The ink spills dark as lights are flitting on,
the thoughts and dreams and very souls of ours.
Though bright the future, waiting, poised anon,
it notices but flippantly our scars.
A man might make his words into a deed,
might voice his hopes too loudly and be heard,
or else might sleep his days and so accede
the universe refuses to be stirred.
We came onto this planet lame and cold,
with Time already plotting our demise.
But rue the world which fetters us in gold;
We see the black and gaze into its eyes.
The moon sits innocently, just and fair.
The Devil's footsteps kiss the evening air.
am the man
you thought I would be, how
could you have thought
I'm living in a skin that's not my own -
instead resembling something of a man
who hides for fear, or else confronted, ran.
Now as I wear this self, so loosely sewn,
with shreds of muscle hanging off of bone,
it seems to be that anything I can,
I do to dodge the truth of who I am.
In multitudes or mirrors, I'm alone.
So I take solace here, that in my rest,
as surely as I'm speaking to you now,
you'll know the truth about my state of heart.
And though I am no Nietzsche or Descartes,
I'll postulate, grey templed, furrowed brow,
my heart has ne'er beat truer in my breast.
Putting on high heels is
not the same as growth.
Bending over backwards is
not always dancing.
Extending a hand is
only occasionally a kindness.
Whenever we speak, I know
the coin toss is airborne
as soon as the first words fly.
The bleak, unbridled
fury of a granite sky
bids me, Welcome Home
Seldom am I so direct,
Like Wayne, Parker, Kent,
I prefer my subterfuge.
But these words are penned
by the penultimate,
and often callous wordjockey
As I've said, I'm seldom
more than the sum
of my company kept
And today, I find
twice toward pride,
once of consequence.
Que sera sera.
I'm lead like a horse
who had to drink -
or perhaps imbibe?
your softly streaming sentences,
words which kicked like a mule.
Remember, I was hoarse,
On that parchment, I find these words:
I am a cause...
Truth at last, truth at last,
Thank God almighty...
...you know the rest.
I stand on this principle -
that I cannot stand at all
your words the salve,
my words the therapy.
Now, waxing on
toward the triumphant,
If you are the cause and the casualty,
then each daily account
of what might be made martyrdom
should be cannon.
Am I eliciting allusions and assumptions?
Inadvertently, but then precariously so.
So the pieces fall,
the causality, literary
the eventuality, progressive.
Aye, we are naught but what
we are made of by others.
So each concussive consonant chips and chisels
off the ol' block.
To a good Mister John Henry,
The best of you
are writing words
is taking them
and molding them
when all my thoughts
I lean on you
to feel myself,
You, my dear, are dead, I said.
I am not so, she told me.
You are, checked out, moved on, deceased!
Then why so tightly hold me?
I feel the way your body flakes
Like chipping bits of bone
I see the way your fingers quake
Whenever you're alone
I tell you that I love you, and
you always say it back
But you never lend a hand
Whenever I'm about to crack
You say that talk is wasted
Because words are so damned cheap,
But jealousy is tasted
When I'm talking in my sleep
For fear of letting go, and so
admitting that you're dead.
But she was done responding
to the voices in her head.
I've braved the life of living in the past,
Of caring for what never cared for me.
I've watched a hundred thousand days be flashed
like glints of sun across a choppy sea.
I've never taken tea with foreign kings,
but I could tell you tales of how I have,
and in those fleeting moments, fickle things,
my words would be your melancholy's salve.
I read my tales and stories with a head
that sits upon a swivel and a lie,
and every word I've written, thought, or said
will follow you until the day you die.
A greater sun as never shone on me
Than when I found my immortality.
They tell me I know what I'm doing.
I'm a master stumbler.
I record the sounds of my steps
along the cobblestones of thoughts
tracing me through mere minutes of my day.
I'm no predator of words,
hungrily snatching them from their sound slumber.
I've never slain a thought for
the sake of hanging its trophy on my page.
I have no brush at the ready,
gathering the sights and sounds
like a gambler collecting her winnings.
I could not, at gunpoint,
fire off the words to save my life,
no eloquent please,
no well turned phrases,
no sycophantic soliloquy.
I am the shell of my experiences,
my hide made only
of the ones that have hardened me.
This is no way to love.
stepping silently through
mountains of air
whipping this clay shod body
earth and sod and
stones to small to see
this pen wedged within
my corpus callosum,
not big enough to handle the task
not up not snuff,
doesn't have the stuff.
Honest, to the tip of each hair on my head
cut and styled, and put into place;
truth bubbling out
from behind crimson painted lips;
but so that I may not mince words, / there is nothing straight about me
save the razor's edge / with which I detail my semantics,
my words cut with conveniences / resilient as talcum powder
you / we have so much to look forward to
stone faced, sand blasted,
unavailable for comment.
You see, there are bones
inside of me.
Bones embracing each other,
in tired poses
laying in the dirt,
uncovered by the studious,
Good luck cataloging your finds.
I wouldn't buy it.
i am petrified
in perfect fashion
filling my space
filing my cells
and ever. so. damn. slowly.
i am whole again,
rock hard abs
and chiseled jaw
in slate stone
with chipping lungs
stand nude for the world
in demonstration of man
"This is what I was,"
i will say,
"Proud never to change."
pigeon shit on my shoulder
and no one knows what color my eyes were
His eyes glazed over
and missed the nuances
Never saw it coming
Her eyes were blue
against her better judgment
her face brushed
in natural blushes
and smokey greys
that made me yell FIRE
They were a pristine model,
he, a snapshot of time
she, the painted portrait
She was beautiful, and
he was happy
to leave her hanging
on a wall
Call me stricken
my favorite color.
I want to fill my ears with static
to give my thoughts some room to move
and my eyes monochromatic
with an artistic side to prove
like shes giving
Noah Webster a handjob,
her labyrinthine constructions
of consonants and vowels,
leading in circles
She tastes like rum
nauseating my pages,
wearing thin over keystrokes,
the mother of decrepitude
so my muse
decimates my thoughts
one in ten
one in ten
one in ten
It's just like life
to send us here --
a world away
from what we know.
We feel our eyes
absorb the light,
but nothing makes
a solid shape.
The words we say
inside our heads
are distant sounds
we want to hear.
When people take
a look at us,
I wonder if
they see us where
we truly are:
Every room has a din.
You just have to listen
This din was a spoken one,
like where actors mutter
Her steps made a percussive
that echoed from
wall to wall,
pervasive and acute.
But what truly stuck out
did so from only one side.
Her, the weird one.
Her, accident prone.
Her, the girl with
In a room full of faeries,
she stuck out.
An entire people
who hid themselves by day,
But what would you expect
from a girl with one wing?
I'm putting on my flowing cape
to contrast against these
skin tight words,
delivering truth, freedom,
love, joy, sex, war
and emotional genocide
I'm flaunting my anatomy
in mis-measured feet,
peculiar textual bulges
with evidence of discrepancies,
and wondering why
the mayor won't call me back.
Sometimes I like to think I do.
In those moments, I'm sure I seem this stupid.
She was 19, he was dead.
She took his heart and gave her bed.
No softer things were ever said.
They were together nightly.
He told her how her words could make
his voice to shudder, knees to shake.
She said it was a nice mistake.
She said so quite contritely.
She left him there to reminisce
of how they'd speak, of how she'd kiss,
then momentarily remiss,
his manners grew unsightly.
They say he took her by the hand
and brushed aside her hair of sand.
He spoke aloud the words he'd planned.
His eyes were shining brightly.
He told her she would never leave
his mind to wallow, heart to grieve,
that she would be the one bereaved,
his fingers gripping tightly.
Her bones were breaking, face was pale,
her eyes had formed a stormy gale
that sent her makeup setting sail.
She spoke to him forthrightly:
"You are the devil, you my doubts,
you are the hope I live without.
You'd have me cry and scream and shout,
but I'll say this politely.
I'll take my chances, starting now,
and set my heart to disavow
my head to take another bow."
Her words so sharp and sprightly,
she broke his heart, his hand, his hold,
and at his weakest, he was told,
"I'm not the type to be controlled.
Don't fuck with me so lightly."
Your skin laid out
in shades of blue and teal,
the brilliant white streaks
of wind tossed hair.
Your backdrop, a sky
painted in a noontime orange
as dark wisps of cloud
paint the fluorescent atmosphere.
With everything in
if that is why you seem