i like angry poetry
the kind that churns
in your gut,
with razors for teeth
and gums bleeding.
i like the violent sound
of verbs clashing
on a decaying page,
like the shot of a gun
on a quiet day.
i like the poetry that stays,
that lies in waiting
like a dog in a cage,
words that creep like
voided birds into the
wired tress of my brain,
that pay their rent
like drunken travelers
and trash the place.
i like angry poetry
the kind that sears it's
screams to my lips,
which spirit echoes and
moans for eager,
****** eyes.
words that hit like *****,
giving their reader
a killer hangover.
i like angry poetry,
the kind that leave you
with a smoky exit.

Sky Afire

It started as a tendril snaked
And quickly caught my eye
That beckoned me to come partake
The bright majestic sky

From turquoise into indigo
And all the shades between
With molten lava spreading slow
As far as could be seen

With orange and corals juxtaposed
Against the deeper blues
And silhouetted trees in pose
Amid the great bamboos

The clouds were piled in tumbling flow
And darkened as they fell
To charcoal black, blood red aglow
At meeting with the swell

And as the skyflow met the sea
And seemed to melt within
The sea took on its vibrancy
And flow began again

And as the skyflood reached its peak
Engulfing and aflame
It seemed directly to retreat
As quickly as it came

The ashen grey began above
And slowly spread below
Till all was left in pumice drifts
Within its final glow

And now the show has ended
With the sky once more a sky
And the clouds and sea appended
For a witness such as I

3 Oct 2000

the mirrors reflection
only ever spoke of her
as
weak, alone, a ghost
pitiful, mournful
wonder-less at most

it was her place to hide
but the mirror
LIED

she punched it
with her fist
until it was
shattered
and
broken
bleeding into the cracks
until it became
a
*reflection
                 truly
                          spoken

Innocence is the days when
I thought that monsters
lived under the bed rather
than slept right beside me.

It was the times I feared
heights almost as much as
I now fear brooding stares.

Back when I thought
passionate love was the
only kind worth having
— that I now wish for a
lover who loves quietly.

Innocence was thinking
danger was an ill-advised
adventure, not a man.

It was admiring a tornado
heart and not realizing the
damage it would cause.

I caught lightning in your bottle,
and I swallowed it whole.
So torrid and treacherously lit,
I became the kind of something
you taught yourself to run from.
Skin tight and white hot,
I radiate light from all angles;
buzzing with fluorescence.
With my fingertips brightening
the curves of your lips,
I trace that familiar fine line
between your fear and fascination.

In a single crack across the sky,
I will set your darkness ablaze
and leave you with
a deafening boom of clarity.
Jolted and stunned, you take in
an infinite illumination,
devouring every inch of
the unknown color and wonder
once shadowed by your thick,
murky doubt.

Blink, and it disappears
as quickly as it came to be.
What you see, you can’t forget.
As the spots dance, staccato
in front of your eyes,
you run, just as you taught yourself,
fast and far, away from the light;
disenchanted once again,
as you recall the fact that
lightning never strikes
the same place twice.
the same place twice.