post mortem.Some days,post mortem.8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
we grow old:
little love letters,
dated and sealed,
on the roadside,
with the fag-ends
and drifting crisp-packets
of the fast lane.
And There Was Lighti.And There Was Light10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
He was seventeen when he died.
I never went to the funeral
but I walked past it the day of
the service. His mother
was in the backseat of a blue Dodge,
door open, head in her hands.
"My baby," she kept repeating.
"My baby." It would go from sobbing, to
screaming, to a soft whisper that
I could only hear being carried
on the wind.
It was a Wednesday afternoon that they found
his old red pickup truck parked
out front of Slim's, two beer bottles in
the back and the windows cracked to let the stale
I heard that his dad told the police he was
gonna take that old truck and fix it up, because
he had promised his son before—
because it's always in the before—
And in the after, his mother never had dry eyes
and I'm pretty sure my mom told me
that she saw his dad at the bar every night,
drinking his sorrows down because some people can't
handle the stress.
Some people can't figure out why their son would
"Some men just want to w
CandaceI have named the lumpCandace1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
in my throat Candace;
and she is what her name means-
penitent and contrite,
remorseful for every word that slips
past her because they all have
come out misshapen and wrong.
To GrandfatherI lost himTo Grandfather1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
in the ruins of his lungs.
I go out of myself
looking for him
in the mirror
& autumn eyes
filled with dirt water
is the only resemblance
to paint his face
I go out looking
for you everyday in the cemetery
hoping your soul
could knock at my eyelids.
I lost everything
in the ruins of your lungs
but your hands
are the only things
I yearn for.
heartstrings.i.heartstrings.1 year ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The night is aglow, sitting
in the depths of my heart;
the city lights knitting
pale orange halos above.
In breaths pale with Argyle pink
diamond, the lovers rise
over the very brink
of the iceberg's cyan crown,
like celestial bodies.
In the crumbs of honeycomb
scattered on the table,
I'll find our proteome;
I want to decipher our
genetics, map your heartbeat
and find constellations
among every discreet
naevus nestled upon you,
joining the dots.
I'll pursue you forever,
until my worthless bones
(in boundless endeavour)
are at last compressed into
Argyle pink diamonds.
i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bonesoh, i am not a poet;i can't keep walking on these dry-rot bones11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
like the ink scratches
of plath, i am
specter boy: decay,
dispose, & disappoint
because this is the way
that writers wane -
(this hangman head is no
survivor story, & gods
do not burn out
neshamah.apollo's misstep.neshamah.1 year ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
look at your clock. it's tomorrow. all the seconds and minutes of yesterday are gone, disintegrated with the window dust. 12:00 a.m.; re birth.
i've always had this theory that in between 11:59 p.m. and 12:00 a.m., there's this vast ticking of nothingness that hovers between the minutes. just for a second, you are nowhere. the day is both finished and regenerating, and that's sort of magical. i always think that apollo falters, just for a second, as he puts the moon away, tucked neatly in his teeth.
born in a typewriter.
i can never think of how to start anything. the point, of course, is to grab the reader's attention before they become bored with your work and leave, and i don't know if i can do that. i am afraid i cannot ever begin to tell you all of my story.
if i were to be chronological, i would start with telling you when i began to write. but, 1: i am never
for Erkyou must have heard by nowfor Erk10 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
that diamonds are only made
beneath a million pounds of
you must have heard by now
that pearls are only made
as a form of self-defense;
but darling, have you heard
someone tell you to your face
that you are brilliant,
beautiful in your own skin, in
every freckle, every frown,
in every graceful good morning
and every war waged and weathered
in the marrow of your bones -
you are so much more
than the scars you wear
and the stories they will tell;
you are so much more
than the lines you will draw
in love and laughter
and landscapes made alive;
you are so much more
than the climb you have yet
to conquer -
you must have heard by now
that we are all of us newly made
every seven years;
you must have heard by now
that we are none of us prisoners
of our past, but products of it;
but if you have not heard by now
that every new day and every disaster
is another chance to write bad poetry
and another chance for someone to
standing at the edge of the sea.And so,standing at the edge of the sea.1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
I, in all my feeling, spread
my fingers like felt, barren,
harmonious comment to touch and take
such pleasures. We do trip off the tongue
and ride the darkness through
tunnels of sun, pebbled with radiation
like speckled eggs, or Orion's freckled belt
as it lounges along your arms,
caresses your neck and chest.
I, in turn, will breathe the North Wind,
let it come sailing across the scenery of our souls,
blue like electricity in a lightning storm,
gold like joyful sunrise;
raindrops like crystallised manna
fall in our hands and kiss our hair.
