Don't Write While You're Highwhere the scenes
blend too seamlessly
to the next glance:
our twoselves soon rising
up-through white fibers—
from the thick of reality:
oilslicks slipping up-along
when later looking back: the lost
incompatible with water but—
we sought fewer thoughts
Midwestern Roadmapsi.Midwestern Roadmaps3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
are what brought us together;
with a stir of paint chips and skin,
we made clumsy love on the concrete
of a condemned factory,
moving in the shadows of machinery
that loomed like winter trees
or judgmental Gods
who still stopped to smell the alcohol
in our pores.
"will you pass me a cigarette
and along with that sign your lust
on the paper that will gray in a flicker,
bitter acrid and addictive
like the first high of tobacco—
a euphoric quiver
that lasted only a minute,
gone when you inhaled your second
seeking the same."
indiana is the land of crossroads,
where the wind blows
to find a better destination
and the tired rest in restless homes
with wheels that creak
beneath the hardened earth;
you said you were meant for something
better than a bible belt,
sought my eyes when you whispered
i paid for your bus tickets.
i wondered if love was letting go
or knowing that you never loved me
as more than a first.
Eighteight.Eight3 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
terminali.terminal3 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.
AnatomyI cannot be the backboneAnatomy3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of your moral affirmation;
set aside the scalpel,
burn the phonebook if needed.
Late Monet in a Boy's Bedroomyou have mourned for a childhood spentLate Monet in a Boy's Bedroom2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
siphoning color's touch from men with your eyes
unshut, begging at the heels of lovers who
wanted to know your shadows. you accepted them
into your bed, reminding yourself of such moments when
you lay back: powerless, aroused. his hands knew you
in wide spectrums they shouldn't have, but you lusted
and lust for another whose brush is careless, whose teeth
will paint your neck without praying to consequence,
who will have you jealously, selfishly: who will let you
call him by that paternal name that rots your liver, that
makes your tongue soft for affectations. he was a liar,
but a charming, intelligent man: an artist, blending his
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
Why I Can't Love a PoetHe said you're beautiful likeWhy I Can't Love a Poet2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
black birds on a gray sky or
a tree that's recently died but
holds its last green leaves until
they wither and crack, swept away
by a northern wind bearing his name.
SehnsuchtOctober again;Sehnsucht3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the curtains billow
with broken glass echoes and
Mendelssohn's bride waltzing
to better times
She becomes the rain,
and breaks her own heart as the sound
right through us.
blood typethere is something haunting about the way blood flows.blood type3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
just think - all that crimson coursing through you,
scribing calligraphy inside your gut.
through your arms, through your heart.
it paints promises across the canvas of your innards, saying:
i promise to take time, to give you as much as you need.
i promise to stay warm even when chills tickle your spinal cord.
when blades threaten to sharpen themselves like buffers across your skin,
i will flow slowly, giving them a chance to see the light in your bones.
i promise to stay powerful.
i promise to stay abundant.
i promise to stay holy.
i will weave through your veins,
craft myself into a villanelle to savor your breath,
so that if you ever decide to drain me by your own 2 hands,
you can read my words and know that you are not worthless.
the eleventh hourif i could steal people's touchesthe eleventh hour3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and hide them in my pockets
i would steal yours-
i would take the kind of burning
that comes only with
the time right before you
officially touch, the friction
of your hands nothing compared
to the ensnarement of your eyes-
that time before you just feel
the breath of his resting upon your shoulder
in a clatter of emotion you know
no one else can understand-
that time where
his lips first open to speak
and you already know what
he is going to say, just
like smolder after rain-
that time between
night and day
and the sun bleeds into the sky
i would be prometheus;
i would steal the inferno
from even the most burning gods.
i would be a thief; the thief
of your most burning hearts-
the messenger of
the breath speaking in your lungs-
the harbinger of
the hair standing
on the back of
i will be that time where
the only power you can feel
is the burn of two of the most human things
doing the mos
Satelliteit seems you wander aimlessly—Satellite3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like the white blinking light
between the branches of that dark tree
i see when i open the backdoor to smoke
another desperate cigarette—
orbiting so far in the distance that
i cannot fathom your purpose,
though you must serve one in the lives
why time isn't timeless, but love is.i still remember when we were five years oldwhy time isn't timeless, but love is.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and would hide in the grass until dusk,
where we would tell stories under the hum
of the crickets and the sound of the creek,
where he told stories about his mother when
she was sixteen and alone with some boy
when she moved to italy, where he said they had
the best food and the best lights and the best buildings
but only when it was dark inside,
and he would only wither when he would look to the sky
welling over the sun, a golden mess: yet-
i remember when we were in middle school
and we would sit on his old rug and play video games
until five in the morning, ignoring the clutter
of his room, where he threw dirty clothes and books
and homeroom whispers in a slow disarray,
where sometimes we would pause and watch
some kind of old black and white movie and
the girl would scream and we would laugh,
and sometimes he would pause again
and talk: if-
and i say
we'll never know cause they say sex
is like cutting your fingertips off
but with more sw
the saturday after your birthday is where i foundbefore you there was an incessant need to be touchedthe saturday after your birthday is where i found3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
but for no longer than the time it took to touch, sweat, and moan
and never by the same hands twice;
for vacancies to be filled
and to never have an empty bed when sleep finally came.
