the vowelasaurusa -the vowelasaurus in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
a massacre of morals,
prefixes are arming our world
with pros and cons, benefit of the doubt
is that death is near; spelled out in numbers
the world is losing the nile river, the panama canal,
the beauty of the grand canyon is locking away the fears of
dictators of love and inventors of hate. they found us behind you.
easy way out.
of nothing, this is
taking the e of of sex
and solving for x and finding s
and using it to spell shit and dividing by us
and equaling you and i am finding out that the letter
e is being taken out of love and we are left with lov and
i am using that e to add to to my double l, with an h because
this is just pure hell.
i credit you
the benefit of
the doubt when i
tell you that cautious
has i o u. i owe you. and
what the hell do i owe you
besides a reminder of when i
bowled with your uvula, a catastrophic
event leading to the loss of the swish alps,
neutrality at its peak of disaster, the ozone layer
is writing an essay on the task of being go
i'm stillforming infinities from teardrops, calculating mind blowing possibilities from your slurred out words, running fingers through coarse piles of carcasses piled centuries high, mountains filled with emotions, i am creating a whole new hemisphere, a whole new planet, fuck pangaea when i can create my own war stricken, poverty thriving, judgmental hell hole we call planet earth.i'm still in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
we're just run on sentencesi am camera eyes, taking snap shots of holy hemorrhages out east behind the ruins of a city full of liars and lovers and red wild flowers plastered under the noon tide sun.we're just run on sentences in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
we, yes we, are all dying and so why water the grass if it is to just wilt in the sun, why eat if we are to rot under mounds of decomposed remains of the fools before us and oh the lovers strewn out five tombstones apart and a hundred centuries of love all mushed together under the ground in healthy patterns of crucifixes and i can feel it. i really can, when i walk down long dirt roads and along narrowing mountain peaks.
dead sparrows line the windowsill on a glistening morning not far from reality and i can count the snails leeched to the ceiling and the dirt around our cuticles in mere particle displays of how we spend our time digging holes a hundred feet deep and laying our pictures of a once happy time to rest.
i've always beensand paper running down your spine behind sycamore trees five hundred miles from where we first made love, scathing insects trickling between your ear drums, blood oozing from tear ducts, placid reminders of fortified nothings and beautiful shells of locus, such as the hummingbird skull earrings i adored you with for your seventeenth birthday.i've always been in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
i'mbricks blocking us in between the twin towers, screeching insomniacs at half past three am, coughing up secrets doused in blood swarming from your chipped toenails and down the sea shore, collecting spines and vertebrae, this is going to be a very happy un-birthday when i build you a prison from your parents remains.i'm in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
sanguinethe hay is sticking to my fingers.sanguine in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"oh god, what have i done?"
i am greeted with silence, a river of red dancing at my boots. i see the pitchfork, stained crimson at its tines, and my stomach convulses.
her dress is torn, animalistic claws shredding the length of its blue skirt, and her legs scraped raw. i see her face, see what i have done to its beauty, and sink to the floor of the barn until the scent of moist earth fills my nose.
"i'm sorry, i'm so, so sorry." my voice sounds strangled and far away. "elisabeth, forgive me. i'm so, so sorry. i will be a better man, i swear, i will be good to you."
my hands stumble to her wet shoulder, up her reddened neck, and rest on the ruins of her face. "oh god, what have i done?"
she is a ghost, and i am a ghost of my self. i am empty as my stomach heaves its malevolent contents into a mound of hay, and i cry as my fingers stumble over the barn phone, leavin
people poetry.i told her i missed her and she showed up in a flock of birdspeople poetry. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
and feathers and wings the very next day.
she was in my newspaper bundle and tied with a cord and
i knew right there that i would never walk again if she would be
that beautiful for ever, for that moment.
i told her i loved her and she smiled a little,
and i loved the way my name sounded on her lips,
her tongue tripping up every syllable in my name,
my father's name, his father's name, his father's name,
until it sounded like music,
until it sounded like poetry,
until i thought my heart would cry
because it was so beautiful and i couldn't bear
to kiss her
the same way i couldn't bear not to.
can i touch you, she asked,
and of course i said yes.
do you promise you won't think i'm weird, she asked,
and of course i promised.
