The TouristShaved legs,
blown glass cracked on the edges
two for the price of one
sell away all our liberties
and let them speak for us.
Play out the wrong card
the captain salutes a sinking ship
and a hurricane winks at the corner of our eye
pulled in a whirlpool.
Tornadoes suck themselves in
paradox in a pillowcase
and you wonder what's keeping you up all night
(no, I can't sleep, either)
the monster under your bed
or the monster laying there
inside your mind all the time
and making your hairs stand on the ends.
Life playing on repeat
sinks clogged with secrets too painful to keep
so hard to settle and slow down
rushing head, losing pace
merciless when you beg to finally collapse.
Shave the ashes from your legs
you're fragile like glass
so easily blown and shaped
so easily swallowed and cracked
(and it's not just the edges this time).
UnrequitedThere is a congregation of stars in this sky,Unrequited9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
as if the dew fell up this morning and stuck,
caught in the filaments of a web woven
by a moon too round and white,
too distantly delicate.
Down in the wet green by your white skin,
your still-life arms wrap me in a cold embrace.
Your fingertips are daggers, cutting up
my insides, my insides twisted up in you.
I shudder and bleed little loves.
I swallow you up and pretend that you dissolve,
wishing you didn't writhe inside my chest
like an angry child's tantrum. The taste
of sweat on my tongue turns my stomach;
I suffer through it for the chance to be near you.
You're whispering something to me,
but I don't want to listen. Those words
you didn't say are licking at my ears
like serpent's tongues, singing sweet
lies to me in someone else's voice.
A Sonnet CallA Sonnet Call10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
No anger fills me, though i'm rather pissed
as here I stand and testify with drawl
(by stand I mean I'm propped against a wall—
I conquered seven vodkas with a twist).
My call is for a woman I once kissed;
the girl back at the bar that stopped the brawl
and told me that I had one lovely call!
As firm as metal clasped around my wrist,
her love has grasped my heart and won't let go.
My lawyer said I should not say a word,
but I must tell the world about this treat!
Inebriated glee from head to toe
that frees my heart and makes my vision blurred…
oh officer, you make my life complete.
ThreeIn the dusk-yellow sunshine of the desert, the morning wind is crackling like static over the sand. It breathes salt, breathes sore throats and raw skin against the red mountains. The crows are croaking again, low and harsh and rattling like the final breaths of a half-dead man.Three9 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
This man is alive. He crawls spidery and long-limbed against the dirt-rimed cliffs, lost now in a patch of purple shadow. Now here he is in the sunlight, new and watery, and his skin is red and peeling, and the snatches that have fallen off flutter to the dunes below like snow. This man is alive
(alive for now)
alive for the hot cruel scratch scratch of the sun on his back, on the back of his skull and dry in his hollow cheeks. This man drinks water like
life dripping past his tonsils and curl-purring deep in his belly. This man is alive for now forever and alone.
22-23-2222-23-229 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
A loud rumble pushes its way in among my turned up radio. It doesn't complement the music well, so I pull off the side of the road. Sure enough, my right rear tire is shredded; a mile and a half from the school board meeting I need to cover, too. And my cell phone? Taking the day off at home, because it knew today would be the one day it'd be needed.
I limp the car to a nearby house, where thankfully the woman there knows me. As she goes to find me her phone, two little girls--I'm assuming granddaughters--run straight up to me. Haven't they learned not to trust strange men in slacks?
"What are you doing here?" one asks straight-out, surely a future journalist in the making.
"One of my tires blew. I need to use the phone to call for help."
"My name's Kaylie and I'm 6!" the other says.
"My name's Alison and I'm 8!" the first says, not to be left out.
"My name's Tim and I'm 22."
Both jaws drop. "Whooooa..."
I laugh. "Yeah. That's
Teachers to the DeadWhile we slept,Teachers to the Dead8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you strapped your arm around
my chest like armor and possession,
like this one belongs to me. Together, we are
teaching the things that haunt us
to lie down in their graves.
Here, like this
your demons say to mine as
they demonstrate the art of behaving.
Together, we secure their
broken bodies and set them into six feet of
(but we do not follow
we cannot go in their stead)
They do not know theyre dead. Its
always a blow when we break the news.
