The Garagei apologized because God was silent;
though we called His name,
His voice did not ring from the Heavens
or even tremble in the oil puddles
already quivering at our feet;
His hand did not descend to guide us
and you could never feel His love
when i promised it was there;
"is faith stupidity?" you asked me,
dragging a stick through one dark smear,
rainbows shifting on its surface;
gray clouds shifted;
i apologized because God was silent.
Census of Ghostshe now resides in susurration:Census of Ghosts1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
shaken from our summer sheets,
flags drawn taut and shuddering,
and wispseeds rising into the light
with their dressing gowns unbuttoned,
planting onto my lips that name
i've tried to hang with himself;
on a late morning,
while folding your laundry,
i found him again and held his tongue
when he yearned to speak of love
that once transpired in his passion,
or maybe it was the infatuation
of surrealists: brown skin but touched
upon each other,
marking the insignificant with brands
of remembrance: like the crinkling of
tinfoil or the crisping of smokers' lungs
or the thought that cigarettes are only
romantic if you can witness their glow
or hear them faintly burning—
white ash rests on the dashboard
and his fingers are caked with rust
in my flashbulb drug collections:
the color of blood that's been drying
in my mouth while i try to recall how it felt
to hold someone who might have come
and remained forever breathing
if that letter had never reached my
Eighteight.Eight2 years 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.
your son's beautiful—
you were my first
and i don't regret that—
in your arms,
i realized myself.
it wasn't my fault—
i received the letter
years too late
has never been sympathetic
in the eyes of those
who suffered to live—
yet, i write for you,
remember your face acutely,
long for the night
we bathed together
and you told me
God hated us.
i wrote a poem for you—
it was long and vitriolic,
full of anger's energy but—
i realized you aren't worth it—
have a nice life,
long and unfulfilling.
you hid food under the bed,
said we were bad children,
did everything in your power
to make us f
To That Gas Station Attendant,I owe you a thank you or at least an apology,To That Gas Station Attendant,2 years 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 mother came to get me the next morning.
She asked, "What's wrong?" I said nothing,
but I told you the night before,
the words still shaped in my consciousness,
begging eventual confession.
SurrealismThree a.m., andSurrealism1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
God is in my bathtub
a freshwater moon
in the mother-of-pearl sky.
her depressions used to wrinkle the bedsheets.she lay around for hours, then called out,her depressions used to wrinkle the bedsheets.1 year 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,
and his teacher asked me whether or not that would become
an everyday thing. i said, "it's not my business,
just my blood," before we walked to the running car waiting,
the fumes growing impatient and curling above
the cold that made my brother shiver. he wore a coat
traci bought him, one from a store i didn't know the name of,
and it was strange to think
ApsaraFind me sunken into theApsara2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lotus field, bathing skin silvergreen,
waist-deep and pink
in sunset, and we will cry:
for three-faced elephants,
for the dancers threading grace
between their fingertips—
until I dress in the heaviness,
a sarong of heat.
deflourgod'sdeflour2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
got a thing
for women in white dresses,
legs broken and
like the knot
of a dead man's
insomnia to keep you closefalling asleep with the windowsinsomnia to keep you close1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
open, with morning curling
around you like a drop of blue
ink in a glass of water,
turquoise and unwritten;
remembering when early dawn
was a secret you kept
in a soft, aortic pocket—
your dead lighter spinning
to the floor of Lake Ontario,
a halo of its bygone, synergetic flame.
And should some why completely weepon nights wrought of quiet,And should some why completely weep2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
(born to the moonlight
who slunk between far theres
to nestle lines of silver,
when i felt her reflections
near)white sheets rustling
the only sound in my ear,
even the house held its ghosts
and rusting pipelines still;
when the streets were statue,
(and so rarely were the streets
empty)cars parked quivering
beneath the glass that held
my eyes in theirs: nights
when breaths were most rancid,
the floorboards creaked like
tectonics were his footsteps,
he the embodiment of mountains
shifting, eons spanned in frightful
seconds(when the moonlight
was shut from the bedroom
and noise repossessed)
windstorms and labworkafflatus, inflatus, my morning globe,windstorms and labwork2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as lithe as your impermanence.
and home! dread homes! are rabbit dugs,
spoonholed piles of mexican brick
where nothing ever touches down,
nothing here alive receives
the plains’ poor offering of gypsy light,
the ugly wind that meets the mudline.
