"fistfuls" poems
the words used to flow like silk through my fingertips
i used to know exactly how to weave them
make them fall into tapestries, hang them from walls
emblazoned with unadulterated innocence.
it wasn't until you asked to look at my creations
that i realised sunlight could be so damaging
my words felt frivolous under your scathing gaze
and they stuttered, crumbled. my tapestries fell.
now they're dust and i'm on my knees, crawling
grasping fistfuls that seep through my hands
you can't write about something you can't feel
and now i can't feel anything.
this is the last poem i'll write about you.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 6:19 PM UTC
The smell of church reminds me of my childhood
but over the years, the priest becomes a foolish man.
I've pondered over my faith for so long.
Sometimes I reach into my conscious and pull out steaming fistfuls of pop culture
like,
I watched Rosemary's Baby on Saturday. Was God dead in the 50s?
Not nearly as much as he is now.
Today was Palm Sunday, and I felt like a baby, so naked in the desert sand.
Delicate church, how do you reel me in?
Apr 17, 2011
Apr 17, 2011 at 5:26 PM UTC
In the divet between mountains
Resides a wooden cabin – ostensibly an amalgamation of the scape
Adroitly - I - quondam female warrior flit
Down massive (ancient) hand-laid, hand-cut carved stone steps
Bounding from contingent step onto the dense pad of turned soil
Tacit compliance between gravity and soil holds footprints bound
A compressed deflating crescendo as pace ignites with bounds
Cadences of protuberant wildflowers and grasses erupt from swollen terra
A winsome chromatic menagerie, dispersed in ecstatic fistfuls
A venerably ancient ritual
My nascent clandestine vocation
Personally meted out - a beatification for my provisional sanctuary
Along glacier-fed stream
Lissome fingers shadow inert stalks –plucking dormant beginnings from their desiccated ligaments
I am austere and unadorned save for a festoon of pyrite flecks trailing my semblance
Residual gilding from my ante-meridian swim taken after requisite gathering of wild blackberries, goose berries, and rhubarb along oft-tamped path
The sun, nestling into its requisite apex endorsed my completion
I reclined into the hassock of soil, feeling the elements settle about with an embossment of my form
Imposing verdure arched subtly as compressed soil beckoned hyperbolic flux
As I lay within the basilica of opulent living columns replete with comestible bounty
Lingering dew honed inflections of sacrosanct petrichor in unison with piquant clover
Wild purple clover buds saccharinely tinted and inundated nestled nerves in mine cribriform plate
Birds pitched and galloped through the frond tips and beyond in the lapis expanse
Frequently snatching damselfly’s and assemblages of midges from their ephemeral drift
Auspicious rays transcended stippled diaphanous gravid clouds
Light inundated ether entered humbly into the cathedral oculus
Pyrite speckled terrain beneath, and my bare gilded form above
Cast a refracted aura about my sanctuary
Precipitously the elusive vaporous embankment distended further
Ashen atmospheric correspondence inaugurated liquescent sustenance to my mountain abode
And I -
Lingered beneath the descending gobbets, curls furled in a puddle
Fresh topsoil cupping my corporal topographic contours
Pressing blackberries into my mouth between smiles
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
Fescue fields in view
Electric neon butter *****
Scattered glowing beacons
Dot the greens and browns
Magnets for little hands
Tiny feet racing to keep up
Their laser focus
To pick and pick and pick
More and more and more
Fistfuls of joy
To tickle the nose
To share laughter
To put in a pocket
Then nap and forget
© 2019 MJL
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 4:47 PM UTC
Other girls get
Fistfuls of tulip and
primrose,
But my love knows me
better.
Painted across skin are
All my favourite colours
Redorangeblueblackpurple-
I always get the
Prettiest blooms.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 8:22 AM UTC
The handcuff bites my wrist
as teeth sink, searing flesh.
A breath, a scent too familiar to forget.
Blind.
Massive palms, razor point
carving canyons down my spine,
blood is the wine.
The burn of beard
feigning consent.
Fistfuls of hair conquering words.
A corpse to rob me of life,
the press of perversity against satin.
Fighting, writhing
satisfaction.
Pain swells in every limb
the wet swell reveal my sin.
Slaps stinging awake
every fiber of clothing still keeping me safe.
The drive of possession
splitting secrets wide,
fingers around throat clenching tight.
Sweat running red,
the rising growls growls resonate in my head.
The raw force bruising
like claiming a slave,
body & mind consuming.
