Aboard her majesty's Mississippi steamboat,
we stared at the palisades,
and they glared back at us passersby.
And we spoke in radio static.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 3:38 AM UTC
I angle my upper body forward from my reclined seat back,
To gaze through three panes of a frosty porthole,
To view a blanket of lights on darkened earth.
But they're below me, I'm distanced.
I'm thirty thousand feet in the air.
Incandescent highways splinter and mend like aimless root networks,
Funneling wingless fireflies like worker ants. And I, here,
Hoping your luminescence is, too, wandering to your hive or elsewhere,
Hoping against hope that you notice me in transit.
Though I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.
At least, but likely closer to the distance between our moon and sun,
Hurdling through galaxies at the speed of super-sound,
Sure that even at the end of space, past comets and nebulase,
That even if I get turned around,
I'm thirty thousand feet from anyone else.
As the lights ebb and dim from outside my window panes,
Gradually giving way to blackened earthly landmass,
I will recline my seat slightly and rest my eyes,
Hoping the steady burn of the plane's fog lights guides you,
Thirty thousand feet closer to where you need to be.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
The sun plays hide-and-go-seek on a midwinter's afternoon,
Darting constantly towards the next available cloud.
Shielded.
Beside my intermittent shadow flutter my companions,
Guided by the ever-changing, blustery gusts.
The snowflakes follow me home.
Windy, wafting whispers winding through dormant branches,
I hold my breath and count to ten to ignore their murmurs.
Gossiping.
Hazy February clouds conceal indistinct peeps.
Should nobody else join me,
The snowflakes follow me home.
As I pass through the threshold and traipse across the floor,
Legs chilled and wavering over creaky wooden planks.
Weary.
But I glimpse once more, out through tempered glass panes,
Reassured and reveling in the knowledge,
The snowflakes follow me home.
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 10:03 PM UTC
These constellations are just stale light.
Dimmer than the orange haze from streetlights,
Each proudly signaling the triumph of mankind.
These constellations are dead beacons from afar.
I need no north star to get home,
Street signs guide me just fine.
**These constellations are bright ***** of dust.**
Romanticized into patterns,
I can only remember the big dipper.
And passing planes.
These constellations are lifeless light.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
The coffee was too sweet as I mentally sketched a blueprint for each sentence I hope to speak. My tongue eagerly bounced between the most eloquent wordings to express thoughts that even you probably know are too complex for me.
I firmly grasped my the frigid mason jar, afraid that the same twilight that illuminated all the right parts of your face and highlighted your rogues strands of hair like golden thread would be enough to knock me from my seat. If I explained that, would it be romantic?
I pondered whether geeky comedy could be my niche. Decided against it. My hands grew colder from icy condensation and hesitation.
Every calculated consonant passing through your lips becomes fuzzier as i balance my focus so you don't notice how distracting you are. I struggle to pretend this is effortless for me, too.
I wished with each passing moment that I weren't one moment closer to death, one less moment sipping sugary coffee in your company.
I wished each passing moment elapsed quicker. my coffee is dwindling, the lump in my throat is a landform in of itself.
Though I'd rather babble about the universe and love, history and life, your small talk captivated me. Vowel after vowel. Of ambient noise, you could compose symphonies, your stare a screenplay, of simple Walmart trips, novels.
Of me, I'm but the fly on the wall in a fleeting moment of daylight in a rocky chair in a café in a day of your life upon which I couldn't even confess that I think about you more than the universe and history and life and coffee. Until you know that, I'll see you next time and we'll order the coffee black.
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 2:51 PM UTC
Under hazy violet twilight hum sprites
Performing acrobatics above my head
Eyes fixated on the popcorn ceiling
They sing the body electric
In the cinema between four off-white walls
Under lazy muggy moonlight I hang tight
Watching pixies become gremlins
Eyes chartreuse, bright, and bulging
Scurry down walls and seek refuge beneath me
Becoming the neurotic symphony of aging pipes.
Under fading fluorescent lights I sit upright
Scanning all four corners for my personal bogeyman
Eyes bloodshot, heavy, and weary
Once again close beneath then fortitude of quilted mass
Becoming another night of stuttering slumber.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 5:50 AM UTC
The wrinkled man who shrugged off my laments
Disregarded despondence
Left me lonesome on a freezing night
Waiting for the next northbound
But he's no friend of mine
The lady in blue who
Always knew better
Knew the truths and
She didn't need any **** suggestions
But she's no friend of mine
God watched from his stone steeple
Admired the downward spiral
Like rock 'em sock 'em robots
Eagerly trying to decapitate themselves
But he's no friend of mine
How could I be fooled by poorly constructed word
Let me taste empathy
And to think that I almost durst to think
That I wasn't alone
But they're no friends of mine
The bedsheets ensnare me in a morning haze
gives me a newfound appreciation for my Blank walls and ceiling
I admire them
Illuminated by the slightest amount of light to make them visible
Peering through my blinds like a peeping Tom
Yes, quite a good friend of mine.
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 5:27 AM UTC
There's a raccoon inside me,
I've never liked raccoons.
He nuzzles my heartstrings when I feel worthless,
and cackles maniacally when I believe that I'm worth it.
Whenever I'm bold enough to speak he claws my vocal chords closed,
leaving me dumbfounded with an obvious lump in my throat.
I feel his grimacing face and beady bandit eyes in constant stare.
He hisses angrily when he catches me unaware,
of just how afraid I am.
His grubby paws pander to my love of cancelled plans.
I guess you could say we're selfish,
because I relish the nights spent alone with him.
And I'm positive that he does too,
because he knows I'm often too weak to leave my room,
and disdain is a dish that makes a feast for two.
I really like raccoons.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC
nestled in its comfortable corner of the marsh,
lays nine-thousand acres of soggy southern soil and sweetgrass.
here the hands of the clock carelessly play a lazy leapfrog
as tranquil transformations of pidgin make for musing murmurs.
the clangor of crickets lulling the weary ears to sleep,
as nocturnal creatures nimbly parade over placid, brackish water.
rotting wood stilts sink softly into the not-exactly-quicksand,
the last ferry makes a wake while winding to the next *******
father time is in no hurry here.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:28 PM UTC
I awoke from pseudo-sleep to frigid sweats and an unhealthy heartbeat
my mind snowy as the television opposite me, morning, half past three.
I dreamt up a personal narrative, reflecting on dreams forgone
time deferred, potential memories collecting dust on a suburban lawn.
Similar to that of books gifted to me, never read, and currently locked,
Vonnegut converses with Hemingway within a cavernous box.
Tucked neatly beside the dehumidifier, bottom level of my fortress
My once-manicured front yard so overgrown, you'd expect wild horses
galloping about like I once did before my femur weathered like sea glass,
leaving me like my alabaster figurines, just more stationary mass.
I've grown accustomed to drawn curtains and opening them at nightfall,
my eyeballs have grown to love staring contests with my blankest wall.
Not-quite-yet-discarded alcohol bottles have become my closest fellows,
kind enough to let me grasp them as action figures between my yellowed fingertips. We'd make dates to watch Local on the 8's together,
humming along blissfully to the muzak without regard to the weather.
Since my everyday life now remains a comfy 72 degrees, accompanied
by a soundtrack of leaky faucets and turning pages of AARP magazines.
Now completely alone I float, clinging to life in a sea of unknown
Clawing a barely buoyant lifevest filled with styrofoam and rhinestones
If I were still as spry as a spring chicken, I'd walk ten paces in the kitchen,
I'd draw my nine and snipe a mirror for displaying an unpleasant image.
If my eyes had less cataracts I'd be in the process of shredding them to bits
because I never wanted to peer through lenses so dull and spiritless.
If my ears were better, I'd hear fewer phantom telephone rings,
answer every telemarketer, hear more synthetic voices advertising things.
I'd never touch my college sweaters for the regrets they would conjure,
But now I'm finally grown up, wasn't that what I always wanted?
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC