WriterI am a scientist;More Like This
Pinning down ideas
preserving them in
their fragile beauty
as I take away their freedom,
I am a parasite;
sucking the soul out
of music and leaving it
a hollow shell
that plays like
the noisy silence in
I am a thief;
taking what is not mine,
the world around me,
and pouring it into
a mould that
I claim is
I am a blasphemer;
playing God in a
sacred place, changing
the world to my
liking when the orchestra
is not under my
I am a liar;
selling false havens
to lonely runaways,
giving them a glimpse
of a world more glamorous,
more fantastic than their own,
smiling as I snatch it
from under their noses
while they thank me
for my crime.
I am a slave;
hanging in a
with the language I choose,
caving to its rules
when I draw in
smears of its
I am a writer
these are my vices.
i would do anything to get you to love yourselfi know your type, i’ve seen them around hereMore Like This
before, browsing through my poems like
you’re flipping through vinyl records, trying to find
that one disc you were listening to the first time
he leaned over and kissed you.
the only way you’ll ever be able to love yourself
is if he leans over and kisses you again, is if someone
tells you about the seven wonders of your soul, if
someone sits down and writes a list of all your beautiful
fault lines that you’ve never been able to forgive.
you want to love yourself and you want to be loved,
but i know it’s hard to believe that you’re holy,
when your hands still shake when they touch food and
your breath always quickens when you drive
over bridges and no one can look you in the eye
when you ask them if you’re beautiful.
look, you’re stardust, you’re snowflakes, you’re
the sky’s gift to us, you’re comets on a cloudy night
when no one looks up to appreciate how beautifully
words to say to your reflectioni am a collection of dust and stars,More Like This
blue luster in a sea of inky void.
i am a tongue licking lips, clicking against teeth,
shaping sounds that matter.
i am the lightning that explodes in purple storm clouds,
four miles of haphazard beauty
on a lonely night.
i am the sea in autumn, still holding the warmth of a summer of sunlight,
though the air outside is cold
i am the snow at 6am.
i have not been touched, not stepped on. my surface is smooth as glass.
i am the snow at 6pm.
i am still beautiful.
i am the sound of rain just before sunrise
on a sunday morning.
i am the swirl of cream in a coffee,
blossoming and unfolding like a galaxy.
i am the smell of lavender
after a storm.
i am breathing.
macrocosmici.More Like This
i have a theory
that the size
of the universe
is measured in
so small that it
became big again
thus we are all
and each other
and our expanses
when we touch
and the universe
every nebula or
a star was re-
that wasn't nothing
or a nothing
lately the hole
in my chest
so i will observe
and wait for
a bleak space imploding
stark ribs contracting
is this a refraction
of some light unsourced
or bouts of redacting
doubts interacting with stellar patterns
unquell our orbital shackling. we're asking
seas to stay churning while ashes keep spurning
our totems over
in certain collapse
i'm a supernova
BreakingOne day, you will open the cupboardMore Like This
to find a wine glass or some Tupperware
and the world will, without warning
or alarm, roll off the edge of the shelf
and coming crashing down.
The oceans will splash onto the linoleum,
onto the rug. All the dust in all the deserts
will rain down onto the couch and coffee table,
the hills will crumble, the mountains will break,
all the windows in all the cities will shatter
and fall, a thousand dangerous miles of glass
glittering on your kitchen floor.
Everything will hush.
Exhale the breath you are holding,
and go look for a dust pan, for a broom.
GraphonomicsHe fell in loveMore Like This
with her handwriting –
the way her dribbled g’s
gallivanted into corkscrews –
the way her s’s
would caress the ends of the letters,
lapping at the plurals
and ever so softly
conveying graphite sibilance –
the way her a’s
had jaunty tails
the apexes of lowercase –
the way her commas
and the pencil point would press
into the filaments –
the way her cursive
flowed like a landscape
(and they say that pictures
are worth more
than the masterstrokes on her looseleaf) –
the way her hand
had crinkled the paper
as she scribbled a note
on a dog-eared flap –
the way she looked
when she was deep in words,
brow lined reflecting the rules
of the mockingly mesmerizing meter,
wisps of frowns
echoing the creative scratch,
diamond tongues flickering
in hazel eye-glasses –
the way she wrote his name,
the sinuous care
she brought to the lowercase
preceded by the forceful
The Art of Poetry KillingWhen I find an old poemMore Like This
Packaged beneath an allegory
Or taped beside a piece of prose,
Warm and balmy and still swollen
Ripe with the undisturbed
Within their plastic wrapper,
I untangle its cellophane bindings
To find it's too old
And too stale for the proper use of a poem
So I pluck out its
Like some guts of a creature
And sew them
Onto other dust poems
Like the mismatched socks
Of a child
Just like murder is an art,
I still walk away with ink on my hands.
Dear Parents:Strike the soft skin of your children; leave marks.More Like This
Go on: show them how hard they must become
to be like you.
Mold them to be mindless: coach them to react
with fists; make them believe that words have
Shape them into an almighty monster: modern man.
Destroy their purity and imagination by damning them
with absurd words of a god who previous men
Teach children to follow a leader, and to not ever
break the circle they belong to, so society never
Above all: train them to question love, even your own.