i'll probably touch you places you don't expect, she said,
and my heart ran away with a white rabbit down a hole before i could catch its toe
so i nodded and put my hand on the back of hers.
but when is enough enough?can i tell you now how i've dissipated,but when is enough enough? in Free Verse More Like This
dissolved into the fabric's interstices
swallowed like living pride
i weigh less than i ever have,
i am less than i've ever been,
let's watch as i count every single
calorie in every single
morsel to touch my tongue,
let's see how far i've fallen,
let's see how much i hurt.
how hollow i'm painted these days,
dark shadows gracing the lines
of every feeling i beat,
can you see the way i breathe
conflict with every gasp,
the happiness i bend over backwards
for in hopes of bowing to my breast,
the abandoned fears burning under
my skin, the broken stars boiling beneath
the thin-painted husk of reds and blues
do you feel lovely,
for every scar stretched across my skin,
for every number burning through
it's all for you in
the way that it's not for you at all, just
the way you are
not there for me at all.
river girlher eyesriver girl in Free Verse More Like This
made of pools that ripple when they blink,
and shed droplets that wash up onto
her riverbank cheeks
when she cries. she's the
river girl, hands soft that will
gently tug you under
the surface to hold you against
soft swells in the bed of sand.
she's hollow and yet full of
sorrow, with silvery
fish swimming in and out between
her ribs. with lips like seaweed
that caress you, your wrist
your shoulder, your
neck. she rests you against her silken
body, like a lover
she'll always hold you-
always trap you.
untamed, she is
unwanted. unloved, she is the
lonely river girl.
it never really wasforget the ocean, you've never been thereit never really was in Free Verse More Like This
your feet don't know the difference between
sand-papered wooden floors and ocean scattered sandscapes.
forget canyons cause you've never seen one
the only edge you know is self-imposed,
or is the tip top of the stairs.
forget the stars cause you've never reached them
you only believe in their fantasies and
admire them from a distance.
forget the moon, you've never landed on it
left a footprint in its crater, or
taken a glowing rock back with you.
forget history, cause you haven't seen it
you only know it,
just read about it in books.
forget time, it's invisible
you never see it or
hear it go by.
forget love, you've never had it
or shared your heart,
or shared your soul.
you never had it, you never had it.
boy with a songthere's a boy with a song that he found in the windboy with a song in Free Verse More Like This
and he sings it to the kestrel who teaches the elk.
once, i fell asleep under the birch tree where the sun-
bleached elephant bones rest half submerged in dust.
i saw scattered butterfly-less wings circle the air in
a dance of ghosts, but maybe i had been dreaming.
an angel fell where they buried their children, he
promised to sleep with them in the gentle earth.
his golden hair fell into the tree roots and
became a river that wrapped around my body.
and even though i couldn't leave, i didn't want to.
i refuse this poem a titlei have pages of poetry written behind my eyelids andi refuse this poem a title in Free Verse More Like This
honestly, does it really matter?
no one reads it unless they want to,
and they can't unless they read my mind.
"they". who are they really, anyway? and why do they
i'm waiting for that one who's supposed to be half my soul
and can see through my apparently translucent-window eyes.
because i hear that's how you become in love.
but you see, it probably doesn't work that way,
since really my eyes are just glassy from
all the sleepless nights passed in poetic misery.
some sort of musing unwake-
this is what i've become.
don't worry, i'm not too emotional. i've actually grown quite
no, it doesn't hurt.
yes, it's painful.
no, you're not killing me.
her name was anne xietynor alive.her name was anne xiety in Free Verse More Like This
she was neither dead
and her heart was left with the
because her eyes belonged to a crying bird,
always half blinded by tears
all that i knowlet me tell you something.all that i know in Free Verse More Like This
poetry is all around you and me. it existed from the very beginning. it was here before
music and painting. it floats in the air, and it is the air. you can find it in the tops of trees
caught in spiderwebs, or sleeping on the blades of grass. there is poetry in your lungs and
on your eyelashes and in the crook of your elbow. poetry is the freckles on your eyelids
and the lines and pores on the tops of your hands. it sleeps between your vertebrae and is
the sunlight when you wake up. it is the morning and the day and the dusk and the night.
and it is the sounds in the night. poetry is the way you move and blink and smile and how
you feel when you laugh. poetry is jumping in a lake, just to be in the lake.
this this is poetry.