I stood too close. The angle lied.
A tiny statue, petrified,
Cast out a shadow, long and grand,
Across the corners of my land.
I wore no glasses, yet a lens
Of polished magic would commence
To feed a vision through the eye,
Where nerves and biological wires fly,
Past signals flashing in the skull,
To where the soul sits, deep and full.
A world of vast, immense devotion
Not some small, fleeting human emotion
Where jokes you whispered in the air
Sat heavier than a sermon’s prayer.
Maybe the shadow spoke the truth;
Maybe the blindness was my youth.
Admiration, in the night,
Is just a name for bad eyesight.
We are both human, bound to clay,
Walking a different moral framework.
And when you act on what you hold,
It leaves my outer climate cold.
The friction makes the world appear
Unjust, unfair, and locked in fear.
But these heavy, warring, bitter things
Are birds that fly on earthly wings;
They dwell right here, they rot in dust,
Where mortal iron turns to rust.
And in this narrow world below,
Life is too vast a thing to grow
To waste my short, remaining days
Scratching the surface of your ways.
For all we see, and all we seem,
Is but a dream within a dream.
One day the heavy eyelids break,
And everything will matter when we wake.
Until that morning, I design
A sweet defiance in the spine,
To find a joy in endless tasks
Beneath these temporary masks.
They say that happiness is free
A simple choice for you and me.
But there’s a paradox in the bone:
I choose to leave your knife alone,
I choose to stop the inward bleeding,
But can I force the joy I’m needing?
The brain can pick the grief it wears,
But happiness has higher stairs.
So if you carry grudges now,
Or sharpen blades to make me bow,
It is alright. The dirt can have it.
I will not feed a bitter habit.
You are no judge; you hold no scale,
And I am not your prisoner in a jail.
We stand beneath a higher ceiling,
Where Someone watches what we're feeling;
He sees the blade, He sees the side,
On everyone's behalf He died.
I hear the statue start to crack,
Shrinking to its actual stature back.
I do not hate you; you owe me naught,
For lessons cannot well be bought.
My eyes connect to brain and heart,
And feeling is the living part.
So carry knives, and carry blame—
I’ll carry the lesson, and forget the name.
11h ago
Jun 3, 2026 at 7:57 AM UTC
Your eyes are a city of sorrow, And I am a refugee within.
They outshine the moon
You shot me a glance—swift as a spear—
And I fell, though you were far and I had no wound.
Two angels sleep in your gaze, yet wake to judge my heart.
Beneath their wings flow rivers clear as polished glass,
Where currents carry the reflections of heaven to the earth,
And teach the soul to linger where time forgets to pass.
A fragrance follows you that no garden could contain;
It lingers in the soul as rain lingers on spring soil.
Dew gathers on my heart as though it were a tender leaf,
Drinking your kindness at dawn, preserving what would otherwise wither.
For wherever your gaze settles, barren ground awakens,
And even the dust begins to smell of roses.
If I am granted another life beyond this one, let me find you there;
And if there are a thousand lives to follow, let me lose myself in each of them the same way.
Let every road return me to your door, every river to your name,
Until eternity itself grows weary of counting our meetings.
5d ago
May 29, 2026 at 3:19 PM UTC
Have I doubt, When the lights go low,
I have a sore throat, tea to melt snow,
Your name in my mouth tastes holy, like ice wine
Melt the sugar, on the tip of my tongue
Love is a warm, thick honey settling on my hair
It wraps like a wet duvet fresh from the rain,
It’s a cold hurt, stiffened by the air,
Though I am drunk, addicted to the pain.
Zingiber crushed beneath my tongue, sharp and gold,
The sweet-burn ache I almost don’t want cured,
A cough rising deep, rough and assured,
I hold it, swallow it, let it sting,
Then break and the relief is everything.
Heat beads at my forehead, bright and undone,
Skin flushed open like a second sun,
Until your lips, cool as night air,
Press my forehead, and spare
The hardship that I couldn't bear
And all that fire folds in two,
Burning for me, but eased by you.
Stroke through my hair like a match through flame,
Say my name like you’re not ashamed,
Let the dark press close, let the ceiling spin,
Let the fire move slowly under my skin.
Your pulse against mine a dangerous tune,
A low hunger, a sun that rises too soon,
My hands learn the shape of wanting you near,
Like heat in the dark that feeds on my fear.
