The Craven: A Parody of PoeOnce upon a court inquiry, while my witness plead sincerely,The Craven: A Parody of Poe in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Over whether or not he witnessed a murder on a mansion floor,
While I prodded, nearly smacking, suddenly there came a cracking,
As of someone's neck snapping, snapping behind the courtroom door.
"Tis some murderer," I muttered, "whacking behind the courtroom door.
Only this and nothing more."
Ah, we linked the oft dismembered mobsters of a chic September,
Yes, the mob's each dying member spilt their guts upon the floor.
Eagerly I swished espresso on the morn I named the torso,
She who until late fought escrow, clauses, deeds, and more.
A wry and wise defense attorney whose office door had read 'Dior.'
Jobless here for evermore.
And the sulking, sad and witless weeping from each extra witness,
Chilled, fulfilled me, raging 'tween the jury's and the judge's snores.
Yet now to hush my unbelieving mind, standing there conceiving:
"Tis some nameless witless witness bleeding 'hind the courtroom door,
Some late nameless witless witn
Man:An arachnid needling into nothing;Man: in Free Verse More Like This
Thrown rope nestled in NASA's outer space;
A Hindu clarinet player's helper
Ascending an airy, azure ether.
A phalange of "my gawd" (an ice/ash pillar)
After an airborne space craft's absconding,
A moon-landing. Impossible motion,
Mired in unimaginative minds
Meditating on Om, missing the flight.
Come Home: A PantoumYou'll always come back to meCome Home: A Pantoum in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
when the lights in the far hills
are done searching. For, new beds
entice adventurers. Too,
when the lights in the far hills
come home, the homespun dream they
entice adventurers too,
but they can't. (Dream we're neither.
Come home.) The homespun dream they
turn pioneers to homebodies,
but they can't dream we're neither,
our wanderlust fit to turn
pioneers to homebodies.
We've always made love free, so
our wanderlust fit. To
turn ourselves towards our home
we've always made love. Free. So
when the last adventurers
turn themselves toward their homes
in faraway lands, I know,
when the last adventurers
are done searching for new beds
in faraway lands, I know
you'll always come back to me.
Anxiety Attackwith both eyes unfocused/Anxiety Attack in Free Verse More Like This
open my hand
contains the water falling on windows
the distant stars of traffic lights
as far as the eye can see
is in me, because with both eyes unfocused/
open one hand becomes two
now dared to deal
I'm two ghosts pretending to be one man
I'm worried you won't put me back together
see me as whole
see me as falling apart
I'm worried you'll never lose the photo of me
superimposed against the world
pregnant with it
and immortally unimportant
SpacefeintThe astronauts had no rear-view, lying vertical,Spacefeint in Free Verse More Like This
eyes to instruments affixed, octopoid arms aflight,
moving eerily as one
Like college-bound teens, they didn't look back,
the mother's faint tears smothered by
the thunder of flaming engines.
Old films and space museums first alerted their minor selves
to the intoxicating blue of the earth's
In the simulator, they swigged digital earthshine,
complex watertanks faking weightlessness --
the sim just wasn't the same.
Belts unbuckled, floating on ballerina feet, a speechless face
in each porthole, no one noticed the captain's
His hypoxic brain unbetrayed by gravity, his limp spine
erect, his outstretched hands drifting clouds,
his eyes wide shut.
In his dream: father sat stiffly at breakfast,
the paper clumped in each fist, with
Long before Jupiter's great red beauty spot, the iron
hearts of stars, the moon's cephalic
sea of tranquility:
an unbuttered crust of bread,
The 1998 HousefireThe 1998 Housefire at 198 Wentworth SouthThe 1998 Housefire in Free Verse More Like This
Snow falling on cinders; falling on issues,
300, of Mad,
and Nintendo Power;
falling on a consoles red Cyclopean power (cooked
internally, blinking to black,
volumes of ongoing adventures, dreams of power,
my life in virtuosity, melting,
gooping into Grade One element comprehension);
falling on posters and curtains
gone up fire-fast, like Japanese letters read
falling on the bamboo-print
bed, the heat
to beat the heart;
falling on candles;
falling on bookshelves great with stomach
falling on shadows
I once hid from as from
a hungry ghost;
Falling where Nagasaki
where the ceilingwhere the roof
I feel the pain of everyone.
