Maybe that's what's worseOne upon a time, there were four children. They were grown, far into the ages of adulthood, but they were children. They carried bits of a child in them, clinging desperately to a corner of their hearts with a firm grip, unwilling to let go. They were children.
One was a fighter—grappling with his head and his hands to protect his heart that was left back home, back with his siblings and his wife. He graced himself with a uniform every morning and paroled his area, keeping it safe and sound so that no one he loved could be taken away from him, so that no one he needed would ever leave. He had the spirit of a soldier, always did. He washed the blood off of his hands with a soft prayer to God during the middle of the day, because he did what he had to do, he saved whom he had to save. He showed no remorse after those prayers—for his heart was filled with a fierce need.
The second one was a lover—she walked around with her heart not on her sleeve, but in the palms of her hands, giving it
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,O Fevrale3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;
pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers
to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.
not all humans go to heavencock itnot all humans go to heaven3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
april 23 2008
“bye mom. i love you so much, i swear
i’ll be home soon.”
“please, you’re only eighteen, you have your
whole life ahead of you, please
don’t throw it away.”
“i’m going, mom. i’m going overseas
but i swear i’ll be back before you
miss me. love you!”
most nights he shakes himself awake
with the vision of bombs and fire and bullets
still imprinted on his eyelids.
he doesn’t know what to call them.
the dreams, i mean.
what do you call bad dreams when
you’ve already lived the nightmare?
his therapist says his problem
is he thinks he’s not normal, that he doesn’t fit,
that he’s a special kind of monster.
she tells him that the key is figuring out the ways
that he’s the same.
so when he’s alone, or worried or stressed
or tired or hurt or wishing he were dead,
he traces over his collarbone and says
Those cadences were crystalline.I recall that you loved herThose cadences were crystalline.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Like you loved jazz,
Bright as the gold flecks and swift brass of your movements
Breathing what you sought in the
Sine tone of her piano
Grinning as we wowed the crowd
That went up in flames and cheers.
Improvisation was like free-falling,
You weren't sure what you wanted or where you were going
And therein lay the thrill.
I loved you like flute notes and cold breaths on a midwinter morning
You loved to hear yourself speak and
I loved how your eyes alit with laughter when you didn't say a word.
You loved me like a secret smile
Auburn curls and conspiring glances
Loved the distance, maybe,
And the still unmarred proximity.
I pressed you into my memory like manuscripts and printed sheets
I loved that love was invulnerable, pristine
I loved the purity of silent glances,
The sweet taste of words unspoken
And the fleeting folly of seventeen.
Why you should write"I think you should write",Why you should write3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
said my muse to me.
I sat under a hot shower,
huddled inside my stillborn pains
as water drum-drum-drummed against my back
and behind my teeth there was a song
a flightless lark
but I did not let it out.
And I told my muse:
my words are falling snow into melting ground
they do not belong;
Icicles among irises -
they will disappear in the growing sun
my words are wind in the feathers and reeds
and when the dawn comes, there's silence
where they used to be.
"You should still write",
said my muse to me
What are you, if not falling snow?
a speckle of dust in the rising wind
flesh and bone
like every soul who ever roamed
these vast plains of written words
song behind their teeth, tongues tied.
But you are stardust if you write
phoenix feathers, raging fire!
you are the look in the eyes of the waking day
flash of wonder we did forget
You are every black cat and
every single morning when there was mist in the air
So I think you should wri
Haikus are Too ShortHaikus are too short,Haikus are Too Short3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
To be at all worth clicking,
So I'll write some more.
These words are filler,
So I don't feel truly bad,
For writing briefly.
I write re Haikus
In a Haiku, how clever!
I'm showing off now.
MuselingRed wine ramblesMuseling2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
curdle the air, but still
you dream; half-moon
body curled in the
lamp light. I am leaving,
I am leaving, choking on
some holy word—
the floorboards creak,
a sonata for my
whilst you, hair tangled upon
the pillow, are spun gold.
it only lasts a little whileat the bottomit only lasts a little while3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the desperate
sunlight & waves
cut by ships
trembling as the water
hollow bodies restless
waiting for the sun
A Short Love StoryI counted your teethA Short Love Story2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when you died,
all twenty-eight of them,
because it gave me more time
than counting your toes
and fingers (and thumbs),
or just looking at your face
and telling the coroner:
he's the one.
sister yesterdayeven our plastic flowers had faded—sister yesterday3 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,
The Waiting GameHear me read itThe Waiting Game3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I gripped the ladder fiercely until my knuckles whitened and my bones complained at the strain. I remained this way, like a rigor mortised superhero until my mind associated the tight throttling hold on the wood with the concept of choking someone; at which point I let go, momentarily, alarmed by the violence of my own thoughts.
The slight shudder rippled up through the fluidous wood and you complained loudly of my carelessness. We laughed and you dripped paint down trying to cut open my scalp with splashes of mint. Mrs Coraline banged her walking stick against her kitchen window with a resolute scowl and we tried to straighten our faces and appendages accordingly.