when i found you it was dark and i was drunk.
it wasn't a story built for the centuries,
but we will be the lovers whose names are remembered for the years to come,
tied and woven in song and into the bodies of trees, we will be so in love
that the angels above will cry in jealousy because in my haze,
heavy and raw and with everything burning inside me, i'm afraid i fell in love that night.
being against you was not enough
i needed you on me-in me-everywhere i turned you needed to be there
no space between my body and yours no air
just skin and skin and skin and
movements rough enough to catch soft sweaters like dry elbows
i needed you to be so entwined with me that we breathed in sync.
our hearts opened and closed in a symphony, chords not harmonies, t
GriffinMy mistakes are on my head,Griffin2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and the cigarettes taste like dryer sheets.
On the street curb of a suburban block,
streetlights flickered and jaundicing,
And should some why completely weepon nights wrought of quiet,And should some why completely weep3 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)
love poemsi write youlove poems3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the winter
of each other
in heat, sweating
like the garden
when the sun
MantisI thought I was a kaleidoscope of euphoric perceptions,Mantis2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a sensual overlap of sixteen color-receptive cones on the acid spectrum,
creator of words to describe what only I could see when those sinews melted,
and the ocean waxed at my backdoor. I was bottom-feeding, heat-seeking,
capturing bent men like stunned seahorses boiling in the rainbow coral,
blinking wake of sonoluminescent dazzlement: tight jeans wrapped around their ankles,
faces blue but bubbling dank blood to their lips that sealed a pseudonym—
Then I was tongue-tied like a victim complex: always the receiver and never the sadist
of an infliction self-invented. I was wordless and mosquito sex stagnant,
playing in kiddie pools I called the Atlantic, wanting to tear a hole in reality or literature,
make the currents foam in the shape of wet letters that curved for my diction,
but I am not powerful: I am a shrimp. Not a writer, not a leviathan—
Though I don't think I've come to terms with it yet,
so I'll just keep br
seven, eight, eleven, fourteenyou had rough, selfish handsseven, eight, eleven, fourteen3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but they were warm;
i felt them on my back,
and other places i rediscovered
in the grasp of better men,
thinking of you
when i wanted to forget.
A Portrait of You on a Cold Spring Morningblood discolorsA Portrait of You on a Cold Spring Morning2 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
in the end, we will always burn.sometimes i wonder what is it likein the end, we will always burn.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
to be close to things that aren't
meant to be close.
i imagine things with straps at the collar bones, worded at the releasing snap-
cages under shirts a thrashing mess pounding against my temple
alive only when there is hunger playing in our ears so loud
all you can hear is the verbal silence of bone on bone.
SOMETIMES, i imagine it speaks a crescendo of exploding monotones
over leather and the darkness a facade over of our skin:
thighs swollen into what i think is a golden spine under my fingertips,
a strange voice filled with murmurations coming through the black
ready to fill the pregnant silence of friday nights
tucked into reverberating cars in an impending snow-
fingers an absolute touch, burning the coldest of skin,
goose bumps rising into a medley
and sometimes, this voice can say things besides dumb, resounding word vomit
and lies, the reflex of meaningless names and places between our skin and bones,
and it speaks tones of condo
(almost)just once(almost)3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
i want to be that boy i loved with blue-skinned jeans and long sleeves,
smirks the size of last night's lipstick and
crystals in his eyes the shape of black and blue
that boy who would look me in the eye
and stare me down, size me down when my eyes rocked
like broken mahogany of twin ships to the crook of his jaw-
and just for once
i want to take him down-
take down his bony shoulders and golden eyes
like a cat's, his hands like kitchen burns to my back,
his breath like the remnants of burned wood in a fire
smoking down the crook of my neck,
and just for once
i want to be that boy i loved
that took me down-
hold the collars of his bones between my fingers and say
with the same viral fervor-
thank you american godsyou are the only menthank you american gods2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
who could gift me a boy
who could use his fingers
to teach me how to use
my own skin.
Jewelspale-veined feet on the cold tile:Jewels2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a haphazard glass collage
in a garish shade of ocean blue
flecked with turquoise and gold
like drunken fish circling
the overhead light's reflection
was all he could recall when asked
about his parents' first home.
Little Red's StarsLittle Red scrubbed until her knuckles bled,Little Red's Stars3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
her knees grew raw and her cheeks turned red.
"Day in and day out," by the Stars she was told,
"Work hard, and you will soon be worth your weight in gold."
So she did: she worked day in and day out,
in fog, in water, in rain and in drought,
her lips the only part of her that did not move
for she knew the Stars would disapprove.
The villagers always stopped to ask her when she bled:
"Why do you not speak at all, Little Red?
Move me like you move the ground, wade the waters,
so we may leave an example to all our daughters."
She was born with a voice, you see:
one that could give even fire a spark, they would decree--
part the sea, make the earth drum under her taught feet--
yet, they could not figure out why she would not speak.
She only looked down and returned to her work, no doubt,
for everyday they knew she worked day in and day out--
from five in the morning to five in the evening,
to when her hands and knees would have no feeling.