HomeI live in a place whereHome3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The wind whispers secrets
Softer than a moth's wing beats,
Where the light of the sun
With mists in bouts of swordplay,
Where life is found
In the tiniest crevices
Of the root-torn rock face,
Where the breeze
Rolls over the treetops
Like waves over sand at the seashore;
I live in a place
People can only dream of
And hope to see one day.
He Thinks By FireCastlesHe Thinks By Fire11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Set the scene in Vienna, Rome
Tripoli - countries in cities.
Restaurants in the shade.
Men in chairs
With white straw hats, the sun curve
Of the day, and buzzing of motors on
Family visits an old man.
A hearty dinner, the sun a shine on the glass.
She says tell
Like you used to.
The boys poke the ground,
Fiddle with the earth,
Before he sighs.
I sign in blood.
A column splits, spoken
Ramparts, assailed corridors.
Degraded anarchs in the veins.
I hear Fire.
Random chaos in
The voi- voi- Void.
And my entry read:
'Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!'
Abandon all hope, ye who enter!
The stun is complete. Boys caught moving
Sag down and shake.
She asks why? How?
And he repeats, numbly:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
MotherMother10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Mother wakes at five thirty in the morning
even Sundays, though the newspaper hasn't been delivered
to me sitting at the top of the stairs.
She squints at me with Hitchcock eyes,
says that my bathwater is turning light gray, it's time to get in.
Sundays, we go to church, which isn't-just-a-social-thing-young-lady.
I'm here because I would neverever ask for anything else
if she bought me a dog.
It dawns, and her voice percolates my future, drip
drip drip, we say Scholarship.
I have a hard time knowing her
without her glasses
and her makeup in its technicolor glory.
She drives me to school every day, to save on parking.
Trucks and equinoxes blow past us as I stare out the window,
drawing pictures in the condensation with my thumb.
She says did you know that Beethoven
never saw the sea? Later we should go to the beach,
she'll show me a picture of a furtive flute of a girl
in a poodleskirt and a yellow-spattered room.
We can walk up and down the sand together
but it also meansIt's mundane,but it also means8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the soda aisle
and my wandering, walking up
then down. I frown to distract.
And buy the soda you love
because you might, you
might be here to have it. Though
with I need a drink.
I don't need a drink.
The same strength, faux-weak
ness that I will always have,
and tell myself I learned from you.
I buy it, afraid I won't like the taste,
or maybe I will and it'll be there
for a few days squishing along inside me.
It's just fucking soda, but it also means
I still love you.
CondimentsCondiments9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
A horse snorting wildly at the slightest slither;
we are natural enemies, ankle-biting snake against
fetishized freedom, all hair. You pepper-eating poets
seduce me every time. Against my character, might
I add: My nostrils are as dilated
as they've ever been, to detect the slightest hint
of movement from you, a stirring and then
the anatomy of the thing will emerge.
Laundry List: Please buy
Tide, the catalogue of the human soul,
self-cutting. You might crumple up the writing
and swallow it like a spy,
but burning toast is no career, my friend. Perhaps
that bitch poetry is a necrophiliac, never letting dead
archetypes sleep. Yes, I know that Helen has launched
ships from: Vietnam, world wars, the Midwest,
which is landlocked. But you cannot kill the
fat-fingered fairies, the delicate forms. Rapunzel,
Rapunzel, let down your standards! I will give you
a dose of your own medicine, and like a cancer
The Writer: ForewordThe Writer: Foreword11 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
I was first aware of the peculiarities of Norman Potter's case when a guard told me he had made a pen of himself. I was then requested to turn over my own pens and notebook before seeing him.
In my 24 year tenure at Belleview Institution, I have learned to quickly adapt to avoid any of the nuances—unnecessary tapping or other noises, looking into the eyes for too long, etc.—that may trigger an adverse reaction in a patient. In a place so criminal, so volatile, it is a simple rule of survival. Even so, I had never been forced to relinquish my own tools. Going in with only my suitcase and a tape recorder made me feel stripped, almost vulnerable.
I entered the interview room, known as the "board room" to other staff in the ward. It's simple, white-walled, and nearly taken up by a long, executive-style table. It adds a small sense of grace to an otherwise sterile, fluorescent-lit box, but its real purpose is separation. The length limits my exposure to whatever ill wind might be blowing ac
OldDustKidTakesAShowerOldDustKidTakesAShower11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
vacant plates and empty stomachs sneer
Through their glossy shine, just having been licked clean
By everything you've ever said
Cores strike like drums when they are sincere.