1. a mottled fence
2. and how these storms hold faceless teeth
that slat their eyes through butter-wood
then purge their guts on wintered florets
4. some freshly headless nativities,
their polyethylene skirts upturned
from violent sacks
5. and knowing i’m a souless
i lick at what is manifest
beneath your hair
each poison tab
and religious studies
i know, i know you never mean
but do not say “live for yourself”.
i’ve come online to see the god
that came before me.
we are so poorly married
like bookend spines of Plath and Hughes
up on the shelf
SeashineSacred skinSeashine2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
where heavens and ocean
an imprint on salted lungs
of aching, of
a moonlit yearning upon the
a string drawn tautthere are so manya string drawn taut2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
blue stars in your skin
but i can't believe
each neuron is a universe
alight with planets,
gaunt aliens signing god
in the absence of your name,
dim cars on the street,
beneath an awning
like a glowing orange womb
you shudder saying,
i just had a chill,
is this room cold
or are we in the gut
of a giant
who's strung out
seven days lifeless,
biting the apple,
wishing for his mother,
the earth is spinning
in the eyes
of a turtle
with a red shell
who swims in the flowers
who swallows supernovas
and they pass through his kidneys,
we could burst any minute,
a fly's nerves twitch,
a city laid,
between microscope lenses,
clutching wife to child,
do you know my name?
do you know you're shivering?
do you know i'm the son
of your nucleus?
i live in your cheek
and die at your
He Remembers 1961He always puts extra steaks on the grill,He Remembers 19611 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
in case the neighbors stop by.
It’s not that kind of world anymore.
The wind was the only visitor that night
and it assumed an odor of burning leaves.
He thought about all the funerals he had
attended and he thought about Hurricane Jenny.
The sun’s last breath felt like thunder.
A child yelled “Olly olly oxen free” but
to him it sounded like “All your friends die in Spring.”
with thanks to salingerAudio version.with thanks to salinger2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it's on those cold mornings
when you are nothing but indrawn breath
swirling and knitted up inside too-big
skin and weightless bones--
when the horizon arches up against
the half-thawed tendrils of sunrise
with golden teeth,
and smiling, begs--
it's on those cold mornings
when leaving is easiest.
the car will be cold, and you will
shiver, and the engine,
much too loud,
will smack of blasphemy
but you will find peace in the steady roll
of tarmac and the yellowing light
spilling across it,
with dust motes kicked up and carried
like fish in the undertow.
when you come to that first
crossroads, it will shock you:
the way the decision hangs there
trembling and desperate--
but there are no right answers and you will not
hesitate. and each successive choice
will be made of its own accord,
and you will roll the windows down,
and draw down the scent of ear
syracuseListen to the audio version for the full effect, pretty please.syracuse2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
cloudshot sky like an oil painting and i am watching the
darling, i will swim for you
and swallow every whitecap.
i will pluck myself a coat of pelican wings,
sew them up with salt and spray--
become icarus for you.
you are calling me across the waves, love--
but you pull against the ache
in my bones, the hollow--
the clawing out for unseen sunsets and unturned tides.
i hear you, love
give me time.
i will always listen.
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.
I am the wayward childI wish I had something more to offerI am the wayward child2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
when your joints ached and your bones creaked
and you wept dust; (the cobwebs around
your tongue were a comfort once)
but I am three times screwed
over backwards and turned right around,
breathing in gravel and praying on
the only consistencies I know like
on Sun-day we are in the house of God
and it won’t rain and dad won’t speak
and mom will sit with pursed lips counting
all the times we didn’t kiss her goodbye
and everyone will call it normal,
everyone will look at the way I write words
on cracked pavement and get glassy-eyed
when they speak softly and forget the sound
of my own voice when I’m afraid; all those times I
tripped over my own feet and walked away
with wounded knees, and they will call me normal.
I’m at it again, building barricades
from ashes and calling them friends
(this here is fear, he visits me nightly;
and that stale stain in the corner
is actually anxiety, recuperating
from the moment it caught a
The DeadI have chemical wakefulness,The Dead11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
10 dollars and 27 cents hidden last night,
somewhere around the apartment, maybe in the couch
or behind the drywall. The red stiff pillows are on the carpet,
my chest was stuffed with vibrations and tapered:
It's not in the kitchen. Not in our bedroom,
but you have forty dollars in your wallet.
Your body's in airspace. Maybe you had dinner,
your parents' favorite restaurant,
or called Richard while you smoked in the parking lot,
feather hymns, exosongs, traffic tones,
a late ride home, long straight roads, flaking paint,
creaking sway, bitter drip, dragging lights,
a choking fit,
his nihilistic faith, a repetitive twitch,
how he appreciated with his fists,
and you were 23,
thought everything was plain
"I'll pick up something for dinner,"
but I only spend 18.60 at the supermarket.
i found a body"i found a body made of light and wood."i found a body2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with pieces of fleshy bark pasted on
as if its creator were a drunken artist.
from the rich-brown wooden body
tiny green buds spurt;
and beneath the bark,
a hot light glows
bubbling between the cracks of wood
as if larva would pour out if a piece of bark
were to be peeled away.
a swarm of buzzing fireflies,
lingering near the magnificently delicate body.
the body belonged to a man I talked with in my dreams.
his peculiar mind babbled with demons -
they were long and fleshy
and fell over
like old flowers
bowing in sorrow.
the righteous will fall, he'd say.
and I believed him.
I found a body made of light and wood,
but the dripping sap has never been more dark
its idyllic light has never been more sweet
and my poignant bones have never been so weightless.
ZemiThings having to be returned to their transparency:Zemi2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
/ green mist-earth / knit
atmosphere / fathomless
blue-lavender / lights
spun out from light
are recalcitrance / and you
& - a fingernail of summer
- a melting of rain
- a crown of flowers
- a priest of sunsets
(beautiful? I love you, because. Zemi.
Zemi. are you beautiful because I love
you? Zemi? )
I imagine this is what it's like to breathe sea foam
over the Cliffs of Moher: hydration. absolution.
To Rilke, it's a melody that floods over us
when we have forgotten how to listen for it.
I never could forget this: for how could I know
my hand as both well and chasm? and how could I know
time, a windstruck dimension, standing in her white street?
We go on morning walks and Zemi
laughs at everything I say.
HysteriaMoon sliver arms raisedHysteria2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to the eventide sky,
hysteria dripping like wine
like a prayer, slipping —
hallowed lips no longer, and
the weight of every loss
and ticking clocks
cracking dappled ground.
Londonthe city glowsLondon2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
bright copper, a scandal in
a luminous quivering waste
of fog and smoke.
I feel on my skin
the harsh glare of street lights,
a thick caking of
make-up, the lingering
of a parting kiss.
these streets are a string
a bright orgiastic tumbling,
the future glinting red
in a wine glass.
zeroi sworezero2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i would never number the poems
i wrote about myself because that
would be like ticking off the days
until my breakdown;
i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myself
at any gleam of hope; wasting my wings
on industrial promises
colors always felt much more
appropriate for the purple boiling
beneath my heart and the pallid
purposelessness of my head,
but i was born into a colorless world--
no one sees me behind the metallic scars
of my skin and iron grating of my voice against
the grain; no one sees me as more than
gray regret or monochrome mistakes,
no one sees me but
all i ever wanted was for a
fallen god with feathered heels
to believe in me: to pray upon
the monuments i built for
broken dreams and to baptize me
in his tainted tears,
i just want him to be real. more
than anything, i want to be real, i want
to be more than an imaginary friend
to various mental limitations; i want
to trade my liquid skin [evaporating]
for a chance to be
i am a moth and you are the lighthouse