They find themselves jealous of our
human skin and our inhaling
(we are too kind
to show that we are more alive without them
that losing them
Sand and CementShe dreamt in the morning, the bed half empty with the sheets harnessing her body. In the dream there was only a street corner, the rest of the street a white mass, yet to be sketched. Her face wasnt her own, but she could feel each tendon move and the sensation follow. The bicycle rested against her thigh, a replica of the one her dad bought back in 87. She ran a hand through the two-tone streamers as she waited for the newspapers, and turned her face just as the wind smoothed by. In the white basket laid a baby wrapped in newspaper, its face woven red, but when she tried to pick the newborn up, her arms changed. They merged to thick scales and she suddenly felt a falling sensation. The only thought shed had was how shed land without limbs. There was no way to ease the pain upon impact.Sand and Cement8 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Patricia woke, the din in the kitchen rising to a clatter. She untangled herself from the bed sheets and shuffled, still dream-drugged, across the threshold.
splitting micasplitting mica10 years ago in Typographical More Like This
Uncloud the borealis of your eye, show your iceberg secrets
on an axis that intersects the surface
an axis that Greek geographers established as a reference line
from pole to pole. While Greece preserves the memory of itself in Rome,
its philosophers deduce morals from the nature of man
rather than from God
and baize of whitened-green mouldering
from the pews-sides
leaving naked wood
to the disturbance caused by a water droplet,
that will be smoothed out by gravity.
This complex folding over cannot be drawn, though its properties
can be specified in full mathematical detail.
∑ 2398 a & b (put > zero as quantum) α 161
True StoryMy proudest day yet, and to top it allTrue Story8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
you wrote your first poem.
As I drove, you told me our car was
a beautiful white horse
without a name.
And to think, you do not even know that song
or that this is a desert.
We slipped on slick oiled streets,
and you soothed my nerves with a gentle,
and the tires gripped.
I pulled up beside a sedan
turned dapple grey by the weather
and we stepped out onto a badly drained lot.
You closed your poem, saying simply,
"The rain turned into glass."
the conversationalistthe conversationalist11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
slit-eye winter sun-
rise buried to the hilt
as if you
'd answered my every fucking
question speaking french-
it's October again, my darling
for pity, oh. for pity's sake, this
talking in morse or
semaphore is getting
by the day.
these icy fingers
are not persuaded by my plea of self
defence, the jury's
out, the cock has crowed,
the books are
falling from the shelves
like dodgy tape recordings of
conversations overheard in dreams,
what I want to know is why,
I had my mouth ajar as if to speak,
as though the distance between my
tongue and lip
was suddenly too far.
P.C.PreachingI just spent 30 minutes on a bus staring at a wall;P.C.Preaching8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
someone wrote in Japanese, English, French
sparrowsparrow8 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
The trees are unsettled, their limbs tossing in the violent tempest -- gauges for Natures wrath or love. The storm plays like a silent film as I sit in the cabin of my car. My old campus gym sits in the distance like a stolid mountain.
The world comes to life in stereo as I step out. Dashing down the side of the parking lot, my umbrella mimics the trees. Trying to avoid the rain, I notice an upturned creature on the wet pavement. I stoop to examine it. Its pale legs stick up like flags of resignation. People must think Im crazy, a university student examining some dead thing. He must be studying taxidermy.
Its a baby sparrow.
Its feathers are maturing over its soft pink underbelly, bunched into a mangy blanket by the rain. Its feet shiver in the wind. Dirt, pine needles, and assorted debris are stuck to its bo
The Value of a SecondThe Value of a SecondThe Value of a Second8 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
The Hyperectus malmadonus has a life span of 23 seconds.
What? Charlie turned to Eve. She was sitting across the rickety table from him, sipping her coffee slowly. He had been looking out the window, watching the endless stream of people walking by.
The malmadonus, a single-celled animal living in the intestines of the swamp cows of Zavijava IV. They are born, reproduce, and are eaten by their offspring, all within 23 seconds. Eve wound her finger around a long strand of her black hair.
Oh, Charlie replied, his attention already drifting back to the passersby again. All of them were different. Some short. Some tall. Black, white, brown. But they all seemed to merge together. Neo-metal punk hippies with staples in their eyelids somehow blended in with the goofy college kids donning white baseball
Smoke and Mirrors.Possibilities and eyelidsSmoke and Mirrors.8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of love or something similar
Effortless and seamless
of something similar
while pseudo lighting glistens
on the rain outside.
trapped in cages of
wearing bruises and screaming
"I hope I die on this, this day
release me, the Saint
they called Valentine."
Charcoal streaks and trickling down rivets
in faces and the lonely
hearts tonight will be worse.
Ugly beauty queens will dine
with a wolf
and the fiends tonight.
gently sketching music notes and whispers.
He stood there, stunned...The door had no push/pull sign.He stood there, stunned...8 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
Poetry is....Poetry is:Poetry is....9 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
It is all that and more.
Poetry is life.
It is everything and everywhere.
Poetry is death.
It is nothing yet something.
Poetry is dreams.
It is the night like sleep that we cannot remember when we wake.
Poetry is me.
It is you.
It is us.
