5 years or more it's been
and life has been a haze
time both relative and irrelevant.
I'm sure it no longer matters
but somehow, it is still the vantage point
from which I have to live.
There is no direction,
no upward, onward,
only away.
Ever away.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 3:40 PM UTC
my ear is ringing
the road is singing
the light is filtering in
the cat is curled
and words unfurled
and silent in the din.
I sit in corners
eyes flashing
up and around, looking
for a face
to alight on
and suddenly there are many
too many
and they all alight
on me
eggs, eggs for
breakfast
penises for lunch
crafts in December--
I think I may know
what hides in
the wrapping
under silver bow--
I think I have a hunch.
Two years
and she was gone.
We're still going.
Clapping my hands
I tried for months at a time
to catch the air she left behind.
She left us with
her scraps, her scrawl
jagged, stabbing upward
I still run my fingers over their shards
and spires
wishing I could
bleed.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 2:38 PM UTC
Door handle
spin.
paint splashes onward, marching to oblivion
or false understanding
and tweets are crawling
nestling in elbows
making hinges creak
and the net can't stop the rust
of its human counterpart
mind.
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
I lost my voice
when I forgot
the secret of the craft.
What secret, love, is that?
The written word
not born of mouth,
no mother, none at all,
not even you
Not I?
It’s true,
Yet, can’t escape the draw;
composing with my maw—
So choking on the weight
of all that I have written;
hands are bound behind me
with all that I’ve forgot—
Oh, words that I’ve forgot!
(It’s only writer’s block.)
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 9:03 PM UTC
*The precipice
The fall, un-fell...*
To cliffs, successful cling.
I see the sea,
its foaming maw,
wide open, just for me.
To step or not to step,
but there cannot be a question.
Face is pale and rope is frail,
"REPEL!" The crowd does jeer.
But I can't expel the fear;
For if I succeed--cling till I die--
or tie my noose right here,
the end result is clear.
Must cliffs be so sheer?
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
hole, hollow, cup
chest, breast, *****
drain, stain, empty
void, jagged, ragged.
Filled, still, treading
thick, dense, dreading
foreign, matter, matters?
broken, blood, letting.
The world is ripe with words
void of understanding.
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 8:29 AM UTC
share all feelings i can’t say
through gritted, numbing teeth.
call my bluff
pull my words
out of my throat
until your hands are tough
calloused with my
eventual, sober
regret.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
Love is a dream
or so they say,
my winter heart,
it begs to play
“unfreeze me please”
you’ll hear it say
“for I miss the warmth of summer.”
And love is young
though I am old,
they say it can
unwind the cold
like ticking clocks
and bells of old;
echoes fading into silence.
And love is kind
but I am scared
of fangs beneath
the lips you bear.
The last one said
he also cared,
so I am slow to trusting.
‘Cause love is cruel,
and I’m not new;
affected words
and lover’s cues,
strangled trust
and selfhood, too,
I’ve the eulogies to prove it.
But love is birth;
it can give life.
If I could let
the dead horse lie,
and promise you
that I will try
to want to become different.
To love at all
is to have felt
your stolen heart
transcend yourself,
blessed by the hand
of God Himself,
the seeming giver of your dreams,
but to love again,
it is a choice,
to speak aloud
in broken voice,
“Though it may hurt,
still I rejoice,
though it may end,
still I rejoice,
take all I am,
still I rejoice,”
and try, though hard it seems,
to remember how to dream.
Remember how to dream.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 12:53 AM UTC
“I think that I love him,”
I wrote down in my journal that day.
Words scrawled across the page
curling like timid spring tendrils.
I swam in it all afternoon,
turning pruney with the feeling.
Indulging in the thought that this
was what I’d long been needing.
But day turned into night,
things changed within the hour;
lovely feelings, slowly budding,
became shrunken withered flowers.
With a friend I had been talking,
he asked, “What do you know about Justin?”
The air was cool on my teeth as I smiled,
“It’s hard to know about Justin.”
In that moment, my heart was swollen
with hope that my friend would spill
words that I could indulge on
like red wine to the ears,
and I felt my face turn ruddy
with anticipation of the pleasure,
it was almost too much bear—
my beating heart could hardly wait—
And within that same moment, he said,
“Well he really likes your roommate.”
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 12:51 AM UTC
To the one who broke past,
stumbled on the texts
coated in dust
and ancient webs;
To the one who read
letters in code
the truths they held,
riddles I wrote;
To the one who saw
where walls could crack,
solid pretenses split
without a map--
I wait for you
in the womb of this place,
somewhere deep in concrete,
a tomb in shadowed space--
--May you recognize me
without seeing my face.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:47 PM UTC