Then I feel nothing.
Puddles From What We DenyWilted ProspectsPuddles From What We Deny in Free Verse More Like This
From Another age
You're not who you wanted to be
So you attempt to just turn the page
But you Catch yourself
In a nearby mirror
Sitting on a shelf
And you wish you were someone else
Who's that in the mirror,
Can you identify?
Malformed by lies it seems
It's dreams became the most defied
Consumed by time wasting fillers
As to not try
Forgetting your morals and needs
Bleeds from what You Deny
You get my Metaphors?
I see your lies
Leaking from your pores
I know 'cause
I'm just the same
Seeing my youth Yelling,
Screaming, behind locked doors
From our inner parts
Making constant shaking
So it spews from our hearts
Who's that in the mirror
Can you identify?
No? 'cause it seems
It's Dreams became the most defied
Now it seems your feeling down
Sitting in your home;
With eyes of stone.
But inside you give yourself a spin
Fighting all out
But when you fight yourself No One Wins.
People rarely ask,
But when they do
You're "perfectly fine"
Lesser PieceDrifting off to wishes now I am consumedLesser Piece in Free Verse More Like This
By the mile
Went in my head to relax now I'm
Lost in all the Files
Now Information's stopped its way to
My melancholy Melon
For Sanity's arrested me, I'm a
Some may say that it is a crime
To live in my head all the time
I just can't figure how they think
Without inner thought I am on the brink
So please no disturbing
While I think out my own lesser piece
It's only me in here
And it's me paying off the lease.
A novel LustMeaningfully StareA novel Lust in Free Verse More Like This
At the windows near the roof
There is a reason why
But I Never have the proof
So Questions not in I
Provoke their Inner thought.
Something they've to strive for,
For it can never be bought.
Yet here we are poetry
Part of what may separate us.
A longing for more insight
Of what may calm the lust
The most uncommon lust
For not wealth, nor skin, nor bone
The lust for use of time,
For knowledge, emotion, or skill to hone.
From Never EnderSedate your thoughts at the moment,From Never Ender in Free Verse More Like This
Let our worlds join together.
Never Mind the lack of "insanity" outside,
Let's be more than we are.
Ironically they are no different,
They just lie to form who they are.
Not for I, I'll say the truth from here, on
Yet my word won't get very far.
I don't care, as long as you're here,
I over-think less every day.
Sanity's lost its ungraceful grip on me,
So I am staring to mend to you in different ways.
Sedate Normality at the moment
Tell me how you truly feel.
Forget the lies you are programmed to say,
My attention you can steal.
Atlanticyou were the ghostAtlantic in Free Verse More Like This
who made the apple fall.
it's not you,
sometimes the seeds
turn into trees
or flowers, strange
the strangest force,
and, at other times,
the wind lifts them away
so they never
touch the ground.
there's nothing left but course.
of course you are, but i must know;
do you go door to door,
knocking on the stars?
an architect's answer
to a philosopher's question.
over the atlantic you sing
like the end who just learned
he was a beginning.
over the atlantic you sing:
"god is an ocean,
and you can only pray
by kneeling on the ground."
cosmic background radiationThey say that the big bang was not an actual "bang". It was really just static. Static, like the interference of radio waves. Of course, the universe did not happen instantaneously. The big bang took 760,000 years to happen. 760,000 years of static, and bang, the universe happened.cosmic background radiation in Short Stories More Like This
I get myself together and actually go out. I go to see the New York Philharmonic perform the works of John Cage at Lincoln Center. I walk out during the second movement of 4'33". There's a very small difference between life and death. I walk home, my chin pulled down against my neck. I hum a constant note, providing myself with my own tinnitus.
I focus on this note. I cross Broadway where the walkers cluster on the curbside, awaiting the turn of the traffic light. People talking and the bioacoustic noises of their bodies moving. I walk against the signal. The tires of taxis scrape against the road. I go west on 65th Street, past Brooks Brothers and the slimy sliding of the revolving door, past vans parallel
a poem about driving in pennsylvaniaI'm driving west and at the state line all I can seea poem about driving in pennsylvania in Free Verse More Like This
are canvases of steaming light waiting to be painted
in the brushstroke forest that lies like a crescendo
across the reservoir where the grass washes over our ankles
and my eyes will never open so wide again.
