrass
and Poison Oak,
although I harm none
with my meager
I can grant your wishes
as your cold breath
sends shivers down my
stem; I can
thrive on the dream-fields
of children, who still
call me Flower.
Comatosethe clock rolls backwardsComatose2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
say hello to cold floors and breathing
ceilings and sleepless nights,
a snowflake city down in flames
and a humming monotony --
fingernails never dug deep enough.
you're stuck on words like I love him and
I miss him and this is it and I
love him I really really love- it's
better to have bled than ghosted
out into the
those are your thoughts suiciding themselves
under the smother of night, no
veneers can hide your
lines- time carved
you a new face and metered
asphyxiated and strung out by
your own needs, at least you had
to write it all off,
but not before you tore the wings off the
weak-willed sparrows and cried
bleached eyes and too much black
liner cover the fact you can't
anymore, you can't
the world and it shouldn't see you
you're sick of butterflies melting on your
fingertips and fairydust that's only of
dreams long dead, and
you nightmared these very days long ago- of
love as a hoax and siphoning smil
Origami GirlRolling towards the middle of my bed,Origami Girl2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I only felt more crooked.
Something said "Don't worry,
That is what a world does.
That is You-Land."
I looked at my workplace,
it rested slanted to one side.
"That's life in italics," my eyes said.
"That's you as a Cubist."
I bent my arms and legs and back
And they were all of them crooked.
"It's cool," said the something.
"No one's going to try to trim you away,
landscape you, mow you down,
build something on top."
I saw a tiny god make a crease
Molding a girl into a lost form
Her corners were obtuse and sharp
Everyone tried to fold them in
Their hands were useless and limp.
I looked at everything that grew over me,
it was slightly off-kilter.
I liked it that way.
Titles Don't Belong in the First LineTitles don’t belong in the first line,Titles Don't Belong in the First Line2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and poetry is not made of end rhymes.
The ventilated fluorescence and I
flicker at the incongruence
and I want to tell her
sometimes east is left
on the map
if you hold it right.
Fire, Water, Air, EarthI once worshiped a fire god,Fire, Water, Air, Earth2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a man who wrapped himself in
flames and brimstone armor.
I burned myself trying to touch his heart.
He loomed above me and
no matter how high I reached
I was only grasping smoke.
I once worshiped a water spirit,
a man so elusive, running his own
course, even when it ran away from me.
His heart ran through my fingers.
He was cool to the touch, as
refreshing as rain, and cleansed me
for the brief time he allowed me
to swim in his pond.
I once worshiped a djinn,
a man of the air, whom I never saw
or touched, only felt in my lungs.
He sustained me, kept my own heart
beating, though I did nothing for him.
When he vanished the air left
my lungs in a rush, and I was
I have found now a mountain,
a man of the earth, unshakeable,
steadfast, a constant figure
on my internal landscape.
His heart is made of loam, a fertile ground,
and I revel in it. Together we grow
a garden in the mountains,
above the world, and we live like angels.
MediastinumI found a poem caughtMediastinum1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
between your knucklebones
like a prayer flag. It carried
the music of mountains; the scent
of summer breeze and pink
lemonade blotting the windowsill
like the soil-stained memories
of childhood mischief we
share. Between the silence
and the taste of citrus sun bearing
down upon the laundry drying
on the clothesline, you let a sigh
slip, dragonfly wings barely resonating
on my skin. Our silhouettes
behind the sheets warmed
the solstice sky while we
gave each other time
We meet at the sea strandIf I was an old buildingWe meet at the sea strand2 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
and if you were a sailboat,
the dialogue of the tides would
sing all the lonesome love
letters you never wrote.
Correlation and CausationSad people are notCorrelation and Causation1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
poets; poets are poets,
and some poets are sad.
three little wordsThree little words,three little words3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
said too much
CharlieI had a stalker.Charlie3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I didn't know his name but I'm sure he knew mine.
I called him Charlie.
He always had a camera hanging from his twig thick neck and he cradled it in his hands; a wispy finger stroking the shutter release. His dark brown hair was a curly mess and his shirts wrinkly and thin. He had the most perfect eyebrows, sweeping and gentle. He must have the most captivating eyes, I thought every time he'd glance my way. We'd never made eye contact. Charlie preferred it that way.
He came into the bookstore once a week, not to watch me leaf through the used books or reach high to shelve the approved ones, but to actually browse them. He read the unknowns; the virgins with their unbroken spines. I imagine he liked the smell of them aromas preserved for him alone. Charlie appreciated the books wearing dusty coats and factory perfume a decade old.
The rest of the time he spent on the outside looking in. My co-workers were tickled pink. "What a geek." "Poor guy doesn't realize you
Poetry? Bah!e'er since you left my lovePoetry? Bah!6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
(kurt right? no jim, I meant jim)
orchids have grown from my eyes
(makes it dang hard to see now)
while gossamer wings rip through my back
(ouch! need I say more?)
and my tongue has become an obsidian fire
(now i tawk like thith)
i used to live inside your lungs
(too stinkin' hot)
but now we are parted forever
(i was claustrophobic anyway)
you were always dripping blood at my feet
(i asked you to stop that how many times?)
as you tore through your rib cage
(you were a bit of a masochist, hmmm?)
and pulled out your greenish-blue heart
(uh, my medical book shows red...)
and offered it on a silver platter
(can you spell d-i-s-g-u-s-t-i-n-g?)
now you live with alienic fears
(pretty sure that's not a real word...)
while the earth spins like a golf ball
(golf ball? okaaay)
and your pathetic attempts at an apology
(ooh, ooh, you go girl!)
go in one ear and out the other two
while my eyes fill with helium
(back to the eyes again. sigh)
and my brain swel
ApplicationI have good reading comprehension skills, am a fastApplication1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
typist, can do the entire project in ten minutes under
the right pressure (that is, the last eleven minutes).
