The Problem with OmnipresenceGod went to the optometristThe Problem with Omnipresence9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
because His eyes were full of graveyards
and tombstone-shaped cataracts
clouding His vision.
Sometime around the eleventh
century, the lush green iris of His
eyes had faded to the color
of peeled paint; then, over the decades to
The eye doctor couldn’t find
anything wrong, but he prescribed
a pair of bifocals to make Him
GenerousThere’s this pressure buildingGenerous8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
in my chest that I don’t know
what to do with so I cram mason
jars with cookies, craft mix
tapes full of Americana punk, leaf
through used bookstores, looking
for a taste you never savored, songs you never
heard, books you never read and maybe
I can give you that instead of my feelings.
OssifiedYour voice oscillates overOssified9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
the phone – now strong, rushing,
tumbling to get the words out; now
receding, wearing thin, tired.
The shoulder was built to
bear burdens, to lift, maneuver,
stretch – built to be a compromise
between mobility and stability.
The gash on your arm, eight
inches of allografted precision, nulls
the purpose of a shoulder – to carry
pain on behalf of others – and makes
my own shoulders heavy with
the weight of incapacity:
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,He doesn't write poetry anymore.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
This must be how Gatsby felt.The dock slats of my FacebookThis must be how Gatsby felt.9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
chat list have a green light
at the end, flickering on
and on again.
That’s Internet in small
town Virginia. So close.
So far from your Midwest
hometown, the one you left
me in, stretching my arms out.
And then one fine morning –
Organic Produce OnlyGod planted a garden because HeOrganic Produce Only9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
still likes those, and having
fresh tomatoes for spaghetti.
Sudden ImpactGod gets a pain in HisSudden Impact9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
funnybone, but He doesn't think
it's funny at all. He bumped His elbow
on a continent once and accidentally
killed all the dinosaurs. He liked those.
Word ProblemsA is on a train traveling west at 60 mph. A is going to meet his friend, B. A can only misuse the things he has – A always buys a new pair of shoes instead of taking care of the pair he owns. A is careless with the words that compose his existence and is now down to one-hundred-and-sixty-four words; twenty-eight of them have been misplaced, snow taking the place of sleep and substituting happiness when he meant alone. A likes trains because they follow narrow, predetermined paths.Word Problems8 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
B is A’s friend. B is the synaptic connection at the end of a line of thought. B has accommodated A’s trajectory points of interaction for twenty-nine years. B has owned the same pair of loafers for the last eleven years. B has been waiting at the station since one-oh-eight PM for A’s arrival. It is now seven twenty-six PM. How many of A’s remaining one-hundred-and-thirty-six words will it take to fill the silence between them?
The sound of an approaching train282 days into the yearThe sound of an approaching train9 months ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
and I’m still not living, lost
in this urban ballet, this city
of blinding lights. We knew
a place where no cars can go,
where even the crickets
couldn’t be heard - fifty one miles
down an old country road, where the wildflowers
grow like frilly laces, moonblossoms
tearing through the earth.
You could feel the sky in your
thought out gaze, ignoring the stars
and drifting into five am on velvet
waves just about to break.
We don’t go there anymore.
This thing between us set
the night on fire but it only lasted
a little while. I still have that fire
smoldering in my ashtray heart, but
flowers aren’t apologies. You’ve endured
so many storms that you became one – I wore you like a bruise.
I’ll be on the next train to Vegas, dreaming
about photographs from another time.
Love is a smoke made from the fumes
of sighs – may as well buy another
pack. My lungs are empty anyway.
Metaphorically SpeakingPeople are like books;Metaphorically Speaking1 year ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
full of stories and easily
broken at the spine.
A Hierarchy of Things I'd Like to BeI would rather be stupid but kind, than intelligent but cruel. It goes without saying that I would prefer both virtues with none of the vices, but life is all about hard choices. There’s a ladder of preference:A Hierarchy of Things I'd Like to Be8 months ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The cruelty of the stupid is born out of fear and ignorance. The cruelty of the intelligent is multiplied by their capacity for thought; they should know better.
I did know better – but I left the blade dull anyway. You swing, you miss, you swing, you miss; a nick on the neck, a lock of hair.
Dad trained me on logs. You split it right down the middle – one cut, two logs. He showed me where the arteries are, how to cause the least pain, how to use your intelligence to be kind when you’re being cruel.
You swing, you slice; red. You swing, you hit; the first vertebrae. You swing, you jump; right in the puddle. You swing, he pushes; callused hands on your back. You swing, you thump;
Dreadful WhispersI think it’s the anxietyDreadful Whispers9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
medication, or the lack
of, that keeps my dreams from
being dreams, but not horrific
enough to be nightmares.