The room starts spinning but we stand still, Like gravity bending to some deeper will,
My ribs feel split with something vast,
Like night itself is breathing fast,
I lose my name, I lose what’s true, And all that’s left is reaching you.
With love I rise, with doubt the dark returns and turns,
Your touch ignites, it bites, it burns, it burns,
The sky at night black and white, the green and blue
A bruise and a blessing breaking through
What’s in a name? Just air and blame, a chain that keeps us together.
A rose would glow, and still would grow, though stripped of all its signs
So take me now, don’t ask me how, let stars and worlds align
Say it soft, say it loud your heart is mine, is mine
Mar 1
Mar 1, 2026 at 1:25 PM UTC
Row, my brother, row with the wind,
The stars above no longer sing.
The night is cold, the waves are wide
But none return on the turning tide.
Enough, enough
Oh ocean, you beast, you mouth of graves,
You salt-veined god with no mercy to save.
You took my son, his eyes still bright,
You dragged him down in the black of night.
You took my girl, just twenty-two,
He wore her ring, and loved her true.
My heart, my helm, my morning light,
You tore her breath with storm and spite.
The winds were foul, and the work was hard,
But I still begged beneath your stars.
I begged you then. I curse you now.
I spit at your depths, and I don't bow.
Four months (and the fifth is here),
I row through salt, through ghosts, through fear.
The voyage is done, and the winds don’t blow
But I cannot leave her down below.
Bring them back
Bring them, bring them,
Give them back
Sailing, singing, silent now.
Aren’t you afraid of God, oh ocean?
Or did He send you, oh ocean?
Jun 28, 2025
Jun 28, 2025 at 10:27 AM UTC
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
Jun 3, 2025
Jun 3, 2025 at 12:00 PM UTC
We drift so softly, still break in the end,
Moon rising faintly, no path to ascend.
The pull to step out,
To let the sound drown out,
A fleeting dawn, too bright to stay,
Soft embers lost to yesterday
What remains?
The place, the time, the shadow stains.
You falter, play, let it slide,
First you feel
The tide subside,
And what’s left
Lingers in your mind.
Hands stained with the weight of days,
If there's no truth to chase, no one to praise,
I'll still laugh beneath this heavy sky,
And push the stone, though I don't know why,
And clutch the fallout, though I don't know why.
May 30, 2025
May 30, 2025 at 5:27 AM UTC
I am in a crate, the crate that was ours,
full of white shirts and salad greens,
the icebox knocking at our delectable knocks,
and I wore movies in my eyes,
and you wore eggs in your tunnel,
and we played sheets, sheets, sheets
all day, even in the bathtub like lunatics.
But today I set the bed afire
and smoke is filling the room,
it is getting hot enough for the walls to melt,
and the icebox, a gluey white tooth.
I have on a mask in order to write my last words,
and they are just for you, and I will place them
in the icebox saved for ***** and tomatoes,
and perhaps they will last.
The dog will not. Her spots will fall off.
The old letters will melt into a black bee.
The night gowns are already shredding
into paper, the yellow, the red, the purple.
The bed -- well, the sheets have turned to gold --
hard, hard gold, and the mattress
is being kissed into a stone.
As for me, my dearest Foxxy,
my poems to you may or may not reach the icebox
and its hopeful eternity,
for isn't yours enough?
The one where you name
my name right out in P.R.?
If my toes weren't yielding to pitch
I'd tell the whole story --
not just the sheet story
but the belly-button story,
the pried-eyelid story,
the whiskey-sour-of-the-nipple story --
and shovel back our love where it belonged.
Despite my asbestos gloves,
the cough is filling me with black and a red powder seeps through my
veins,
our little crate goes down so publicly
and without meaning it, you see, meaning a solo act,
a cremation of the love,
but instead we seem to be going down right in the middle of a Russian
street,
the flames making the sound of
the horse being beaten and beaten,
the whip is adoring its human triumph
while the flies wait, blow by blow,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.
May 17, 2025
May 17, 2025 at 2:09 PM UTC
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed—
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
That holy dream—that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam,
A lonely spirit guiding.
What though that light, thro’ storm and night,
So trembled from afar—
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth’s day star?
May 17, 2025
May 17, 2025 at 3:50 AM UTC
One step, one shot, one final breath.
I walk through war, I talk to death.
He never speaks, but I still know
Not yet, not yet. There's more to go.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 2:19 PM UTC