#imagist
By the grace of her cracked nails, she releases herself from her own chains.
Like a jolt, no longer tensioned to a wall, her tears cry out.
Impressed on her, a mark of a steel anklet, a bloodied lesion.
But the blood will cradle, and the wound will scab
and then become skin again.
From her blue eyes, past her brown freckles, a rain falls.
And long after she's gone, when we had forgotten she was once collapsed there—
a bouquet of blue blooms squeezes from the gaps
and reminds us of how she lit the darkest of rooms.
Just maybe, we too will leave a blue bloom
and leave the concrete
as beneath it, the beach.
With you and me, today.
With all our friends, tomorrow.
6d ago
May 28, 2026 at 4:14 AM UTC
Colorful hills along the water.
Blue, purple, green, yellow, pink, and orange coexisting on the same land.
Ridges reflected against a silver sky.
The lake, a mirror for those rainbow hills.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 11:12 AM UTC
let me pass
the iris
of life
as the snow
perched
atop your lash
as the gale
threaded
along your hair
and bear witness
to your grief
then summer
Dec 27, 2025
Dec 27, 2025 at 5:44 AM UTC
snow orchid
snow rose
you have dyed all
in your
silence
and i have inherited
nothing
in your
spirit
snow
where is
my flower?
Dec 19, 2025
Dec 19, 2025 at 12:39 AM UTC
tell me of tamales
and of pan-dulce
with savored stares
warm, and lined
with vow,
and flies
I'll tell them
of a place
less known
a budding ranch
of splinter and trail
of citrus sky,
flecked, with rust
I'm told the air
might smell
of pine.
Dec 18, 2025
Dec 18, 2025 at 7:42 PM UTC
I will make
tiny bets
on brown sugared eyes
and a lightly lifted chest
We will make
one tiny bet
on a month with no name
and a boy,
with no head
Dec 16, 2025
Dec 16, 2025 at 3:30 PM UTC
the last button on my shirt
just wont let go
twist and tear
and still it holds
the last button on my shirt?
tough as bone.
splinter and shear
and still it holds
the last button on my shirt
a crimson flow
a pupil of thread
watching home
Dec 16, 2025
Dec 16, 2025 at 12:09 PM UTC
My heart’s ventricles
form a vast vaulted ceiling —
Crumbling cathedral
Dec 27, 2024
Dec 27, 2024 at 5:16 PM UTC
At night, a Christmas garland brightly lit —
Milky Way, spine of the sky.
Dec 6, 2024
Dec 6, 2024 at 8:12 AM UTC
teacher erases
marker mistake
expo stains
still left behind
a tinge of red
under the blue
Sep 11, 2024
Sep 11, 2024 at 11:45 PM UTC
I knew
Friday night TV light
Trailer kids
Bottle-rocket sizzle
Quick gravel crunches
Giggles behind a fender.
Day-night amalgams
Video poker and ****** fog
Sidewalk thermal vent nap-takers
Torch lighter hisses
Boulders sublimated to smoke
Toe-curling sigh
And crying at the dawn.
I want to know
Tree house daydreams
Kitchen curtain springtime
AC hum in iced-tea twilight
Spinning
Zoysia grass between babies' toes
You laughing, and I:
The mad man, white beard laughing,
Praying in the shrubs
For the breeze to move the curtain
So that he may see.
Aug 10, 2024
Aug 10, 2024 at 10:14 PM UTC
Remember black winds of November nights,
rattle your bones, chill your marrow,
quiver time's arrow and rip the world's white
veil from a skeletal face. Throw
it. Watch it fold, caught on the cathedral,
high church of the ossified faithful,
whose whispered prayers will calcify us all.
Unveiled, the world is bones without a soul,
rattling as it grinds, creaking as it turns.
A flag flies / Calcium collects in urns.
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 6:59 PM UTC
I must precipitate their pain;
When I pass,
their faces close like shutters before the rain.
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 8:07 AM UTC
Still, without the touch of the needle
The silent record sits in wait.
Line after line of etched in melody
Worn, -- even abused
Scarred and scraped
A scratch here
Some dust there
Replayed, again and again
Black vinyl, once heavy, worn thin
Only to be abandoned on the turntable
Where it once served its purpose.
Neglected, unused
The silent record stays still
Hoping to one day turn again.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:47 PM UTC
Girl, with tousled hair, sleeps but swiftly turns the stair of her dreams;
Returns to reality.
