#somatic
When the curtain falls in love
the characters begin to speak
through tremors of syllables
pressed from the keys
of a cherry black piano.
The rhythmic clicks
like a crafted bird
tapping, chopping
building from
mechanical noise.
Hands passing, paceless
still precise, arriving as words
everything clicks, clacks together
rippling through the sheets, to tell –
that was already there.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 3:31 PM UTC
Ripened in breath,
lingering in sentences
never said—
but arrived anyway
swallowed words,
inhaled echoes,
rippling through
the chest
truth lights up
in the lungs
for lack of air—
what we can’t say
otherwise.
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 10:30 PM UTC
Syllables curl;
silk sheens
the crescent spoon
drips into black—
straight cut—
6 a.m.
Half-awake: a hex—
night grows legs,
circles the room;
gravity follows
with a broom.
I wake again—
morning amber
yawns across the table
toward an empty cup.
Eyes in the corner—
the kitchen tiger,
pocket-black,
worrying the broom—
a hiss.
Then a leap:
swipes the air
lands on my chest;
swift fur coils my wrist,
heavy with purrs—
a clinging bracelet.
Not what I miss.
It’s the habit—
heat in the hand,
steam on the lip;
the slurp—
turns into reverie.
Mourning sips—
felt at the pulse;
the ceremony spills—
ticks in the bone,
cold to the marrow.
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 2:01 PM UTC
Stand beside me, Friend
The one I have always feared
The one that lives here.
Jul 31, 2025
Jul 31, 2025 at 9:49 PM UTC
Write in stanzas. Think in stanzas.
Speak in stanzas. **** your routine.
Sleep less. Go to work drunk.
Yell at inanimate objects. Yell with
inanimate objects. Fly your mother to
San Francisco (coach) and watch the
house for her, the dogs, the child, the
drunk. She is your mother.
You do not like your job. Spend
your days beneath an apple tree and
spend your workdays eating apples
in any given weather. Lie on the floor
of your bedroom belly-flat and smell
the carpet beneath you, all dead flakes
of skin and dog fur, sinew strand of
hair, black dots—tar or shoe-gum or
something other.
Think on your place. Reach to the left,
your side table with glass of water and
lampshade. Feel the hilt, small knife for
your pocket, small pocket. Free the blade,
feel the grooves, gold and blacked-brushed
blade you bought with a flask, a set, two
tiny commodities that may serve you well
in the wild or a shopping mall, what ever
little evils exist away from your bedroom
with its television and soft blankets, slow
mortal shuffle and modicum.
Stop and breathe. Feel the heart in its
always-patter. Know it will stop.
Not fret, no, only knowing.
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
I listen actively
Show compassion sympathy empathy
open minded
Non-judgemental
Intelligent
Sensitive
Vulnerable
Loving caring strong fighter
Voice of reason
To everyone but me
Won't give up
Even though have already given up
A thousand times
Stand by friends who deserve it
Stand with lovers with bared soul
Though roses may ***** bleeding finger
Won't stop stopping
To smell summer flowers
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC