My spine is a ribbon unraveledYou asked me to write your eulogy,My spine is a ribbon unraveled3 years ago in Visual & Found Poetry More Like This
but there’s three sides to every story
and it is not enough to write.
There is no more music in me:
You bound our spines,
where I end and you begin,
but maybe you never belonged to me.
fast-forward through the goodbyesthis is the beginning of the endfast-forward through the goodbyes3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
“i know you,” he says.
and he looks defeated, he looks sad, he looks like
he's a boy who may one day realize how much
he cares for you, so you cut him off and say,
“minus all the secrets i don’t tell anyone.”
“well, yeah, minus those.”
“then you don’t know me at all.”
and then you tell him,
i love you. but you don’t use those words
because those are taboo. are jinxed.
are knock on wood three times fast.
instead you press him in a hug and say,
i’m sorry, knowing he won’t understand
that this is the first time you ever cared for something
enough to try and fix it after you hurt it.
you hope he doesn’t ever realize what you’re saying
and his response will always be ‘what for?’ because
if he figures out he loves you nothing changes.
he’s just going to be in love with a corpse, a memory,
a pair of trigger happy hands,
You spoke synonyms to me."I want to live inside your chest,"You spoke synonyms to me.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you said, "I want to burn between your legs."
you need to have a plan...so here's toyou need to have a plan...3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to some forgotten shore.
2. fall desperately in love with
i. the ocean
ii. the sky
iii. the honey sunrise and
iv. the steelgray winter dawn.
soul-deep into the water and
4a. search out the requisite words
i. from behind white and blue curtains
ii. and underneath clam shells
iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and
4b. pluck them from the ceaseless
scrawls of sunlight
against the slopes of waves.
5. make time for
ii. and other
Feelings with no namesi.Feelings with no names3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The feeling you get the day after sending a letter, and you know there is no possible way that the recipient has received your message yet, let alone formulated time to write a reply, but you still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by and rush out to the postbox a little too quickly and are disappointed by the pile of free coupons, bills, charity flyers, and a late Christmas card from Grandma Moses.
The noise of a faraway car driving late at night, or perhaps early in the morning, in that sleepy place somewhere between consciousness and dreaming where everything is warm and vaguely fuzzy. The remote sound of tires on asphalt speaks to a sense of curiosity – where are they going? Why so early? – but the blankets are so heavy, your eyes are so heavy, and before you can wonder anymore, the car is long gone and you are long gone, carving out a hollow place to rest in just a few hours more.
A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that y
Mourning“It’s not like that; there’s nothing wrong with mourning your wife. Everyone deals with it in their own way. But now – sometimes. . . It’s just that sometimes you get this look on your face that’s less I wish she were here, and more I wish I were with her, and that scares me a little bit.”Mourning3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
GreyI like the color grey;Grey3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it's not black and it's not white,
but sometimes it's a little blue.
lovesong for sailorboyRead aloud and explained (somewhat) here.lovesong for sailorboy3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i have always loved words as you love the sea
but i have grown to hate
because i have always had words
but never for you.
words for everything
but i have words for this, so
i'll take them
one by one.
the ocean was your first love and
i could always see it in your eyes.
most would call them blue--just
like a swell over a sandbar
blue like the spring sky over a poppy field.
but i don't think anyone
got as close as i did and they're not blue
not shorebound and
they're gray like the steelbellied sea itself
like the horizon at dawn as it
hems you into an impossibly vast canvas
like a demarcation line
or a promise.
one you always chased.
maybe i had a streak of ocea
confessionalthey say sad girls change their hair colorconfessional3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and forgive their monsters.
i change my morals
and become one.
Regarding ProtocolThisRegarding Protocol3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
is not what
the breathless tide of a love I can't keep.
001 i am a whirlwind of0013 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
an aching heart
a regret that could
ConversionDeath ditched the robe some fifty years ago. Got with the times. Now he wears faded jeans and a secondhand pair of Converse that used to be white, with soles that have all but worn through. But the scythe is the real deal, polished with the robe he threw away and sharpened on dying breaths.Conversion3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
systemhe said that one day I,system3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
who have grown accustomed
to accumulating moons,
drawn like moths
to my Venus-brightness,
would meet my match.
he told me I would be
captured by the brilliance
of a star,
a Betelgeuse, a behemoth:
supergiant turned supernova turned
supermassive black hole.
he informed me, peeking out
from under my gravity,
his erratic elliptical orbit,
that one day I would be
and that it would be poetic justice.
SandcastlesI want to know your hands like I want your hands to know the wrecked coastline of my body, knotted kelp hair and driftwood spine, shell pink skin and sea glass eyes. Your hands are made for building sandcastles from leftovers; I have all the materials you’ll ever need if you’ll just make me beautiful.Sandcastles3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
On creating lifelike charactersYou died. But I willOn creating lifelike characters3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
keep writing your story until
you begin to live
Love letter to myself.Small handed girl,Love letter to myself.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you've written the truth
of your scars wherever there's
space to write it
and I love you.
They painted over
the rape you wrote about
on the front door of
your Uncle's house
and I love you.
They took the floorboards
of your bedroom out where you'd
carved the shape of your
father's fist into their
and I love you.
You shook the sand of
your fifteenth birthday out of
your hair and into a jar
you keep under the bed to
remember a girl with crooked
teeth and bony knees who
fled and flew
and I love you.
You've built yourself into a
fortress with nothing but your
fingernails and shredded skin
and you let him in when he
waited by the door instead of
forcing his way
and I love you.
Sleeping Beautyshe’s in love with a character whoSleeping Beauty3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
never existed but in the labyrinth of her head:
a patchwork composition of beautiful, lengthy words
she’d heard in her catatonic state; coma living
day in and day out, reliant on the salvation
of a man made of foreign wishing
and imperfection and necessity – an ignorance
of the less than ideal perception of self she’d
come to fear, absention stained romantic to the point
where daydreams were a standard for survival
(real living is for the purposeful of heart,
he loves her in her sleep)
bad days.on my bad days,bad days.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i open notebooks like bibles and hold pens like lifelines.
i keep opening the book of my memories
just to see if it still leaves a bruise.
i am covered in the bruises of your hand
your ghost is in my bed. i can't sleep there,
again i find myself miles from home
wishing on stars i can't see
and spitting memories into the ocean like watermelon seeds.
i sit on my longboard like driftwood and send my shivers into texts
like letters i never should have mailed.
on my bad days,
i wear cuts like ropeburn,
like i just don't know when to let go.
i get lost inside the sadness and hold tea thats long since gone cold
as hours escape like small birds set free.
i forget to open the blinds
and paint my fingernails black
and stare at the too-big numbers aligned on the scale i can't stop stepping on.
voicelessi.voiceless3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
I lost my voice one day. I woke up to a hollow echo in the base my throat and knew I’d lost something special before I’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. I checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.
I found my voice one day. I took long walks with silent friends, made travel plans and came home tired but fulfilled. I pulled a pen from the junk drawer, or sat down at a keyboard, or bought a journal on a whim and found it curled up around my fingers, sleeping, rusty, but alive.
ProofingHe needed her sighsProofing3 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
when he kneaded her shoulders,
soft heat leavening.
Lighthouses and Rockets1. Lights OutLighthouses and Rockets3 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
WordsmithsHow long did you thinkWordsmiths4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we could pound our vocabulary with hammers
before it fell flat?