MacGM - Hello Poetry

Let me be aligned centerwise, carrying at my core. Have me understand the hands that have sung~wrung and the feet that have wandered without wasting a lifetime. Make these words away from the margins so that when an editor arrives they see they write from the red-line window to my purple passage. Build this poem as a pillar so that it should not be knocked down as a tower of babble. It is the writer's respirator. It breathes, beats, bleeds.

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Nov 18, 2025

Nov 18, 2025 at 12:18 AM UTC

For Nat Lipstadt

Let me be aligned centerwise, carrying at my core. Have me understand the hands that have sung~wrung and the feet that have wandered without wasting a lifetime. Make these words away from the margins so that when an editor arrives they see they write from the red-line window to my purple passage. Build this poem as a pillar so that it should not be knocked down as a tower of babble. It is the writer's respirator. It breathes, beats, bleeds.

18

The guns've been left at home, and the ladies are going with us. These are hills holding high as the sun spills shine as the rivers run 'round as the trees tip tangerine as the flowers flush fuchsia as the grass grows green. It is all included, so you won't have any of it.

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Nov 18, 2025

Nov 18, 2025 at 12:09 AM UTC

Inheritance

The guns've been left at home, and the ladies are going with us. These are hills holding high as the sun spills shine as the rivers run 'round as the trees tip tangerine as the flowers flush fuchsia as the grass grows green. It is all included, so you won't have any of it.

10

In her absence, my bedroom inhales. Who had been ******* in the thick underbelly of our loathsomeness, holding its breath for a moment a-lone. I am in this room. I have the light on and an iron against my shirts. It sighs a fat gust into in my face. For a moment I almost turn, expecting her to carry in that smoke and rotting bouquet. Nothingness enters, I understand this means I am stirred. She makes a motion, but not one of ripples or waves. This is the hail of your destitution.

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Nov 18, 2025

Nov 18, 2025 at 12:00 AM UTC

My Cain and Abel Poem

In her absence, my bedroom inhales. Who had been ******* in the thick underbelly of our loathsomeness, holding its breath for a moment a-lone. I am in this room. I have the light on and an iron against my shirts. It sighs a fat gust into in my face. For a moment I almost turn, expecting her to carry in that smoke and rotting bouquet. Nothingness enters, I understand this means I am stirred. She makes a motion, but not one of ripples or waves. This is the hail of your destitution.

15

I noticed a mouse in a glue trap, tiny body trying to pull itself out, tug after tug. My dad meandered in and threw the whole thing away. No ***** given, he turned to think of other things. And that was it. The little critter will just go the way of all flesh, die in some family's trash. No sweat. Not even the one you wake up in at night, praying you will receive more forgiveness when you find yourself a trespasser on land you didn't know isn't yours.

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Oct 18, 2025

Oct 18, 2025 at 9:21 PM UTC

In The Kitchen

I noticed a mouse in a glue trap, tiny body trying to pull itself out, tug after tug. My dad meandered in and threw the whole thing away. No ***** given, he turned to think of other things. And that was it. The little critter will just go the way of all flesh, die in some family's trash. No sweat. Not even the one you wake up in at night, praying you will receive more forgiveness when you find yourself a trespasser on land you didn't know isn't yours.

16

The doctors slice into the truth: a hospital bed has again become an excavation site. His parents dig up his belongings before he is old enough to understand ownership, and do away with them. A memory quilt that does not cover both the mother and father is sewn. Their bed is as the whole Earth, but West has been removed. We tried making coffins to preserve such broken worlds, but now we just have distant galaxies.

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Oct 17, 2025

Oct 17, 2025 at 7:30 PM UTC

Of Bereavement

The doctors slice into the truth: a hospital bed has again become an excavation site. His parents dig up his belongings before he is old enough to understand ownership, and do away with them. A memory quilt that does not cover both the mother and father is sewn. Their bed is as the whole Earth, but West has been removed. We tried making coffins to preserve such broken worlds, but now we just have distant galaxies.

