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De omnibus dubitandum.
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Our Sinking City

O

Our Sinking City

For Summer Do you remember the night you dreamt you wore a wooden dress? You thrashed against the splintered hem, waking me, coverless, just after dawn. That is how we are love: confined in the grain of an imagined garment. We wake each morning, eat, laugh, and make love, all in an endless storm-wash of days. The silt-bound Sabine eddies and stirs near us, the riverbed clouded by bog-water, but mud hides few mysteries, and young nations hold no annals. If only we would be drawn to the new lights of an ancient city, a place so weaved of the ethereal that the sea moves in a slow wash of increments to reclaim it. I know wa

Audubon, Great White Heron

A

Audubon, Great White Heron

Bachman's cat would appear to be merely resting in the evening sun if it weren't for the bill speared through its heart. The Heron is tall as a woman, twice as cruel, and at least as beautiful. I brought the bird all the way from Florida as a gift for my friend, a pillar of living ivory to walk among his Magnolias. But already it's swallowed a dozen ducks, bitten several children, and now (the most dire offense) slain poor Francis. It will be shot and stuffed within the week, but beasts can't be blamed for their wickedness. When it flew along the banks of the Keys, it snapped up fish with the grace of sharpened wind. My deck

Audubon on the Purple Grakle

A

Audubon on the Purple Grakle

The corn rows are ripe with ochre and ashes. Countless crows shake the field with their calls while laying waste to the crop in a sharp-billed early harvest. Months before they saved farmers the labor of plucking grubs from the new growth, but country men are quick to forget favors, so Elijah, the planter's youngest son, stands beside me, the both of us armed for our own harvest. We have different aims: Elijah wants to plump pot pies with gristle, and I wish to pin wings forever on the page. I know the art isn't the animal, and their shapes will come out crooked and nefarious, their feathers robbed of the coppery hue of su

Held among the Harvest

H

Held among the Harvest

In the faint light of a roadside fruit stand two old men talk of weather while smoking, plums stacked behind them like sweet gobs of night. Beside the taller of the two, on the stump of a bolt-struck pine, a crow twitches its feathers in a makeshift cage of rope and twigs. The tall man's eyes are the feral blue of someone who's trapped the sky. The bird has a song like shook gravel. I half-heartedly palm peaches, hoping for the story of its capture, but the smoke-stilled conversation never drifts from summer rain. I fumble through the pears and berries, what soft collision of color, the taut and the pocked heaped togeth

Roses and Rattlers

R

Roses and Rattlers

Three days of Texas rain swelled in the soil of the front lawn. My father, digging a drainage ditch, held a rust-rimed shovel. The day was mostly gone. He struck deep into the rock-lined border of our rose garden, raking the earth, as if the drops could be mined and the mud forced to harden. A stroke nicked the hole-riddled stone and, like a surge of new roots, a knot of small snakes burst from the bone- colored mound, pouring out in chutes of emerald sinew. He cursed and swung at the fresh flood, severing heads, spilling the blood and poison of the panicked young. The grass quickly filled with killing, but as I, a small boy,

The Botany of Absence

T

The Botany of Absence

The brambled weeds that line my patch of lawn are full of wasps. My knuckles ache for blooms, but deep in brush a stinging sweetness looms. Though when plucked the petaled stem is gone, in verse its backyard brilliance could go on to root below an ever-rising moon. But flowers cannot grow in stanzas' closed rooms where leaves are only ink and no shade can be drawn. It's better then for beauty to be barbed than snapped by fumbling hands that seek to clutch a thing or fill a watered vase. No pen or fingers still the steady ebb of hard- won grace or ever halt the falling hush of absence, forcing spring to come again.

In the Soil, a Stir of Night

I

In the Soil, a Stir of Night

The gardeners stood slack-jawed at the sight of so many crates heaped in the hot grass then bent back the boards and saw the huddle of veined wings: dozens of bats, shipped from the east, were to be scattered in the southern garden like so many leaves on the night air. But the gardenhands mistook their daylight sleep for death and spread the Texas soil to make coffins of the crates. They heard no shrieks or beats of wings when shoveled earth piled on planks, and it took years for the men to learn that burial was a mistake. Mosquitoes still gather there in a thick, humming mist above the hollow ground but part when dark ai

Southern Sonnet

S

Southern Sonnet

Autumn had set fire to the leaves, and I too was burning with the shadow-heat of forgotten summers and the prickly sleeves of desperate memory while sighing in the sweet ennui of a southern town. To a young man, this is an early death. Counting feathers on a wind-weary heron or draining a can of beer in solitude quickly weathers wild passions. But, without the ivory stillness of resting under Magnolia trees, I would have never seen the hazy sunset shining on the river's boundaries, the sky drifting on to dusty distance, the far starlight's silver brilliance.

Song of a Mover

S

Song of a Mover

It's a wonder what can fit in a box: portraits, china, wall clocks, all sagging inside the wrapping with the sound of tape's snapping. Heavier are the things that can't: the first freeze and the tomato plant covered in knives of ice but tasting sweet when the blades dropped and you ate its meat; the old house your mother left where the child-you, lost, bereft, wandered through an empty room full of dust and fresh perfume. I can't carry those things for you. No matter the pay, and I need it too, I can't hoist the heavy load of living and have it to you by Thanksgiving. But I take my share with the rest: a forgotten cup, a
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Our Sinking City

O

Our Sinking City

For Summer Do you remember the night you dreamt you wore a wooden dress? You thrashed against the splintered hem, waking me, coverless, just after dawn. That is how we are love: confined in the grain of an imagined garment. We wake each morning, eat, laugh, and make love, all in an endless storm-wash of days. The silt-bound Sabine eddies and stirs near us, the riverbed clouded by bog-water, but mud hides few mysteries, and young nations hold no annals. If only we would be drawn to the new lights of an ancient city, a place so weaved of the ethereal that the sea moves in a slow wash of increments to reclaim it. I know wa

Audubon, Great White Heron

A

Audubon, Great White Heron

Bachman's cat would appear to be merely resting in the evening sun if it weren't for the bill speared through its heart. The Heron is tall as a woman, twice as cruel, and at least as beautiful. I brought the bird all the way from Florida as a gift for my friend, a pillar of living ivory to walk among his Magnolias. But already it's swallowed a dozen ducks, bitten several children, and now (the most dire offense) slain poor Francis. It will be shot and stuffed within the week, but beasts can't be blamed for their wickedness. When it flew along the banks of the Keys, it snapped up fish with the grace of sharpened wind. My deck

Audubon on the Purple Grakle

A

Audubon on the Purple Grakle

The corn rows are ripe with ochre and ashes. Countless crows shake the field with their calls while laying waste to the crop in a sharp-billed early harvest. Months before they saved farmers the labor of plucking grubs from the new growth, but country men are quick to forget favors, so Elijah, the planter's youngest son, stands beside me, the both of us armed for our own harvest. We have different aims: Elijah wants to plump pot pies with gristle, and I wish to pin wings forever on the page. I know the art isn't the animal, and their shapes will come out crooked and nefarious, their feathers robbed of the coppery hue of su

Held among the Harvest

H

Held among the Harvest

In the faint light of a roadside fruit stand two old men talk of weather while smoking, plums stacked behind them like sweet gobs of night. Beside the taller of the two, on the stump of a bolt-struck pine, a crow twitches its feathers in a makeshift cage of rope and twigs. The tall man's eyes are the feral blue of someone who's trapped the sky. The bird has a song like shook gravel. I half-heartedly palm peaches, hoping for the story of its capture, but the smoke-stilled conversation never drifts from summer rain. I fumble through the pears and berries, what soft collision of color, the taut and the pocked heaped togeth

Roses and Rattlers

R

Roses and Rattlers

Three days of Texas rain swelled in the soil of the front lawn. My father, digging a drainage ditch, held a rust-rimed shovel. The day was mostly gone. He struck deep into the rock-lined border of our rose garden, raking the earth, as if the drops could be mined and the mud forced to harden. A stroke nicked the hole-riddled stone and, like a surge of new roots, a knot of small snakes burst from the bone- colored mound, pouring out in chutes of emerald sinew. He cursed and swung at the fresh flood, severing heads, spilling the blood and poison of the panicked young. The grass quickly filled with killing, but as I, a small boy,

The Botany of Absence

T

The Botany of Absence

The brambled weeds that line my patch of lawn are full of wasps. My knuckles ache for blooms, but deep in brush a stinging sweetness looms. Though when plucked the petaled stem is gone, in verse its backyard brilliance could go on to root below an ever-rising moon. But flowers cannot grow in stanzas' closed rooms where leaves are only ink and no shade can be drawn. It's better then for beauty to be barbed than snapped by fumbling hands that seek to clutch a thing or fill a watered vase. No pen or fingers still the steady ebb of hard- won grace or ever halt the falling hush of absence, forcing spring to come again.

In the Soil, a Stir of Night

I

In the Soil, a Stir of Night

The gardeners stood slack-jawed at the sight of so many crates heaped in the hot grass then bent back the boards and saw the huddle of veined wings: dozens of bats, shipped from the east, were to be scattered in the southern garden like so many leaves on the night air. But the gardenhands mistook their daylight sleep for death and spread the Texas soil to make coffins of the crates. They heard no shrieks or beats of wings when shoveled earth piled on planks, and it took years for the men to learn that burial was a mistake. Mosquitoes still gather there in a thick, humming mist above the hollow ground but part when dark ai

Southern Sonnet

S

Southern Sonnet

Autumn had set fire to the leaves, and I too was burning with the shadow-heat of forgotten summers and the prickly sleeves of desperate memory while sighing in the sweet ennui of a southern town. To a young man, this is an early death. Counting feathers on a wind-weary heron or draining a can of beer in solitude quickly weathers wild passions. But, without the ivory stillness of resting under Magnolia trees, I would have never seen the hazy sunset shining on the river's boundaries, the sky drifting on to dusty distance, the far starlight's silver brilliance.

Song of a Mover

S

Song of a Mover

It's a wonder what can fit in a box: portraits, china, wall clocks, all sagging inside the wrapping with the sound of tape's snapping. Heavier are the things that can't: the first freeze and the tomato plant covered in knives of ice but tasting sweet when the blades dropped and you ate its meat; the old house your mother left where the child-you, lost, bereft, wandered through an empty room full of dust and fresh perfume. I can't carry those things for you. No matter the pay, and I need it too, I can't hoist the heavy load of living and have it to you by Thanksgiving. But I take my share with the rest: a forgotten cup, a
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Upside-down Streams v.2

U

Upside-down Streams v.2

It's subtle, Inflections carried on crafted vocal waves. First you think you've been selected, Then you find you've been rejected, Come back once you've been corrected, Then you will be reinspected, If approved you'll get injected, Once we see you've been affected And your thoughts being directed, You are ready to be infected, Other people will be effected, If they beg they'll be dejected, Cuz their pleas will be rejected, Massive death tolls are expected, But as the dying are neglected, Race of man being perfected, We will never be suspected, Total power is projected, Once their souls have been collected. If the dots have
Artist
  • United States
  • Deviant for 15 years
  • He / Him
Badges
Llama: Llamas are awesome! (8)
My Bio
Favourite cartoon character: Spike Spiegel (of Cowboy Bebop)
Personal Quote: Whatever happens, happens.

Favourite Movies
The Fountain, Blade Runner, A Scanner Darkly, and I'm sure many more than this bar can hold.
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
The Birthday Massacre, Arcade Fire, Lacuna Coil, Say Anything, Opeth. There are really just too many
Favourite Writers
Ray Bradbury
Other Interests
Reading, writing, music, whiskey and physics. Yup, that sums me up nicely.

Absence and Other Things

Absence and Other Things

It has been a very long time since I've gotten on DeviantArt, but I plan to pop in more regularly now. I've gotten some things published, won some prizes, and started contemplating my graduate degree. Oh, and I have a new blog http://stanzapoetry.blogspot.com/ Feel free to take a gander at it. It will hopefully manifest into a useful resource for aspiring poets, but at present it's in its infancy with only a couple of (hopefully helpful) posts.

Sick of My Old Journal

Sick of My Old Journal

Yeah, I'm sick of seeing the whole "it's not my birthday" thing. So, how about a real update? I just graduated with my BA in English as a McNair Scholar, and I am now preparing for a PhD in Creative Writing. I've been working as a writing/English tutor for about two years now at the university that I attended, and I am still doing that until I move off. I'm also taking a poetry seminar for free from a good friend who is a professional poet, so there will likely be a lot of new updates. Thanks for the welcome backs and such, and I hope you're all doing well.

Announcement

Announcement

I have an announcement: it is no longer my birthday.

Comments 140

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Thank you greatly for accepting #Scribes-Are-Beckoned's invitation! We look forward to seeing your word in our gallery.

Thank you,
~Lis
Your Audubon series is awesome.:heart:
Thanks so much. You're a damn fine wordsmith yourself.
Thnx for the fav!!
:)
Thank you for the fave! :D
Of course. It was a lovely image.