Girl, with tangled thoughts, lets the room spin until she can piece it together like a puzzle-
She drinks ***** like a butterfly would nectar-
Starts with the corners, takes her time.
Girl, with tepid headache, sits up and observes a washed-out lunar denim blue clean her baby pink wall;
Snow fall.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 4:42 PM UTC
People only mesh well with kerosene, each and every human so flammable,
It's a wonder we don't all set ourselves on fire...
But yours truly did it last night
Swallowed two liters of lighter fluid and chased it with jet fuel,
Ate the box of matches you keep in your purse
And burnt away the last good parts of my stomach.
///
I slept like a baby for two hours,
Not enough for lectures on the carbon cycle or dada mathematical deconstruction,
So I drifted off to more sleep, and slept to dream of the Six Gallery.
Wishing one or two poets would gain fame in an age of pineapple vodkas that no one is drinking for the taste,
But for gravity to pull through their very thin blood stream and feel at one with the party.
It's monotony—
I'll die and everyone will love me then, so where are they while I'm alive?
That's the joke of mourning,
It's the reason I resort to self-immolation,
It's the reason I dream everyday for fame and do nothing about it.
It's why Frank O'Hara got out while he could, dying with the true images of New York City
And not living to see it destroyed as I now have.
Emperors and Legionaries alike, take up your arms and help me overthrow anyone who dictates verse and meter.
I aspire to **** a fascist with my bare hands.
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
The train is a mechanical snake,
its hiss occasionally scrawled
above the grating of its own
movement as it cuts through
the smear of graffiti and concrete
and waste and dry bracken.
A single voice, “she was the
third fastest girl at the gala,
yeah she was really pleased”,
the voice enveloped by the
drone once again. The train
entering the tunnel.
The Financial Times lies on
the plastic table, the pages loose
from bored ********* bears the
headline: sacrifices required for ambitious goal.
Eyes trace the same paragraph over
and over, drawing nothing from
the coldness of the type script.
I think about conversation but my
tongue lulls in my mouth, dry,
and my mind wanders between
small talk and meagre pleasantries.
I stare at the man across from me for
what seems like minutes, knowing that
he knows I watch him, analyse him,
but there is no fight or pretence, only the
tired apathy and reluctance I know.
his arms cross. His eyes close with half sleep.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:18 AM UTC
Television glows
blue upon my skin.
My head lies on
the static of radio
and the electric
of the streetlights
blaring through my
window keeps me awake.
The red digits of
my alarm clock
grow less vibrant as
the grey sun stirs
to the accompaniment
of the jubilant birds
with their repetitive
song which hangs
like these vacant walls,
holding me.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
Summer rain.
Like splinters of glass falling
through green shades.
Gathered leaves are swept,
the mist pulls into the station.
Hands in pockets
The first snowflake settles
but soon melts away.
Unnoticed.
Walking home. The smell
of wild mint by the stream.
And sunsets.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:09 AM UTC
on the platform
a girl drops a pink tissue
and it lies there,
all scrunched up like a rose
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC
Like in a scene from a film,
where the camera pulls back,
we see a head resting in the mud,
glassy grey eyes stare out
as if searching beyond the trees.
Grey hair crusted with muck.
Soil specked lips, bluing and sluggish,
parted from the final inhale
exhale process which has
failed like a broken clock.
Stopped heart like a rock.
Skin, liver spotted and birth marked,
cold and graying like silver birch bark,
A brown overcoat covers arms
splayed like branches, caught
and underneath a vague sheet
of russet leaves which have
since fallen in the breeze.
Insects crawling from beneath them
climb to inspect the unfamiliar mound
still to be discovered by a passerby.
And in a house not far away a wife looks at her watch
And she sits in front of the television,
And aware that something isn’t quite right
her stomach clenches up like a fist.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 6:42 AM UTC
Dead leaves, a dying tree;
silent in a tattered hat,
pausing in his quiet task,
reading poems of T.E. Hulme.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
The soaking ink
The doppler-shifted music
The refracting light
The gravity pulls
The magnetic-norths repel
The sticky vacuum ether
A falling stone
A drifting feather
A stationary wind
A silent name
A population disinterested
A common, universal secret
The sharp middle
The undulating plane
The slowly rising soil
Sensation and intuition
Without and within
Together in massive isolation.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC