ClippingsYou press down on the lever, straining for the sound you adore.Clippings2 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
Sharp metal blades clamp down, and a strip of white breaks free. One more snip to go, you've been waiting for this. You slide the clipper a touch right; you squint as you adjust the blade's position; too far and you unearth new fleshy depths, too near and you’ll waste a snip. You take a deep breath and tuck your elbows closer to your ribs. Pull your head lower, closer. Your chest stops rising, the soft whooshing of air from your nostrils stop. Control is vital!
A little white sliver does a dainty somersault flip before falling into darkness. You see its little curlicue flip, but you must move on. You are on a mission, and the goal approaches. Victory will be yours, must be yours. None must survive this purge.
But the sounds you loathe are always loud and clear.
"Are you cutting your skin again? How long have you been at it?! It's all over the floor! Oh my god, your finger
BloodRunning away, again and again through the yearsBlood2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Moving from white square to black and back
Packing and unpacking things without meaning
Carrying them from here to there religiously
The doctor says there’s nothing wrong, but still
I’m up at three, drinking coffee, coughing up blood
Watching the same old ghosts watching me
I don’t have to pack them when I move, they follow
A cannibal who’s eaten everyone around him
I’ve turned on myself now, three toes already gone
Watching the lights of the modem blink yellow
No connection; another cough, another coffee alone
WordsHow hard is it to put words on paper? Not very.Words2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Now to write words that
bring tears to people's eyes,
or start a rebellion.
A bit harder.
mia culpa, mia miasmaI'm still counting chromosomes and odd numbersmia culpa, mia miasma3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
still playing hopscotch over the symmetry
of your shoulder blades, your whispers
skipping 'cross the seventy percent water
the one forty proof rum, still running
until we can sleep,
that thing they called relationship
something common, like counting
rocks at the bottom of a wishing well.
I am slipping through, sliding into
a seamless cervix, and she's serving
throat lozenges in the mean time,
mean time and mean country
serving time in this union, this marriage,
they served cough and coffee
held the Capricorn, held up the register
held the infant to the sagging bosom of
Hollywood and serfdom and surplus
as the nagging empress struts her new clothing
on the turnpikes of Mulholland Drive.
can you feel the elasticity of time as sleep approaches
as the veal spills over red royal carpet
like tumbleweed's of lamb chops rolling 'round
Rockefeller's city center.
so shed dead skin
and skim the film of old money
see my t
iiiI had always livediii1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
with the impression
and so it came
as quite a shock
when I found
now it's just dirt under my fingernails.Novak carried an umbrella with her everywhere for nine years. And when he asked her why, she told him, "Ever since my dad died, sometimes it feels like the sky is falling."now it's just dirt under my fingernails.3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
That was six months ago, and he still catches himself checking for cracks between the clouds when it rains.
He likes to remember her eyes. The left was blue and the right was brown, like two people in one, and faded, like old photographs.
But then he remembers that old photographs are the only things she exists in now, and his office will get so small that he needs to go outside to breathe.
He wanted to be gentle, even if he couldn't think of a way how. But things were already ruined between them, and he knew that long before he ever sat her down in his parlor.
"If you have to hate me, I want you to," he said. Her face was deadened by the weight of her pain. "As long as you feel anything for me, I want you to."
She shook her head. And she kept shaking it when he followed her, his bare feet
The Last BookThe last book you readThe Last Book2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I imagine a little like your last breath
when you don't know that you're dying
just yet - maybe the last book you'll read
will be one you know well, and read a good many times,
breathing life into words by reading them,
making letters, names, stories come alive -
or maybe, the last book that you will read
will be one you have not had the time to learn
how to love; maybe it is difficult to love,
with winding, confusing phrases and a tendency
for the overly mysterious, or dramatic,
and maybe it made you cry -
the last book you read,
will it be a special one? maybe
a beloved's diary, or your own diary entries
about that one person you love(d), or maybe
it will be compulsory reading, and no fun at all,
maybe you'll put it aside feeling relieved
about having read it, or feeling lost,
because you almost drowned
in the world of this book -
the last book you read,
we know nothing of for sure, save maybe
that it'll be the last book you will read.