MerHis bare feet pad along the strandMer9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of warm beach, on dazzling white sand,
kneeling now and then to gather shells
and take in a breeze of ocean smells.
Comes a moment when he isnt sure,
in the brightness of the sun
on an endless sea of azure,
and lifts a hand to shade his eyes
while he tries to discern a figure
that lies, supine, at the edge alone,
where the breakers fade and die.
Upon approaching he looks down
at a young woman, a mere girl
perhaps, by the look of her breasts,
and is mesmerized at the
tiny bubbles of foam that caress
a fishtail of aquamarine
where human limbs ought to be.
Transfixed by this feminine pearl,
he longs for the world that delivers
to him this creature of Mer.
And thus she meets his gaze with hers
while he cries, overwhelmed and grateful.
Like the pull of the tide when a
spent wave coils around his feet.
He knows, in his heart, she feels him
as her fingers, like slender seaweed
slip away, beckoning, "Come in... come in".
The QuiltIt began with the dreams. Minute, stabbing dreams that hit me in the back of the neck like torpedoes, shattering my rest only minutes after I had passed into sleep, leaving me shell-shocked and frightened in the seeping darkness and crowded shadows.The Quilt8 years ago in Horror More Like This
I say dreams - and not nightmares because they were not uniformly horrific. Not, at least, in content. But they all shared one thing: they were physical in nature received not just by my minds eyes and ears, but by my whole body. And one other thing: never in any case was I transported, as is usual, to some far-off dreamscape nor even to any reconstructed scene of my everyday life. Only in the confines of the four walls of my bedroom would they play out.
The first that I can remember saw me lying in bed with my face to the wall, as is my habit. I could not see anything because I was asleep, but somehow, I still had an awareness of the room around me. To the extent that rather than being cocooned in the warmth of s
wirelessI.wireless8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
we weren't looking for Kevin Bacon,
weren't trying to find a way--
it was just ten steps
to no one in particular.
looking for damn connections,
screw chaos theory.
I'm gonna find me some sense.
less than three percent of potential
rapists are willing to commit murder
if you are in a situation where you feel that such a person
committing such a crime on you is possible
SummerWebbed skin stretchesSummer8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a pale oddity
across my spread toes.
against the hanging heat
low, sea-level lurking,
cocooning my unfolded
drops of coolness, beads
sliding down my copper-sun
water filled balloon, bobbing
lazily, a frog's translucent
egg, tinged with the promise of
Heat pulls it down, pinions me
to the concrete sidewalks
my grass-stained knees.
Daddy's GirlHome alone, a big locked door.Daddy's Girl8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Brand new razor,
A folded note on the floor.
The mirror shattered,
A young girl lay dead.
Nothing really mattered;
Not in their heads.
Emotions in a tangle,
The room begins to swirl,
'Cause she was Mommy's little angel,
And Daddy's perfect girl.
Poetry is Not...Poetry is Not...11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Poetry is not a competition
to see whose voice can out-bellow
It is not the mock elevation of baristas,
waitresses, and coffee girls.
It is not referring to grown ass women as girls.
Poetry is not performance.
It is not the trapeze.
Not the spotlight, limelight,
or a long, harrowing limo ride.
It is not an intricate courting dance.
Not the irridescence of peacock tails
Poetry is not a cockfight.
It's not a dating service for the pretentious
Poetry will not stop war.
Will not feed the hungry.
Will not build homes from shoddy rhyme schemes.
Poetry will not score you any points
for the afterlife, nor with women.
If you are an asshole, no stack of verse
will hide that fact. Poetry in its artifice
will not deliver to you a happily ever after.
It will not glue your marriage.
It will not shield you from his drunken
misogynist fist. Even if he writes poetry.
Poetry is not an elixir or a tool.
It is decorative, like sheer linen curtains,
and that is all.
Understanding GraffitiUnderstanding Graffiti9 years ago in Editorial More Like This
Understanding Graffiti: Learn To Stop Worrying And Love The Bomb
An essay by Benjamin Alldridge
Choke train buffers like a head-locked Ed Koch
Nurture the craft of concrete visionaries
Cave painters screaming "Loosen the cuffs!"
Cave paintings get the natural history feather dust
Pick a lust.
Aesop Rock really says it best with those lyrics right there, and sums up the general mentality of society towards the Graffiti community as a whole. Throughout this article we'll investigate why that is, and even more importantly to the population at large, ways to try and make its existence as pleasant as possible. After all, art will always have some place in society, no matter what form it takes.
Before we go any further, let's actually set down some basis for what we mean when we use the term "Graffiti". For the majority of people who use the term, it will take the form of the general definition, as follows: ".. the illegal or unauthorized defacing of a b