The images won’t linger longer
than a few minutes, but the tension
stays, a butterfly on my shoulder,
waiting to brush my ear with
a whisper of dread that sets my pulse
ContactIt’s too brief to be a proper memoryContact1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
but I remember it all the same –
me, standing, hands resting on a chair;
you, bustling about the room
just behind me,
a brief hand against the concave of my backside,
and you’re out the door.
ApplicationI have good reading comprehension skills, am a fastApplication10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
typist, can do the entire project in ten minutes under
the right pressure (that is, the last eleven minutes).
Familiar with Microsoft Word, PowerPoint, and the
basics of CSS code. Adaptable and quick to learn.
I’m good at editing fiction, critically but kindly
(thorns are dulled among good company).
I can blow up a balloon, but can’t tie it off.
I have a hat for every occasion, and a few
just for smiles. I can make forty-eight
cookies from a bag of mix meant to make only
twenty-four (math was never my best subject).
Your tea will be too sweet, but never too strong.
I will be too sweet, but never too strong.
I fold into a suitcase for easy storage among
guests, packed neatly away into a little corner
of your choosing. I’m a poor conversationalist,
but a good listener; you can outsource all your
worries to me, along with the bad days, terrible
meetings, mediocre superiors, and empty coffeepots
(I’ll never trivial
Heavenly FatherOnly Jesus gives HimHeavenly Father9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
ties for Father's Day.
GreenwareGod took a pottery classGreenware7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and could have spun perfect
pots from the store-bought
clay the instructor found half
off with an expired coupon.
He could have thrown slender
vases on a rickety wheel
or molded leather-hard discards
into elegant tea cups.
The glaze on his biscuits
unblistered; His earthenware
free of crackle; no shivering
to be found on His mugs.
God took a pottery class
and made sure every piece was flawed,
and called them perfect.
TithingGod went on tourTithing9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
visiting the different denominations.
They didn’t know He was on tour,
except maybe the one or
two parishioners that looked at Him funny
when He emptied His entire
wallet into the collection plate.
God is a hipster.God went to StarbucksGod is a hipster.9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
because the Wi-Fi signal in
heaven is crap. He pulls
an HP out of the laptop bag and
rolls His eyes at the kid lugging
in a typewriter. He clicks on Word
because He never really stopped
creating – He has more furniture
than He knows what to do with
and no wall space left for His canvases.
He likes Word – His Word – because
it reminds Him of another beginning,
before time, before space, before everything.
Loving a WriterWhen you read their work –Loving a Writer1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
and it is work,
and you will often come second to the job –
it’s best to know which pieces are fictions,
which ones are wishes,
and which parts are for you.
Missed CallSometimes the dial toneMissed Call8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
jostles when I call, as though
the other side was disrupted
in the ringing. When you don't
answer, I like to pretend it was
you, phone clattering on the tiles
in your haste to connect.
I am a tiger.I am a tiger:I am a tiger.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I camouflage myself in crowds
with fingerless gloves
and white headphones
pumping urban melodies.
I am a tiger:
I don't belong to concrete cities
or country pastures,
but to dark corners
and abandoned ruins.
I am a tiger:
I have stripes on my wrists
and am hunted for sport
by men with fragile egos,
sated by destruction.
I am a tiger,
and my stripes have made me strong.
Stories of feelings with no names - Revision i.Stories of feelings with no names - Revision1 year ago in Short Stories 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, let alone formulated time to write a reply. You still get just a little hopeful when you hear the mailman drive by. You 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 your late Grandma Moses.
You lost your voice one day. You woke up to a hollow echo in the base your throat and knew you’d lost something special before you’d ever had a chance to say anything worthwhile. You checked under the bed and tried the lost and found, but couldn’t even ask if anyone had heard it lately.
A sudden awareness that occurs during funerals that you are going to die. You are dying right now – your cells are shedding like snakeskin and your hair is turning silver and every moment is one less than
Little Things LostYour blank white walls are a canvas for your interests and a note on your practicality. A line of hooks holds colored scarves and hats; a color-coded whiteboard categorizes your responsibilities for the month; corkboards above the green-sheeted bed showcase postcards from friends and strangers, from California to Finland, Turkey, Russia. You are keenly aware of these sort of things – how easy routine is, how quickly life piles up. You are constantly re-arranging your room, looking for all the little things you lost: hair ties, dry erase markers, tubes of chapstick, coins, paperclips, pushpins, a note from a song, a memory from two years ago, the sand in your hourglass.Little Things Lost1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
A Lesson in ForgivenessGod joined the KKKA Lesson in Forgiveness6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
for about three hours,
long enough for a member
to spot the black flesh
under His sleeve and rip
off the hood to find a face
as white as a vampire.
While the Grand Master stammered
apologies, He smiled genially
and patted his shoulder,
because God forgives everyone.