You had steady hands, so you had gone up the ladder to carefully apply the paint to the gutters. We had been promising to do this job for a year now, but last summer we were too lost in love to be found by anyone, even someone looking so hard as Mrs Coraline. Th
i can make you love mewriters,i can make you love me2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
do you bend in
shaking with leaves?
a sinner's devotion
or that boy
in the other aisle
(i hold your books
and stroke the pages,
they haven't arrived:
(that was forty-five
hoping no one notices
that i've read this
as i watch him
slip behind the counter
(i devised a plan to
volunteer on fridays
and trap him)
as i read
for the fifteenth
the long way hometoday i threw half mythe long way home3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and waited for 25'000
people like you
jump off roofs and
stick their heads
(even when you put them
life's already hard enough
without trying to
what all your curtains
i am guilty
of forgetting about
the kettle boils
like my head on a pillow
you will never
see them again
or the fears that wonder
no one is ever going to want memaybe onceno one is ever going to want me3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
this would've been
but i'm crying &
my face is scrunched
like a red rag
in the sink
slumped beneath a leaky
my hands are shaking
maybe i could make
but what i have
you won't like
and do you want them too?
stealing & paying
pressing bottles and
pictures to my sternum
maybe it's the silence
the tumult of words down
the sink and
across the floor
the empty heads
i was pretty then
bird-legs and stilted poems
numbering stars and
crushing books between
but no not today
i'm a husk
waiting for everything
to destroy me
to prick a hole
start an earthquake
i am growing wings but there is nowhere to goi am so done -i am growing wings but there is nowhere to go3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
because i can feel it:
there is a fear within me,
encapsulated in my blood cells,
the fear dreams;
it breathes like a living thing.
so done with -
nightmares of text messages
and unapologetic letters
and you, walking away from me,
nightmares of the words
done with this -
because i am a nomad
(who has never left her home).
i know there are feathers growing
in the hollow of my bones.
but i am growing roots here, attaching
to this place, to this house
to the color of the sunlight as i hold your hand,
this feeling -
that i have not even started yet.
The extremely short storyI once heard the tale of a man who had the whole universe inside his throat.The extremely short story3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Was he a giant?" someone asked.
I thought for a second.
"No," I said. "He was a storyteller."
dead1.dead3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i hear these words
and something happens
in the yard;
it doesn't fit
i see it squeeze
into the slits
beneath your shirt.
i feel it fly the smooth
from off your back. it turns
and hides behind the acres,
of jagged rooftops,
kept far and safe
has left the limb
as light would leave
i’m staring into its absence
and some new kind of animal is made;
its reversal is alive.
it doesn't move or breathe.
the park is wintered over, and i don’t go.
are all gone.
and when they do come back, they never change
from birth to birth,
a clan of inbred
with felt umbrella
that don’t remember
who i was.
one last thought of your last thought
and all the rest become their graves.
nothing i remember, now
will reach the earth.
i have no bottom ground,
the narrow knots of wood
that span and hoard and cup my self
are laughing into holes;
i'm too young to be running out of dreamsthe brave kidsi'm too young to be running out of dreams3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
tore them in half
& the pretty
but it was a secret for us
that the other
was really blue &
there was a note
in salt water & drowning
for the benefit of the
so we came with a solution:
tear the wings &
bleed them out
seasons' changesi. last fallseasons' changes3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i had my heart torn apart
by a boy- one who replaced
his ripped bluish-gray jeans
(that i loved on you)
for brown corduroy pants to keep him safe
from the coming harshness of winter;
even through its irrational number
of hail and rainstorms,
i don't believe i felt
or recalled a thing about that fall
for it was during that fall that not even the howling of the winds
could help shatter my dangling,
and our growing, cathartic distance.
i, too, had to adjust as i was forced
how to make due
without the heat of your arms
over and around my nape
i'm not sure if it was just my imagination,
but, the pre-winter drafts lasted longer
than usual that year.
ii. last winter
you and i became friends,
coming back to where we started off,
on the surface
(on my part at least)
this was the first winter i'd seen you
wear ear muffs.
you told me about some other girl
(with the same chestnut hair as mine)
you told me
Shooting the MoonChrist (- but believe me, there's no lord above: we're as high as anyone goes)Shooting the Moon3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
he's still got mama
rockin' him in his chariot and
carrying him across the sky,
her flushed like a bright new bride,
and he's still positively glowing,
all smooth-skinned transparency
(we're not allowed to tell anyone that he hides
half his face in the dark, afraid
that people will see how pock-marked
those freckles really make him look).
but someone oughta tell him that his button-nose
ain't so button any-more -
people draw it look a hook
(and damn, you should've heard the rumours
about him and the Sandman when
he was younger; man, mama didn't care
about who was below, she was scorching mad,
real ready to burn up the place,
and Phoenix - you know Phoenix, Arizona?
That place was so hot
you'd wish you could reincarnate.
The only one frying eggs
that solstice was mama, hot-plating
the egg on his face, so that
for a while his hole-flecked freckle-face
the cure for everything is saltwaterand my voice is choked with pebblesthe cure for everything is saltwater3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
and my veins are thick with ink
so i'll bleed out all my lovesongs
wash them down the kitchen sink
and i'll tell you that i'm leaving
and i'll flee this soulless town
for the silent sea is calling
and i'm not afraid to drown
and i'll search out quiet islands
let the blank horizons be
drench my soul in every ocean
sink my heart in every sea.
to the gunman of a school shooting in newtown, CTthe black man on the television screen spits reform,to the gunman of a school shooting in newtown, CT3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but parents of dead children plea gun control in the
wake of the destruction of 20 children, 26 lives total.
adam, don't you realize it's christmas time & these
parents will be burying bones instead of caroling songs?
the black man on the television screen admits:
our heart is broken.
but there is no beauty in the unity that follows robbing
of innocence. adam,
you sprayed the school with bullets bursting into shrapnel
off the shattering skulls of children.
20 little bodies hauled off in white sanitation bags,
stained red with crusty blood and shouting mothers screaming
to the heavens.
there is nothing clean about the way 26 connecticut families
will be washing the salt water off their chapped cheeks eternally.
you drained them internally. in america,
to know change you must create it, but we have
a cabinet full of ornate teacups not willing to
blow the dust off their porcelain edges.
you'd think we'd learn from our mistakes, but adam