Familiar with Microsoft Word, PowerPoint, and the
basics of CSS code. Adaptable and quick to learn.
I’m good at editing fiction, critically but kindly
(thorns are dulled among good company).
I can blow up a balloon, but can’t tie it off.
I have a hat for every occasion, and a few
just for smiles. I can make forty-eight
cookies from a bag of mix meant to make only
twenty-four (math was never my best subject).
Your tea will be too sweet, but never too strong.
I will be too sweet, but never too strong.
I fold into a suitcase for easy storage among
guests, packed neatly away into a little corner
of your choosing. I’m a poor conversationalist,
but a good listener; you can outsource all your
worries to me, along with the bad days, terrible
meetings, mediocre superiors, and empty coffeepots
(I’ll never trivial
Loving a WriterWhen you read their work –Loving a Writer2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and it is work,
and you will often come second to the job –
it’s best to know which pieces are fictions,
which ones are wishes,
and which parts are for you.
Lighthouses and Rockets1. Lights OutLighthouses and Rockets2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He lived in an abandoned lighthouse. Always said he'd get it fixed up, be a light for lost souls, but he never did. He always ended up spending his income on coats and shoes for the homeless.
We buried him at sea last week. It was a cold, grey service, but our feet were warm.
I drove from San Francisco to New York, Seattle to El Paso, down every back road and blue highway, all the late night diners and greasy
spoon truck stops, checked into every hotel, motel, bed and breakfast inn, and campsite. Then the neighborhood library closed down and no map could lead me back home again.
3. Pink and Yellow
His first word was yellow and his life was infused with sunshine. Sun in the windows, in the wheat fields of his home, sun in his paintbrush; sun in the smile of his wife and the laugh of his daughter whose first word was pink and whose hair was the most brilliant shade of yellow.
Everyone can be compared to a light source. My fathe
Takes Two to Tanka 11The bottomless seasTakes Two to Tanka 115 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
of experience; one day
all of us will drown.
As we slip beneath the waves,
what thoughts will bind our spirits?
Reasons Never to WriteYou’ll want someone exotic, and marry a Romanian. He’ll tell you to dye your hair and you’ll do it, then make chewing on its multicolored strands a habit. You’ll kiss him once and say he tastes like wine. Wine, no? he’ll say with a grin. Only gentlemen drink wine. You'll leave him because you won’t like cliches.Reasons Never to Write10 months ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
You’ll find a shadow behind a counter (because that’s the only way to describe him). You’ll watch him clashing silverware around in drawers like cold piles of bones, and he’ll give you a free slice of key-lime pie and say it’s the best in the state. You’ll lick up its tanginess on the prongs of your fork and decide that it’s not, but you won't pull away from his eyes that will remind you of your favorite crayon. Then he’ll look you up and down and say, another? You’ll decide to love him because anyone worth loving is worth a free slice of key-lime pie. You’ll make him kiss you even w
I Ship UsI can not measure our loveI Ship Us8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
in words, but in how tight
we hug when we finally
see each other again. There
is starshine in your smile
and I could swear that you
are Aurora, wreathed in
beauty, but with less sleeping
and more ass-kicking.
You are kind and selfless,
a true paragon of love
and a goddess of all things
good. where most have blood,
you have eternal love.
all the light in the world
is simply not enough
to express the light
your friendship and
love bring to me.
Passion and excitement
exude from everything
that you do and you pour
your heart into; everything you
make, everything you touch.
When we first met, there wasn't
a doubt in my mind that I
had found one of my soulmates,
someone who could laugh
over puns and obsess over
pokemon, someone who wouldn't
judge me on anything I'd done.
A kind soul that is there
for all to see. One that has
been scarred and one I
wish to protect. Everything
you do becomes better
simply by your being there.
You are the reason I believe
in friends b
Four-Letter Poems, take twoWe sought a permanent recombination,Four-Letter Poems, take two5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
a final overwriting
of the double helix that defined me,
but I wasn't enough of a geneticist
(nor of a writer) for the
art of four-letter poems.
So we hacked to
pieces my nucleotide
bonds, we attached
and removed strings of
memories from my life's album
as if undecided on what to wear -
but, my love,
we never had any sense of
My chromosomes, carved as a testament
to all of our surgery sessions,
became a festival of restriction
enzymes' reactions, of when
we tore my consciousness'
nucleobases away from their seats
to fit the new occupants
of my old self.
And I see you now, my love,
through truth-telling eyes.
I never was enough of a geneticist
for the art of four-letter poems
and you unmade and
rebuilt me just to
show that you were.
The beauty and wonder of my
nitrogenous base sequences, you
picked your best restriction
enzymes to dismember
"We're doing this for you."
You always knew plasmids
never look back,
Dirty MagicWilliam was bleeding, crying, and slowly dying.Dirty Magic2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"You're not done with me," he said. Red spilled between cracked lips. "I know you're not. I know you want to see more." Tears spilled from eyes, gently cut a path through the gore mattered on white cheeks, and tangled in a trimmed grey beard. "W-we're not done..." Do words make a sound if no one is there to hear them? "We're not done here do you hear me! I'm not dying here!"
But he was. Impossibly, the arrow that boy had shot had hit him, punched through chain mail, and sunk greedily into his lung. Air whistled through his chest, blood welled in his throat, and that boy stood over him; hair long and braided in the style of the natives, skin dusky, and face painted red and white. He looked frightened. But that could be the magic still wearing off. The cursed magic of the witches that led his people. The Fear.
"You can't take him," William realised with a sudden savage glee. "He's already taken! We're not done!" But still blood spilled, sti