June 12th had all the markings of a fine poem:
thick music scattering lights to the night city
reflecting in the same warm cadence of breezes
and your head resting on my bony shoulder.
You asked me with such sweetness if you could read my poems,
but please don't leave me with my love, with the cats
spilling out of your arms into the contaminated water
of taking in the divine ecstasy of just existing.
I want you to be so happy that when I swear to protect
your solitude, you will promise to escape for me,
to tear off the anxious rivulets that keep us netted
in the seasons as they appear in the Hudson Valley:
three sadistic ellipses promising comfort with the turn
of the next gentle equinox and rattled atmosphere
and my eyes are di
ChicagoA soul would need more stagnation to be one for the saveChicago in Free Verse More Like This
for I didn't know my words could hold a body over a city,
and I didn't know this disgusting and lovely city drew blood from strong veins
unstable city emerging from the underworld pink and primitive
in short gasps of promise and disappointment, I can promise you
that this was the saddest I've ever been:
your friends and me throwing magnolia petals into Lake Michigan not knowing
being afflicted with acute missing in New York still not knowing
having the most permeable love confluence not knowing
hanging a map with your city in the middle and stabbing it until the marker runs dry
can only hold me over until I know your world is beautiful
and the most beautiful thing is it doesn't stop being beautiful
and these moods we have are its beautiful rotations humming
and the city I can't stab through, it's just saving up its beautiful for you
almondsWith almonds in our palms we tell our storiesalmonds in Free Verse More Like This
in late night kitchen conversation
foreheads on sticky tables
hands face down voices flown
getting saved is a story
removed from the hopeless
scratches our chapped lips,
hides our hearts of oak
and our hearth is a wooden evening
not enduring yet,
just taking us away
from the shifting
away from where the river winds
and the seasons change
it's a long fall,
it's a long way down
from the top of that bridge
and I can save you.
Even the sun goes away quietly, slipping
behind strings of morse code poems,
leaving us alone on the dark blue
drop shadow earth
where we could keep sleeping since hours are permanent,
we could be chthonic river eaters
riding the swells.
Instead, we go home.
We have chamomile and hibiscus,
spearmint and honey.
No oceanNo one sleeps the night the army comes home,No ocean in Free Verse More Like This
and memory storms the shore, bipolar and sexy.
You always knew where to go and what to drink,
where to find the crows that stalked the summers
left lying wrinkled on shorn boardwalks,
Augusts headless and Julys scuttling over hills.
When you were gone I fucked Arthur Rimbaud
in a Parisian basement. He hooked his eyelashes
under mine and made waves on my skin.
Tolle, lege, like the parable tells me.
World of floods.World of floods in Free Verse More Like This
Driving on the curb cured of swamplands and horizontals
my atmosphere dear takes wholesome bites of water
outed are the undersides of bridge smudged chasms
birdy hellcalls and undone song
he knows only fire pursues the winged
torn letters three years gone of the antediluvian
disintegrated into charm and clarity and the promise
of a moment in time that springs everlastingly
will be flooded
and the pulmonary one ways dripping varied shades of moving cars
in fresh killed greys keeping time with the hacks of self against love
while our hands are crossed in universes pleading
with the dying that cannot slow down but winds and winds around
the pulsed city of language tying the sacred grammar to plurals
another and another
until they grow into the flicking tongue that time will harness
to toss rogue prophets into the pockets of New Jersey
where in being shelved we meet among starships
will be flooded
and the candles that when burning exhale signatures into the air
ChorusIf heaven exists, it's a heaven of choices.Chorus in Free Verse More Like This
I go there to choose my own death.
Life is what death talks about.
Look at death conversing with the flowers
it chose to push out of the heavenly stems.
Death is what life talks about.
Look at life consciously building
the stems flower governs by serial choices.
The wind expresses itself in many ways.
One of these ways, I think, is the same way
that choice becomes a method of dying.
New Year's DayThe first winter was composed of sleeping,New Year's Day in Free Verse More Like This
flower-like, but this second is like prowling
the gap between feeling and thinking;
limbering up the dawn, unscarfed, uncoated,
with my head like a getaway bag, hastily packed,
a floppy trammel of tossed lists: lists of lies
told and believed that have since
turned into calcitrate in unsunned cloisters,
and I should know the dawn because I've seen it,
and I should know the gap because I populated it
with crows and left-behind items of clothing.
It was like dismantling a spiral staircase
step by step, leaving a sequence of hollows
stripped of the season's riverly cadence.
So I have myself to blame for this desolate winter,
because I thought I could be solved by the same process
by which we build bridges to unnamed places:
one slimy brick before the other, incomprehensibly;
forever imposing axiom upon axiom onto that plane
until the equinoctial day it answers back.
DecemberIn hiding our skin from the cold that comes down to hug usDecember in Free Verse More Like This
latching the wooden gate slowly
the rust sounding like tumbling
rain drips in chiseled rivers making
stars on the sidewalk
the endless whir of distant traffic meaning something's leaving
already consummate in the cracks of winter trees
a bird's hollow voice her hollow bones squeaking
from this I learn constancy
from this I learn the earth's inner warmth means time has passed
I think I should pose more challenges to it
because of passing
but I think I'll just go back inside
I think I'll just go back to bed
The Old God, Savitrॐ भूर्भुव: स्व: तत्सवितुर्वरेण्यं ।The Old God, Savitr in Free Verse More Like This
भर्गो देवस्य धीमहि, धीयो यो न: प्रचोदयात् ।।
The wind blew sand into your nonchalant soul,
and your heart coughed. I entered the circle
at night, and I was consumed by fire. I did not
know of you then. I have fractured myself into
a thousand souls: but they are all whole, for I did
see you in my absence. Yet you? - you
were sailing, and your head was
full of water light.
I was significant when your mother poured out water
in a copper pot from a balcony; water, which
caught and held the moon, and then spilled over
with a quiet radiance. You wondered whether
the moon l
ScornHer restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found,Scorn in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Everywhere - here - following voices of all in Greece,
Yet from her mouth, there is no sound.
A fair nymph's merry voice once rung from sky to ground,
Until the cerulean-eyed Queen gave it cruel release –
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found.
And vainly she, swift of wind, silent of voice, follows round
Her beloved, who scorns her with lips of cerise –
Yet from her mouth there is no sound.
The wind carries her silent lament, for he himself is bound
To one who wears his scornful azure eyes and vain fleece;
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be found.
Surely she knows Eros has struck her beloved's heart deftly around
with passion for a brook whose laugh slays a heart's peace.
Yet from her mouth there is no sound -
The fair flower, who holds Echo's heart, pines as a lover drowned
in longing, for the murmur of his river lover will not cease.
Her restless heart cries, Love! I am here to be
pilgrimageif there had been a voicepilgrimage in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
the quiet had burned it.
there is a distance to
be crossed behind your closed
eyes and no hands to guide
only a voicelessness.
somewhere a god is
longing to be heard
unseen and unlit
but for the temple
of your dark clasped hands
and you both long
for a wild beast
who walks to you
with aching feet
and who still
On Ariadnethe loom of lust:On Ariadne in Songs & Lyrics More Like This
In the heart of your ears,
and till your outstretched feet
the spinner of mad red has corrupted,
her fingers like dragonflies threading
bark and twined grass into your hair
around your sure wrists, your angled feet
'this is love, my shining bride-to be,' you whisper,
and disappear with her among billowing black sails.
the abandonment of Ariadne:
He wooed you in a labyrinth of spinners,
and wed you in black sails, beneath jealous skies.
'Sleep and tomorrow you shall be Queen of Athens,'
Ariadne, sleep, tomorrow the sun will shine,
and the sea will ebb sympathetic away from
these deserted sands.
the death, or descent:
Spin, my hanging nymph,
sleep and let the dryad-tree's shadow
ease your descent.
The spinning nymph for our mad lord,
the gentleness for the grapes of wrath
and the delight for the madness,
come. Drink, be it ambrosia or wine,
be it mother and son, or nymph and lord.