Washed up in our own wonder
at mysteries of wasteland deserts, of romance
in smiling river mouths, twining tongues with the ocean.
Meanwhile our fingers blend,
holding the tides at bay,
till sunburst enters quietly and
leaves its breath upon our lips.
The EndThere are shards of arctic skyThe End1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
in my soup
and they crack
against my voice box
and they snap
into my burnt-out throat
and they scrape
their graffiti on my sternum.
The sky lives in me for a moment.
A biting sky
that fights for resurrection;
it pools in my eyes
and begs to be read
in the subtext of a stormy exhale --
and that North wind
heads north, heads spinning - heads.
Heads. Guildernstern is dead
All are betrayers.
They tempted the madness in me.
They spoke to it.
It grew bigger. I grew bigger.
I grew until madness blacked the sun
there are shards of arctic sky
in my stomach.
For I have seen humanity spread thin
over the mouldy crust of a dead rock.
I have seen them abolish my stars
and blot out hope.
They grew me,
they cultivated me, groomed me
and now there are shards of the sky,
pinwheeling in my oesophagus.
Now the madness has eaten the moon.
Now, We are over.
Fragile Magpie MoonsIt's only spring when you first wake up,Fragile Magpie Moons11 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
two magpies and the dull ache of menstrual cramps
tapping on. Death's window
sleeps in all our bones,
a dripping water faucet.
Brittle things--like love,
a jar of not-quite-nothing--
small and fragile and ours
are the presences we carry
while running from the moon.
Daily Literature Deviations for March 28th, 2014Daily Literature Deviations for March 28th, 201410 months ago in Literature Features More Like This
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cynicism only gets you so fari've been bleedingcynicism only gets you so far4 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
for quite a while now, i've been
watching the sun rise through the webs
of skin between my fingers
i've been stitching up my skin like it's
an old pair of jeans, like tearing so easily is
i think it's because this skin isn't
mine, it's an amalgamation
of other people's expectations and
screwed-up pieces of paper and
morning coffee or
and breath made for a different set of lungs
i've been living off
caffeine and insomnia
for quite a while now, i've been
talking to the moon through the diamonds
on my window pane
i've been throwing myself into the glass like i'm
a sparrow, like i'm a blind bird
i think it's because i don't know any
better, i pretend to be the queen
of the universe inside my room and
the ocean inside my teacup and
the lullaby i don't know the tune
or the words to
and a lover wrapped in plastic for the holocene age
i've been dreaming of
for quite a while now, i've been
thinking about running throug
under the underslately i’ve been under the unders,under the unders7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
which is to say lately i’ve been hosting the ghosts
of everything i’ve ever loved and that silence gets to you,
you know, it tears you like the idea of something horrific
and before you know it, your entire existence is
a fresco of maybes and apologies and snapped skulls
and by snapped skulls, i am alluding to the notion that this sterile noise,
this silence, drives you crazy. once, a man told me that boredom
has its holy uses and i laughed at him and the rush of nostalgia
that immediately followed was the worst melancholy,
let me tell you, it was like feeling each of your trillion cells burn
until there was none of you left.
that melancholy was like disappearing,
and i don’t mean the not-eating kind but the kind that has no kind,
the kind that makes you forget your name with its black magic
and sterile noise and its silence.
so again, lately i’ve been under the unders and i’ve been
living with the unforgotten memor
Dear Baltimore Child: A Postmortem GhazalMy dear Baltimore child,Dear Baltimore Child: A Postmortem Ghazal1 year ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
dear tale-told heart, gin-joint king,
Winter is colorless without you,
all white and dead.
I miss the boldness of your black,
I miss the color red.
I wear your favorite color, grieve,
though we were never wed.
My dark, distant poet,
dreaming evermore in red.
Annabel Lee should have been written
for me, instead;
She was white winter-stale,
and I am bright summer-red.
I watched winter take your soul,
watched the frost in your lungs spread.
You can be no lover now,
drained of all your blood, your red.
You are colored, still,
blue and beautiful and dead.
But I cannot warm your body with mine,
cannot give to you my red.
I have tried to wake you with kisses,
tried to make us a wedding bed
In your tomb in the city by the sea,
five hour energyi supposefive hour energy1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
last week was only an aftershock
of the earthquake you were before.
this place used to vibrate
with metal strings and melodic,
testimonies to life,
emitting coffee-scented moods
and the burn of it too.
i had memorized the
sounds of silence,
i couldn't help but relish it.
no longer had i known
the sounds of folk
and scent of mocha-
you became nothing more
than an echo of the laughter
i so desperately needed to hear again.
then the echoes got louder,
bouncing ferociously off the walls
to be made manifest
i walked into your room
expecting exactly what i found-
an unmade bed,
and an empty beer
(the one that you insisted you needed
just days ago).
i pressed my nose
into the pillow
for incense and cologne and starbucks
to penetrate my mind
and thinking fervently
i already know
what a clean sheet smells like."
how strong an aftershock can be,
never enough room between dawn and duski.never enough room between dawn and dusk9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
we were told never to fall for poets
we were told never to make homes out
of human beings, but neither of us
have ever dealt in absolutes,
so here we are
i've always been an atheist
you make me believe in an afterlife
you tell me that God is the
first and the last great artist
you're always running away
but i bring you back, time
and time again ( like the
hour and the minute hand,
we're always dancing )
we're writing each other into
our own stories, each the protagonist;
each the saviour, each the star-
crossed-companion and i have
never been more in love
how can two people be so close
and yet so far apart? more than
miles chasm the space between us( we're using "i love you"
to fill the silence )
i want to glance back at you
as i take the final steps away( the television is still turned on -
filling the frigid sculpted air
with static and radio heartwaves,
that familiarly too-cold comfort )i
gravestone thumbed flatthere’s only one storygravestone thumbed flat9 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
and it isn’t mine, i will
watch the static on the t.v.
until i die and i won’t think about
my splintered ends
how i g r i n d my
molars flat at night when i
i want a life that doesn’t stick
wall when i throw it and
i want to be able to close
my eyes without seeing
all the things i know you know about me:
sine nomine corpus, a body without a name
forgetting how to sleeptake two.forgetting how to sleep1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
a week past the end of the world,
and there’s something therapeutic
about not caring. I must’ve
really messed up in another life. I
wake up shaking and forget to sleep
shaking and hold your hand, shaking,
remembering the moment I became
poison. I feel crazier than ever; cementhead’s
good and gone with his plastic wrists
and missing soul. the boy who entertains
his unfriendliest nightmares couldn’t
muster up enough innocence
to make it right. (today, he writes
a letter; dear Sophia, he tells me
it doesn’t get better. I’m
locked up for a crime I
didn’t commit. you did it,
Sophia. you built me
wrong.) but you know me,
I fell in love with a problem I
couldn’t fix, a boy blinded
who’s never seen the light.
He was a stormy violet but I
am cyan graying with age--
I spent most of my life dying,
and the rest of it wishing I
was someone else. they tell us
only god will see your ugly;
and the girl who swallowed
SapiosexualI don’t know what I’ll doSapiosexual6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
when the first fistful
of dirt hits the bottom.
Maybe I’ll follow you to the grave.
Or maybe I’ll pray
for a zombie apocalypse,
so we can dine on each
other’s brains one more time.
the drifterthe drifter1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
i tried to tell you that Marley was a ghost,
but you wanted to walk with wings
across gleaming midnight.
How marvelous, this stone stands
sturdy and musty; this glorious church holding up a ticking sun
that slowly cracks the trippy stained glass.
you drilled way below the church stone,
and found dried palm leaves and old joints
like clues to the map of an exceptional life.
I love this torrential literature,
I love a racing heart.
i cannot sleep, i keep dreaming,
ezekiel's visions leave me breathless.
Take it up with the Big Man.
Surely the cannabis creator
must exude a presence that lingers on synapses.
i've lost my ability to fly.
a tender sky with reddening clouds,
the sights of death give birth to no life.
Well, I'm l
romance.I.romance.1 year ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
The daisies burned in the sunlight. His hair fell into his eyes as the long grass swallowed him, devoured his bones. From his outstretched hands grew wildflowers, their pollen pooling in his palms.
The sweet air seemed to choke me as I lifted my voice to the sky.
"It's all right. I don't mind," he replied, eyes drifting into the haze of summer.
The day wore on.
His fingers scraped the kitchen table. I stole a furtive glance at their shadows. The evening entered, pale and lovely, like a ghostly sculpture, lightly dusted with twilight.
"Will you pay for it?"
"It can be fixed."
"No, it can't. Look at it." There were more shards than the fragments of sunlight scattered across the floor.
"All things can be fixed. Did you try?"
My heartbeat sped up and I remembered his foot on the accelerator, the rush of the landscape as it flew on the wind, the singing of the wheels against the tarmac. In the kitchen, the phone rang. It appeared that nobody was going to answer it.
"How deep is
I Can't Remember What You Used to Cook AnymoreSummer ended with a phone callI Can't Remember What You Used to Cook Anymore7 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
“You need to come to the hospital”
“Is it bad?”
“Yes, it’s bad”
The storm had passed, it was quiet now
But the world had shifted, warped
Everything was out of place
Unable to keep my footing
I fell into the darkness