The wind is a scream
tonight
or a quick breath
upon the solid lip
of the quarter-filled wine glass.
It haunts the eaves
of my empty house,
stalks the corners of my loneliness.
This bedroom is a recurring scene
well-worn and moth-eaten-
the cat flickering in the lamplight;
the plants climbing the walls
in search of a light;
the sharp click of the furnace
as bitter cold December
creeps in over the windowsill.
Familiar, familial,
like the dichotomy of flesh
and a mind with sharp edges;
of soft sun kissed curves
and this brittle winter heart.
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 11:59 PM UTC
I stand ankle deep
in the cool, rushing river
and watch the minnows
kissing my toes
with starlight quickness,
licking for some sort of
sustenance.
I listen to the siren song
of the forest,
slow and verdant
like the echo of fronds
unfurling delicately
in the mottled sunlight
and aching with longing.
I let the shadows move
through me,
leaving a human shaped
space
where maybe once
there beat a slow heart
lazily trickling blood
through intricate maps
of veins and capillaries.
I let the water rush past me
and I think of hands
folding and unfolding
and flowers wilting
and rejoining the dirt
in a poetic display
of circularity.
Time oozes forward
with a finite smirk,
leaving a lucent film
of memories
that haunt me,
of smiles that are
lost to me.
There is laughter now,
ringing eerily
amongst the trees
like a foreign language
in a land of silence
and shadow creatures.
The river runs through me
and I am paralyzed
by the singularity
of this moment.
Jul 16, 2017
Jul 16, 2017 at 10:23 PM UTC
I do not belong here
my mind whispers
in repetitive strokes
as my hands falter
and the words tumble
over my broken lips.
The atmosphere is
sticky and stifling,
squeezing all of the pure air
out of my paper bag lungs
in hot pursuit of this
singular weakness
that flickers and expands
inside my ladder chest.
The love of it all
is killing me,
slowly and with meticulous
precision.
The mourning doves
cooing their last regrets,
the poplar trees rattling
their soft lamentations,
the wind caressing
my neck upon a
sun strewn precipice-
all of it has never meant more
than a lonesome swelter
of emotions that press
and spill through the
cracks in my facade.
The flowers that reach
and bend for me
in misty golden dawns,
the endless sea
like molten metal
in the moonlight,
all of it, all of it,
wasted as it flows
through my fingertips
and I dream of floating
face down for
eternity,
where a smile
might mean something
more.
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 1:48 PM UTC
I do not fit
between straight lines
and words that twinge
metallic and cold
as they strike notes
upon my open mind
and upturned palms.
I do not fit between
cities that shriek,
burning inexplicably
and wide open spaces
that stretch repetitively
on past your periphery.
I do not fit between
envelope folds
and crisp little notes,
crying at all the indecisiveness
of my worn edges.
I do not fit between
blue skies that mean nothing,
and a white hot sun
burning holes in it,
overexposing this bleached
and silent landscape.
I do not fit between
tightly packed cubicles
and hungry eyes.
My body moves about
with marionette precision
as the mind screams
with contempt
cool and sharp as glass,
white hot and fleeting,
lustfully arcing
into a shadow of identity.
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
I am still learning
how to be gentle and kind
in a world that is not mine,
where the flowers sway
in fields of golden solemnity
and the trees shake like a word
that wants to be said.
I am still learning
how to live in a place
where knowledge is but
a means to an end;
a point on the map
to be forgotten once you've
crossed into the blissful ignorance
of suburban accomplishment.
I am still learning
how to look at a sunrise
and feel more than this
transient melancholy
at a beauty that is held alone.
The thoughts that bloom
in exultance just to be borne
lie waiting, ripe with discontent
at the threshold of a room
where no one speaks the language.
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 10:59 PM UTC
in dreams we split
like atoms,
heaving out words
that seek truth
and glances
like knives.
funny little things
float behind my eyelids
as though
they have a right.
hazy sunlight
seeps in through
his basement window
and my mossy eyes
flicker and expand,
stealing shadows
of his sleeping form-
there is truth
in freckles and
pale blue veins
that twists and sings
until I'm tongue tied
leaning on a syllable.
we make love
like thieves,
hanging delicate
ideas from the ceiling
to clear a space
in his king sized bed
for something more,
for something real-
it flows through my veins
and drips from my fingers,
something like love.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
spring seeps in
with great grey rains
and a shifting sun
that could try harder.
small things whisper
and rush to hide
beneath rotting wood
and ancient bricks,
squirming there
in soil that keeps
and breathes life
in April.
green shoots glance
tentatively through
hazy morning light,
pushing through
earthworms and detritus
to gift me one
small wink
as I brush the earth
from my human hands.
it is a great exchange
from the vast frozen sheets
of glittering death
and pale winter sun
into the world of the living.
it is an awakening
of sleeping seeds
and tendrils
and it is more like
a rebirth,
as my limbs stretch
and bloom with the trees
and a quiet smile once again
comes to rest
on this gratuitous
winter face.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
Silence twists around my throat,
serpentine in the inky light,
as the paint sticks
and dries beneath my fingernails.
Ideas claw at my solar plexus
threatening sycophancy
treason and madness
in a world of stale passion
and stuttering ignorance.
They wake up and shower,
**** shave, apply the mask
with painstaking detail.
They die before they reach thirty
and go on walking about
as if they know the secret
to eternal bliss-
it's possible that they do,
after all.
I mean, consider the alternative-
an artist haunted by the colors
that live in a winter sunrise,
a nomad reaching for no one
as he chases the sun
across mercurial landscapes,
a writer living through ink
because there's no other way
to quell the storms,
a human shedding expectations
for beautiful things
that will always be broken.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
You live only in memories
for me, memories
and ashes on the floorboards.
It's strange to think
that you're out there
living and breathing
and moving about
in a world that I'm not
a part of.
I think of songs that we sang
bruises we made
broken guitar strings
ragged throats
disembodied words
wasted glances
and it all just sits there
misty and faint
in little corners of my mind
and I don't miss you at all.
the human condition
is rarely terminal.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 10:48 PM UTC
I linger at skin that clings
and hollow bones
that catch in the moonlight,
pausing at mirrors
that look more like
still-life paintings-
an empty gold vase
over here where my heart
used to reside,
a fresh green sprig
where there were once arms.
There is a sickness
sleeping in my hypothalamus,
heaving with every breath,
every step, every heartbeat.
I try to look at it
and it slips like sand
through my closed mind.
I smile, and it's not
my smile anymore.
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC