is a small price to pay for euphoria.
he gasped at the brink of
mouth agape and strained
like pulled taffy
embraced him entirely
consumed like a long lost relative
Sometimes we don’t climb.
It was no longer clear
whether he climbed more than
the earth climbed him: she clambered inside,
ascending further into his psyche
happiness bleeds into our
like water running the
pigment lines of
He cried out
shedding the skin of his palms
upturned and reaching
like a caustic supplication
he fell hard.
slap mat against the grain
like a thrice worn shirt
She calls him weeping-
a contrite lover
and he will return
to her brutality
nursed with humility-
intoxicated with exhilaration.
I have recently become very involved with rock climbing. I have asked myself, why do I feel so passionate about this when it hurts so much and is so frustrating? This poem is an exploration of that juxtaposition.
Life is the prattle of an old lady.
She squawks either too loudly
or makes you crane to hear.
as she sits rocking,
her senile nonsense numbs your intelligence
until you sit bleary-
gaping at the air
like the fattest fish in the aquarium.
your every comment drowns
in the mush
of her tapioca voice.
you sit uncomfortably in her fishbowl world of
faded floral print- lace doilies
and contemplate your deft superiority
as her denture clicks gnaw on your sanity.
as soon as you think
a vague plotline surfaces in her mumbling
a new great aunt’s third cousin’s baby
weaves its way into the conversation,
and you are hopelessly thrown
like a reused dryer sheet
back into the colored load.
occasionally you attempt to establish a connection
between you and the venerable wrinkled smile
but she mishears and begins another
featuring Bobby, the lad turned soldier.
as soon as you gain confidence
that you know how to handle this doddery senior-
she slams you with a small token
of sage advice
that shatters your naïve sphere
with its mind-wrenching validity.
has such a brackish mark
upon your passive visage-
it transfigures boldly, tempestuously
any average glance flung facetiously in my direction.
Dearest Rogue Element,
You invigorate all other
Like the slip of a blunt knife,
you surge open your soul, compelling
any audacious personality to bleed through the wound of your
You betroth yourself to
the Fascinating, the Creative,
and like the cascade of clearest french horn lamentation-
you stir my
emotions with a mournful compassionate caress.
And that’s the difference.
The mellow mahogany of my eyes
provides the most loving background for Light to
reflect her dancing valiance with reverent adoration.
stride as the
Commanding and eternally vexing, (captivating) me
with your gaudy juxtaposition
of angry intensity
and poignant serenity.
something plush weeping
into a pillowed hug
of empty oxygen
though I try the Brave Game,
(and usually win)
flakes of me run
off my arms and face
and scrounge around the corners of the room
looking for your mellow sting.
But I definitely feel
a s t r e t c h i n g
the Doctors say my heart
should probably be
a slight tremor
( echoes )
through every joint
of my toy frame,
like a thousand elfin voices talking
about your favorite foods,
and the color of your hugs.
muscles of my throat
send their regards to your
2.5 is a smallish bird
when one observes
the blue expanse of my ocean life
but it pecks my most tender tissues
when I sit [flat] inside Today.
someone resized my skin
though I am grateful
for your delicate absence
(the elusive Good deserves you most)
I feel as if
the petty bird’s wing tensions
won’t be satisfied
with the look of my dappled shoulders
till you stroke them densely
with your matter-of-fact fingers.
I spent today reeling you in.
threads of your silk love
fluttered through the air
like broken, escaped spider webs
how can you be at once everywhere and nowhere?
on an old voyage moment
you rebuked me:
“You’re looking with the wrong eyes,
But my eyes don’t dart differently.
I sit with the innumerable knots of your
I sift for the ends to start
but maybe you are just one continuous
ng as we’
the fibers of my physical being
the flapping petals
falling from my
into each atom
of my salient figure-
fuse your feathered fabric
into my most raw elements.
My life is a matted disarray
of your truest notions-
A yarn Mount choreographed from
the diminutive strands
of your blinking captured freedom
I spent today reeling you in-
So- entwine me, Love,
net me forever, Sweet,
my dearest jumble to disentangle
He is my least favorite vegetable.
No amount or level of preparation makes him taste better:
brings out his bulbous, insipid ego
the texture of his flamboyant ignorance.
when I timorously sip him in soups or broths,
his oozing insidious misogyny
contaminates my blissful dining, contorts any ingredients still pure.
I fry him, striving to remove the
excess of impertinence which
permeates the oxygen I feebly inhale.
but he evades my maneuvers:
usurps bliss and violates all semblance of tranquility
I cannot prevail
against the throb of his assaulting narcissism
I must instead attempt
on the delicate iridescence of his silkily mucoused membranes
and admire deftly
his indefatigable ventures to pervade my
Dear Best friend.
I cried today.
Not because you left me dancing in
Not because I receive one paragraph
of sparse-nothing information
from you a week.
I cried because
you are the kind of best friend
who wafts beside me
(like that time we led each other with our eyes
closed through the
crowded theme park-full of nonchalant
in all my sly, lively moments
and exerts more merry influence upon my wanderings
than all the other
7 billions souls on this [The Foolish Blue Globe]