9

Tell me what is on the news and their outrageous opinions on it. Like to flap their gums against the fan. Believe they should get to say what they fancy and never face the corner. Want to be correct. Can't understand complex sentences. Say nuh-uh a lot. Would like me to know they are not the one who started it. Cut the crust off of morality... Am I just as childish as they are for bickering with them

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Oct 17, 2025

Oct 17, 2025 at 7:27 PM UTC

Men Who Are Little Boys

Tell me what is on the news and their outrageous opinions on it. Like to flap their gums against the fan. Believe they should get to say what they fancy and never face the corner. Want to be correct. Can't understand complex sentences. Say nuh-uh a lot. Would like me to know they are not the one who started it. Cut the crust off of morality... Am I just as childish as they are for bickering with them

10

The face of the Earth smiles upon me, and this renewal of mine blossoms. My existence is ripe as strawberries bought off the street corner, and rich as raw honey. It is a tree sprouting so quickly you can hear it crackling with life, fiery with the first reactions. Every day arrives dewy as though freshly, kindly, and gracefully born from the stirring dawn. All this bounty in utterly defiant spite of many difficulties, like the beauty of a rose above a multitude of thorns.

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Sep 13, 2025

Sep 13, 2025 at 9:02 PM UTC

Fortunately

The face of the Earth smiles upon me, and this renewal of mine blossoms. My existence is ripe as strawberries bought off the street corner, and rich as raw honey. It is a tree sprouting so quickly you can hear it crackling with life, fiery with the first reactions. Every day arrives dewy as though freshly, kindly, and gracefully born from the stirring dawn. All this bounty in utterly defiant spite of many difficulties, like the beauty of a rose above a multitude of thorns.

11

Roughly one year, twelve months, three-hundred-eighty-three days, nine-thousand-one-hundred-ninety-six hours, five-hundred-fifty-one-thousand-seven-hundred-fifty-four minutes, thirty-three-million-one-hundred-five-thousand-two-hundred-fourty seconds… It is in these shreds of time that many vile moments will unfold like the last shedding of a snake’s skin. There is no vaccine for the venom that is soon to occur, it must simply run its violent course. It will thin my blood, and exfoliate me from within so that my soul is raw. It is neither the lightheartedness of friends, nor the contempt for those I have wronged that will keep me alive, as there is no hospital that can cure wounds of this nature. Time has lost its medical license due to malpractice, and I once again find myself practicing patience with snakes.

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Aug 18, 2025

Aug 18, 2025 at 9:35 PM UTC

Moving On

Roughly one year, twelve months, three-hundred-eighty-three days, nine-thousand-one-hundred-ninety-six hours, five-hundred-fifty-one-thousand-seven-hundred-fifty-four minutes, thirty-three-million-one-hundred-five-thousand-two-hundred-fourty seconds… It is in these shreds of time that many vile moments will unfold like the last shedding of a snake’s skin. There is no vaccine for the venom that is soon to occur, it must simply run its violent course. It will thin my blood, and exfoliate me from within so that my soul is raw. It is neither the lightheartedness of friends, nor the contempt for those I have wronged that will keep me alive, as there is no hospital that can cure wounds of this nature. Time has lost its medical license due to malpractice, and I once again find myself practicing patience with snakes.

16

I am a broken oracle for myself. My prophecies are all dreams in which I become lost. My inner compass fails me as I unnaturally fall into lines too rigid to be true, before dissipating into a fog that leaves me dazed. When I arise I find my moments are repeating as though any future day is left perpetually pending. All I now know is that my tomorrow is leaving itself unknown, anonymous under a cloak of frailty.

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Jul 17, 2025

Jul 17, 2025 at 1:09 PM UTC

Predictability

I am a broken oracle for myself. My prophecies are all dreams in which I become lost. My inner compass fails me as I unnaturally fall into lines too rigid to be true, before dissipating into a fog that leaves me dazed. When I arise I find my moments are repeating as though any future day is left perpetually pending. All I now know is that my tomorrow is leaving itself unknown, anonymous under a cloak of frailty.

7

Each of my companions are stars glittering in the midst of my troubling night. I cast wishes on them for all good things in such absurd abundance it makes them shine as bright as the Sun itself. I hope the kindness in their cores is rightfully returned in infinite luminosity. There may come a day when I no longer walk along their beams, but presently I gladly welcome them into my orbit.

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Jul 17, 2025

Jul 17, 2025 at 1:08 PM UTC

Celestial

Each of my companions are stars glittering in the midst of my troubling night. I cast wishes on them for all good things in such absurd abundance it makes them shine as bright as the Sun itself. I hope the kindness in their cores is rightfully returned in infinite luminosity. There may come a day when I no longer walk along their beams, but presently I gladly welcome them into my orbit.

5