Deep WaterDeep Water2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Happiness is a strange friend.
I need it,yet i fear it.
When were so young, it was so simple.
But now, Im no fool, and I know better;
When were on top, were gonna fall.
Happiness is a strange drug.
I crave it, yet i loathe it.
When were so in love, It feels so right.
But now, Were no fools, and we know better;
When things start, theyre gonna end.
Its another dawn
I sing, and i sing;
Youre the anchor that holds me here
The center of my affection and my fear.
Because when my heart wont remember you,
My body still do.
These fresh wounds inside I carve for you
In return for your kindness
I endure with a scream
crashing like tidal waves
Again and again
You gave me death,
And I was reborn.
But when I close my eyes,
I can see you still, swimming in the deep water of my mind.
PSit's come to this-- definitionsPS2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of memories and people and dreams
I’ll never know firsthand like reasons for living;
this realization that I
am a stagnant planet, lost
on its orbit home; this
search for a justification
to keep on breathing ocean
when my lungs won’t tolerate
salt. I woke today in the water
to angels swimming around my feet;
coral, pearlescent anchors dragging me
down, down, sweetly lullabying
about you, dear, and the day
the tides washed you away.
you are written in my skin
as much as the lies I live by
daily. you are the beautiful things:
the sun waking up in the morning, the
stars pitying at me as I try to fall asleep.
the watercolor sky sighing, the
virgin clouds crying, the last note
suiciding itself into silence.
Delete NonetI like to delete parts of my life.Delete Nonet3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Memory here, an item there.
Fade them away to darkness.
Making room for the light.
The past can’t hold me.
I’m letting go.
why we're better now back the way we came pastwhy we're better now2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
yellow-eyed coyotes, two
getting the hell out of
our futuristic vineyard,
expanses spilling oceans
on my neck. I wanted something
certain from you
the heart attack
I slept through
now, my lips pulse;
sanguine peaches making
music of arrhythmic lace
as you rupture in the sea:
a wet throat blooming
open in tessellations
as numerous as the stars under your skinand here I am, reinterpreting the definable universeas numerous as the stars under your skin2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in relation to you, the poet, and the gravitation
of your hips (the parentheticals of your sighs, the longing
in your star-ward cries, the vespertine scent lingering
on your weary skin).
I would love every piece of you. I would stay up too long
and watch the night crumble away, to whisper together
the scraps of your misdirected sanity. I would call you perfect
when it wasn’t true, and become the answer
you spent an entire existence
You owe me this, sugartongue; the sweet silence
of your teeth. [this story is like a million others
rejected before it, glorifying earthbound angels:
please]rewrite the world for me.
Defeatdrowning bodies of fishermenDefeat3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
engulfed in the
enveloped by the songs of sirens
and suffocated by their skeletal hands,
their cries carried by the waves.
KitesI watch your kite disappearing -Kites3 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
slowly slipping through your fingers
like a defiant act of love.
The laurel wreaths I crowned you with -
sweet Adonis to a maid,
shivering on your cool, wet skin.
I said that I could set you free
but you never would believe me.
a situation in which i do not survivei was a lake whippeda situation in which i do not survive3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
into a fever pitch, a localised
hurricane in the wake of something
greater. the world was ending
and i dreamt of you while it was
still turning, a mess of bodies and
kisses. i dreamt of you still
when it ended, a slow dance
of crooked smiles and offshore
eyes. you kept me close and if
i was ever a source of happiness
for you, i could let go.
four thousand and onei've smoked about four thousandfour thousand and one3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
cigarettes this year and i still see nothing
but ash and empty packs. i had a lot to learn.
i didn't learn any of it.
all was funeral gray and washing dishes till
my fingers felt like land mines. we were
not finished being dumb when you died
and i found out that night under the speckled
window lights still on how those lights could
look like stars if we looked at them in just the right
and i didn't believe you were really
dead, not then because i couldn't shake
those two in the morning smokes
all summer while you drank
your beer and i my diet coke and
talked about nothing in particular and it
was not amazing but it was nice
and i'm scared to read the things that i
wrote then because i'm scared i'll
run out of god and run out of cigarettes
and run out of money and run out of you
like i'm running out of
this year blowing confetti
poppers at the bleeding sun that comes
out every night and shrinks and shrinks
to be the size of you when you could fit
k.n., ii7 9 13 he took a bow overlooking interstate 680:k.n., ii2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
car-comets in full spin,
his dreams planetary, saturnian -
he almost sprouted wings that night and
i cannot say it would not be beautiful;
the palpations of downtown pumping
luminous cells, coursing
through highway veins
and he, standing in the heart of his world
mind ecstatic -
his feet began
to lift just a little.
9 20 13
a few phone calls
and a pair of
godyou asked me how it could've possibily begangod1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
how each star earned its first breath
or what saturn's childhood was like
and in me, I have the answer
I see it in a forest's gasp during a december cold
or midnight's shy laughter
in a time-worn wall; its heart full of fables
and there was that time the river had told me;
gossiping excitedly behind the backs of the slow minded stones
who were unable to understand her rapid words
and I know how it resides inside people, nearly tangible it is so alive beneath their skin
felt in the eager fingers of lovers; exploring
in a hiker's satisfaction and he thrones himself atop the moutain.. his mountain
or in the lips of a father, pressed against his daughter's forehead
(as if he is shielding her mind of the evils he fears will enter)
but mostly it has been in you
(I think I saw it the most ripe when the moon had placed its hand upon your
face and you had gradually eased into that whisper o
Strawberry (An ice-cream in December)Strawberry (An ice-cream in December)2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
I disassemble –
heart after limp,
brain before muscle.
You hear the pieces fall.
Sometimes, all I can ask for is an itchy blanket over me, and a cup of steaming tea between my calloused fingers, bringing the smell of hot strawberry to my nostrils, until the smile of content overwhelmingly fills my chest. Sometimes, all I can ask for is death.
I don’t like mornings. I never liked mornings. The sun is mocking – glaring from his heaven to a place grey and heavy with nothing but vanity, and shoving his hard light to all the ugliness around. Night is not like that. Night is beautiful. Night smells of wet leaves and falling stars and wishes forgotten in the sigh of two lips touching. Night brings the twittering song of a hidden cricket, a lullaby lost in the fading dreams of two bodies nesting one in another. Night is not like mornings.
The breeze is cool tonight – comforting, dancing around the baby blue curtains of the kitchen. The TV plays in
learning these wordscoffee's sugarlearning these words2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
spat on my veins.
her song cried out
name after name
and on their cups
speak in inure-
whispers of extra cream
i've never spoken
the language of baristas
but for her
i could speak a thousand
carving in between
its bitter taste;
i will wait for her
to call out my name
'tall half and half'
angled heat escape
(just to kiss her
Rainbow Series: RedWhen the leaves cascade in forgotten fall,Rainbow Series: Red3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
it is their colour on the pale cement.
The hue on children's cheeks
as the cold nips their noses.
It is what dyes the trees,
for crystal stars.
The colour of berries
that taint one's lips,
and fading evenings of light.
When the logs are burning,
it is the colour they glow
before disappearing forever.
The scarf lost,
an ornament on the tree
and shades of a smile.
Foliage resting in morning,
apples nestled in branches,
delicate pomegranates below.
It is the colour you see
listening to the forest's whispers
Who Am I?Who Am I?Who Am I?3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm just a speck of dust,
Midst the depth of this universe.
Who Am I?
I'm just an insignificant clog,
In the machine that shapes this block.
Who Am I?
I'm just an unheard scream,
Buried beneath this bigoted scene.
Who Am I?
I'm just a twisted vine,
Molded to their whims and rhymes.
Who Am I?
I'm just an insignificant letter,
In this opus that binds us together.
Who Am I?
A Garden Trampled: Sandy Hook, 14 Dec. 2012Twenty saplings pluckedA Garden Trampled: Sandy Hook, 14 Dec. 20123 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Seven pillars toppled
Salt and ashes strewn
CarolineYou loved the fireCaroline1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are