Times your ribs can beat my brains out… so maybe
I shouldn't lay so close when hearts and
hearts strike together, to make puzzle
the head that stayed so well.
It used to be safe to sit on my glass chest,
that keeps the papers of yesterday.
They still read the same, just invite a different sense to stay.
Like showing embryonic love in letters (lost in box.);
It's the one drop that stains blue lines and ink
for every hundred that sit and burn my cheeks.
But the dust kids don't recognize when the shower turns on,
just that while in the tub… they are wet
The salt in their eyes scald them more
In their shallow tummies, then their blind
Glass balls could ever stomach
volcanic glasslatin can not describe the electricityvolcanic glass6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of blue veins suspended in cala lily skin. they fan out,
protazoic, dormant beneath a sea of iced flesh.
i grip the sink, peroxide strands of kelp washing up
on the banks of my shoulders like
the white-gold sunshine
that would prism behind your chinook arch
with all the beauty of a nuclear winter.
for the transplant of my frontal lobe
to the heaven above his stratus comforter, instructions
have been written. next time he is carried in on a foen wind i am to
one, stand very still
two, present my brain to the sky
wait for the apricots
of sunrise to settle
into the overcast of his eyes.
i practise a little and wish i had a veinous hum, skeptical
that an electrocardiogram could detect a beat.
The Black Hole VicinityMy pulse no longer beatsThe Black Hole Vicinity5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
in tune with every honk
and my feet are out of place
with your walk;
I can barely keep up.
This city numbs my very bones
and I write but cannot talk;
the words keep freezing in my mouth.
I shuffle and shiver,
grinding my teeth at night,
while every other cog
is moving, moving, moving
and I am fully stopped.
Love is, 'poemLove is like the wind, your life is spinning just like spring has sprun, yet voices lie there, and sing the saddest song. lies lies lies. are what they seem to be, and you soon find out, there will never be a you and me.Love is, 'poem6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Love is like the rain, it splashes down onto the ground in a gracelful way, some might say. It sings the tune, the tune of love, yet gets in peoples way, and seems to missbehave. What does this mean? Will I ever see the rain again? Or will I just be outside, burning with the pain?
Love is like the ocean, it moves swiftly, and never backs down. It twists and turns, but never stops. And always seems to make the mark. But as it sings, it leaves its ways. And parts into one, while the other goes away.
Surface SilenceSurface Silence10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Bitten talons snatch out
the cotton in your candy,
dipped in acid,
they claw at your bile duct.
"Come play awhile?" I ask
with eyes aflame and a daggered throat,
hoping you say no
because your silky milk voice
won't turn this gold into straw.
"In distress," you say,
"Is how I like them. With
a ripe pomegranete mouth open
and a torn seafoam dress,"
you serpent-tongued your lips,
"I've always wanted
to fuck Aphrodite."
Icicle teeth of mine melt away
to oil puddles dripping down my chin.
I swallowed my tongue
and you were pinned
by your rib.
Even I remembered when smiles
weren't pocked by impatience
and the sun glowed like the moon
Melody PoemEverything seems to fall, to the ground, soft and hard.Melody Poem6 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Strangled up in my feelings, I'm so confused, so confused.
I fall to the ground, on my knees.
These Tears I cry, fail my Heart.
Everytime I know to smile, its always fake, its always fake.
I can't choose now, its coming too close.
The winds have strengthend, and the stars are falling.
The whispers seem to fill the night,
the waters seem full of life.
Hearts are broken, children are playing.
This melody, is so un-willing.
Its far away, my laughter sings.
I see your face, and you've grown some wings.
Over and over again, lets play this Melody.
Starting from depression, over to serenity.
Over and over again, Scream your Love.
This way to live, is such a waste.
Stop the hate, Play the Laughter, Pause the Pain, I'm going Insane.
The Man Who Would Chase WinterA man who tore at my mindThe Man Who Would Chase Winter5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like a half-forgotten dream;
pieces of ideas burning,
tugging my thoughts to him as a child.
For a moment, the present would not exist;
our world of dreams more real
than the world around me. Another gift
from him to me.