Spin, lady, and drink, lord,
and I will breat
31:12N, 121:30Emy Dear i just noticed31:12N, 121:30E in Free Verse More Like This
my balcony is shaped
and the wind is billowing
the moon up, up to-night
in her dusty purple garb
and i think
no Dear i do not want
to leave here: where men
build bridges over oceans
and live inside of mountains
like river dragons
where the sun shines
not at all at noon but gleams
like an orange at sundown
where the moon walks home
surefooted to where my neck
The Soul Broker I am the buyer and seller of souls. I’ve bought them all and I sold you yours. For the world must run like the gears of a clock, and sometimes you tick or sometimes you tock, but everything given will be taken away and for every silence kept, a word must be said.The Soul Broker in Free Verse More Like This
Naturally, you must assume there is cost. For everything gained, a penny is lost; of course this life can be no different--when the check arrives, you must pay the difference. But not all who ride on the sunday train pay the same price to get out of the rain: a king’s ransom might obtain far, far less than the pauper’s cheap pain.
Your father paid the price of sweat, a back bent under the yoke of the world; accrued worldly financial debt but was recompensed with the jokes of a girl. And he would say he walked away wealthy, with his empty bank account, for his daughter lives today quite healthy and loves him in equally large amounts.
let's start a revolutionour people are becominglet's start a revolution in Free Verse More Like This
what a load of bull when we go to sleep with
smiles on our faces,
ignorant to the fact that
forced compliancy in the form of conformity,
are the factors that make up this
gag me please;
it is a sad day indeed-
we've invented gender,
picking apart all who don't fit into
the social construct we call
clearly, there must be a problem here:
power and control has overrun the matrix,
blinded us in blatant fury
to the point where our existence
is not a way to exist at all!
call me a social nihilist-
i believe in nothing,
a day where eyes can turn to the
and see America
for the monster it truly is.
it is a sad day indeed when
the media feeds our children so much
that they cannot tell the difference between
and a nation that
360 Blind Eyes360° Blind Eyes360 Blind Eyes in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Those street corner pharmacies don't bother me...
cooking up that crack...
serving that black...
caramelizing those apples...
crystallizing that meth...
but at least it's not my kitchen...
He's Robin Hood...
on the level that Hollywood...
would be in contention...
terrorizing the scene...
mad scientist splicing the genes...
with killing machines...
but at least it's not my dimension...
They combine these positions...
with Columbine vision...
plus out-of-mind conditions...
lead to out-of-body renditions...
a suicidal homicide mission...
but at least it's not my decision...
and it's not my problem...
not my solution...
not my blood...
so it's not my ablution...
not my business...
not my institution...
it's not my crime...
so it's not my execution...
You know it's not my world...
these are not my people...
they are not my equals...
this is not my power...
this is not my evil...
this is not my chase...
they are not my steeples...
this is not my realm...
The Cartographer's DaughterEvery night, he would fold her into his arms before she slept. Creases grew into her, turning brown with wear, and she loved them. When she woke up in the night, dreaming of darkness, he would take her to his desk and draw for her a map of her face, turning it into another world. Tracing the contours of her smile, he would scrawl a warning, "Here be monsters", whispering to her that she was a dragon when angry.The Cartographer's Daughter in Short Stories More Like This
As she grew older, she populated his maps with creatures and peoples from the books she read, or her own creations. He taught her to draw, and to write with an old inkpen, in a cursive script her teacher could make neither head nor tail of. She made him angry once, drawing in the drying sand with her finger, and smudging the ink. When he was angry, mountain ranges grew across his forehead and caverns opened in his cheeks. Here be lions.
Walking home from school, she knew the local area inside out; from the maps he had drawn and taught her. He would copy them onto o
tree, fiddler crabIt took days to hollow out the soft partstree, fiddler crab in Free Verse More Like This
of the trunk, dig out the tree-flesh and sap,
polish the raw wood so that when he sat,
there would be no splinters. He carved his name
into the side, like a blessing, a declaration
of good fortune, and stowed his forest inside.
petrichorNiobe weeps.petrichor in Free Verse More Like This
gold scattered rough across
cracked earth and the last
remains of summer - they fell
like leaves in the arms of the wind.
some scents cannot be captured.
the gods bleed onto rock,
and the stone sends her prayers
in return: petrichor.
listen - the heavy thud of
rain on parched ground;
the monsoon sealing life back in;
the sky bows and kisses earth.