I remember late phone calls,
strung together as lanterns;
the only thing
that brightened the winter in my heart.
I was a risk not many would have taken,
with tears caught in my throat
and a howling in my head.
You gave me air
when I couldn't find my lungs
but love isn't a respirator.
I still have tears trapped in my throat
and I gasp for air occasionally
but the howling has grown faint.
Sometimes a man tugs at my mind again,
I remember lanterns
and a world of dreams, all our own.
The Safety of Familiar ObjectsThe Safety of Familiar Objects10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Splinters puncture membrane-covered clouds
time and time again her yellow breath
of smog and fog and ink on wet newspapers
sticks to black asphalt covered with May-colored sprinkles
and geometric daffodils unsnapping necks.
A condom wrapper defies the suckwhirl tide and clings to driftwood
and bangles of sky glimmer in a rainbow collapse
of oil. There's metal in her nostrils and linoleum in her eyes;
she slips piles of nails and bloody slime down my throat
along with percussive bells and a flower like stained napkins.
Static PauseStatic Pause10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The light would break over
Time's arc (for it surely did
fly, although not like we intended) and all,
that is to say all,
the ripples in the clouds' fingernails
were painted with hose streams.
And hey! these
superficial wounds will heal,
it's merely the white noise in my ears
that hurts my brain (never you) so
don't fret; don't
Heaven must have had a
cavity today for she is quite numb and
dribbling all over your window
(I'd offer a kerchief to clean the mess but
you know how I lack in chivalry). Well,
things will look up
(or down, if you live
belowthecrotchoftheworld) and I daresay
the freezing will wear off in due time.
and I, but mostly it was
would split lips over broken teacups and
silently watch an earthquake devour the rainforest,
I think our pollution might
be only t
Lamplight DinerDown on Arley P-L,Lamplight Diner8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
an assemblage of seven
gather where the light
meets their exposed feet.
Dremels wouldn't do them
a damn bit of good.
Rare is how they take
Well-done is for the
ones behind concrete
and measured glass.
They split the tab in
males never learn share.
I met one at the
with stubby flesh
and dead cells.
all he could do
was recap what he
ate earlier that day.
The Action I OwnSleeping to the sound of the truck's motion vibrating my eight year old arms,The Action I Own9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I dreamt of skyscrapers peppering mountains like trees.
A current of cars rushing on highway rivers,
The undertow of black rubber skid tracks.
I dreamt of cities at night looking like pearls,
threaded by bridges to wear around my neck.
And then suddenly opening my eyes,
the way children can sense when they're home;
I woke up to blazing orange lights against blackness and pine trees,
looking like the fires of coal-powered engines, of cigarette thoughts.
The logging yard lit up like sunlight through stained glass church windows
or a desert oasis.
These trucks being loaded and unloaded were endless,
This has always existed, I thought to myself,
This will always exist.
Ten years later, I can see those lights from my backyard
with logging trucks going east and west
and I am eight years old again thinking,
This is how God must feel.
Everyone FallsEveryone Falls10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You uproot the browning trees,
anger at the kidnapping of Persephone,
anger that everything grows.
Lightning flashing from your eyes
could be better used to raise Lazerus
or even a stitched together monster.
Better used to rake the dead into a pile
to jump into and feel the prickles of leaf wafers
crackling into your cranium.
Better to grab a handful of the intruding grass
and play God to the ants.
Run your pencil fingers
down the spine of a shady nymph,
who is losing her hair with every passing day
and wish she could spring to life
or uproot the dead.
She's wrinkled, sure,
and burned from the sun,
but she is smiling still
as you rip her arms off her body.
Remember the dust
from crushed leaves.
and inhaled by all.
FischerBobby Fischer played blitz matchesFischer10 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
on Yahoo chess
until the Japanese caught him running.
So I was told one morning
out on the deck,
with a newspaper in one hand and an eye on the sun
coming up over the trees.
I hadn't known he was running;
but standing with my hand on the railing,
I saw Bobby in a small cell with both hands in his lap
and a scowl. Bobby Fischer scowled in my dreams.
Was his nemesis aware?
Sitting behind a curtain and alone,
with a glass and a cigarette, and a view of the Urals outside.
Did he know?
And I heard Bobby mutter
All I want to do, ever, is...
Yeah, Bobby. Yeah.