motionthis is an essaymotion in Free Verse More Like This
on the shared body;
a brief emission;
some kind of fragrance,
or gathering. this is
moulded into the shape of
ice cannot be sustained
and every angel
has ash in her pocket.
i have often wondered,
do dead men
refuse to speak
ill of the living?
time. time. time.
we follow the sun
snaking across the horizon.
if you put your ear
to my mouth, you might
hear the sound of the sea -
- because within the night
there are horses, and
within the horses there is
a lonely star.
the cavewhen i was a child,the cave in Free Verse More Like This
they told me stories
about the monsters
under the bed.
they did not explain
that as you grow,
the monsters come out
and lie beside you
as you sleep.
there is breath
on your spine
when you start
in the night.
it is always
long. by the
age of forty,
of your heart is
made up from
one morning i woke
and went to look out the window.
in the street, a man
was dying. i closed
and went to make
the monsters have always been there.
it is only now that we see what causes them.
rulesit ought not to have been done.rules in Free Verse More Like This
they dug up fossils
by the side of the road,
ancient tree-trunk things,
a gaping skull, wide with
laughter. we drove past
quickly, blew up the dust.
in the rear-view mirror
the sands ran away
and hit a stop sign.
it was all
about the neverminds,
hardpacked earth and
sparseness. the wheels moved.
there was a tree
sideways in the next town
we passed, trailing
lightning wires and tele-tendrils.
the groaning roots
were instruments, red-stained
with sap and dust. a silo
was shaped like an onion but
it did not make me cry.
these are my vital organs:
a lamp, a
i break things away,
disperse them to white-bright.
the fossils were crushed
when the first bomb fell
but the rules were broken
eucalyptusthey tell me i am writing confessionaleucalyptus in Free Verse More Like This
poetry and i tell them, no, i am not,
i am writing my world.
i did not burrow in guilt's throat
and choose to spell out the softness,
no, i screamed out my soul and it was then
that i remembered how i used to pray.
i wanted to tell stories
but instead i sat and wrote:
about rain, and sorrow,
and the greek gods,
and pain, and the greek gods,
over and over, and dionysus, dionysus:
i plunged and dived dolphin-beaked.
i want you know
that death is a responsibility
and saltwater immersion
a fierce talent we cannot escape
so this is a confession for you:
i am not selfish
i am self only
and sometimes self is all i am
and you are not-self, you are nothing
and i am softly silent
and i am unashamed. i am condemned.
kelpiethe hedgerow peerskelpie in Free Verse More Like This
through the morningmist,
spiny and bristling with
winter. our car
jolts forward, updown
there is a stream
running with us,
spreading out, staying level,
kelpie fingers glinting
in the undergrowth like
wet sky. we are wild;
we are self-contained;
we are immediate. we are
many verbs away from home.
distance is not measured
in miles. it would cost me
more breaths than i have left
in my body to call your name.
have you seen the flight
of geese? groundbound they are
ungainly snapping things.
in air they soar.
so we, too, clutch at each other
in desperate clashing antiphons
until i tip away and leave you,
my greyfaced darling, trapped
in the lake and mewling in the night.
humpback/the bell-ringerthe years fold away, concertina-stylehumpback/the bell-ringer in Free Verse More Like This
like air between the bloated lungs of an accordion,
and the old tune plays on
tumbling down past my cochlea
the sound of waves
the sound waves
waves within waves and
the old masters are watching.
this music was birthed in the belly of a whale.
we were married long before i grew old.
HurricaneNot long after my mother lost her battle with cancer, my aunt and uncle decided I could use some time away from it all, so we wound up in Ocean City at the same time as Hurricane Ernesto. There's a picture of me somewhere, waving from a hammock strung over a flooded beach in the rain - an hour after that picture was taken, that hammock was gone, blown out to sea as the storm grew stronger.Hurricane in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
We had my cousin with us - she was three at the time, and to keep her from being frightened, we all pretended everything was okay. We explored the closed-up boardwalk. We drove out to Assateague Island, wondering with each loud Crack! whether the windshield would hold up to the barrage of debris. For dinner, we split crab legs at the last restaurant open - a pub overlooking the sea wall, where the news anchor held onto the railing as he tried not to be washed away by the swell. I slept beside the window that night so no one else would have to; little needles of ra