Ferocity leads to frenzy,
my senses rage against me,
The thickness rips,
devours,
conquers my body for paradise.
And I scream in the ecstasy taken.
A clenching incites eruptions,
the pulsing beast flooding.
My purpose awakened.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
The porcelain tiles felt chilled
against my bare back,
each one crawling
injecting into the pores of
my skin, they scalded into
the core of my bones.
Water lavished twin bodies,
Scorching feet and
exploding senses,
they ran across naked
forms, exploring every inch
just like our lust soaked fingertips.
We stood close, breath
shared between us,
Chests heaved in anticipation
as we became drenched
in the moment.
He grabbed my hair
in messy fistfuls,
Lips dripping
with flavor, his taste
was infectious as it seeped
into every inch of my being
we merged, one
like the sun sinks into the ocean.
I sank into him, giving myself
all of myself to ecstasy.
Like a drug, I was addicted
as each finger danced across his spine.
We dove in together
gasping at every breath
clawing at the rapture stained tiles
twisted hands entangled
squeezing for release
over waves of unrelenting pleasure.
A soft cry shot through
our submerged affair
awakening rolling figures
we became still, the rain
continuing to tap upon ourselves.
A single touch from his lips
expressed agony later to come
As we lay together on that
Still porcelain tile.
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 4:31 PM UTC
~
*Ragged mist of stalled horizon,
from dry dock
to disadvantage point
second hand shops
of sackcloth and ash,
they contain multitudes
treading the outside edge
of perception,
rehearsing disaster
in fistfuls of earth,
and the immaterial:
the stuff of pure shadow
a bevy of dead buildings
resemble a fallen actress
in the throes of dance,
with emaciated figurines leaning
forward in the temple,
listening for clues
too far to whisper
work will never resume
on the tower,
and it will remain painfully scanty,
a place to bury strangers
or raise up cholera
the third world summer
sun on sacred walls,
red before orange,
let the rays burn away our sins,
we contain multitudes
but one step inside doesn't mean
we understand anything*
~
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 5:29 PM UTC
She grinds her worries up with the rest of her troubles
Rolling them up into a leaf double the size of her middle finger
Exhaling the pollution of the world back into the atmosphere
Suffocating the population with a final
**** you.
She grinds her hips against the flesh upon his lips
If her release is the time bomb
His licks are the ticks
And she drags him to her mouth with fistfuls of hair,
With one final kiss
She swallows his despair.
The night doesn't always have to seem so dark,
There's day light somewhere.
Even with the lights out
The sunshine of her smile
Illuminates the answers to his prayers.
Head bowed
His neck crucified between her feet.
He finds God
Belly button deep.
He takes her to infinity.
He takes her to nirvana.
Tomorrow, she can continue to **** the world
If she wanna
But tonight
He's inhaling the weight of the world off her persona
She places Jesus between his lips
Holy Marijuana.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 3:49 PM UTC
I remember when the photos treated Sam kind,
and yet on the late nights (coffee, gin, cigarettes, the like) --
instead of relaying stories of interstate thighs,
instead of talking in fistfuls and mouthloads --
he spoke of internet ***********
Me, Greg, and Greg's cousin who was named after
an Eastwood western would sink the sofa.
Sam would go through the bottles, and he spoke of
internet *********** with complete delicateness.
"Their eyes always get me. The way they stare into the camera,
and every once in awhile, the veil comes down. You see they
don't want to be there. You see an eager, teenage **** reflected
in their black pupils. You see her quivering lips.
You see the ritual. It's heart-breaking."
Sam would rub his forehead -- carved by time.
Greg would ask how the real ladies were treating him.
Sam never answered.
Time made deeper creases in Sam each day,
behind a closed door,
in the secret hours,
all to the glow of a laptop screen.
He had given his love to the distance
in the **** actresses' eyes.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
somewhen
in the vast crumbling timeline of the universe
13-year-old me is wondering
whether i exist.
4 years is a long time,
after all,
maybe enough to choose the exit,
leave the stage,
throw away everything
she is currently trying to hold together.
but here i am,
after all,
so she must have made it;
trekked through the perilous path of the future,
which is just another word for the unknown
which is just another word for nothing,
for empty,
and made it here.
and here is not a field of green,
exactly,
but maybe an oasis in the desert.
i am proud of her, even if
it is not halfway done,
even if the road stretches dark and endless,
even if she has brought with her nothing
but fistfuls of doubt
all her stupid starving for reassurance—
*will i be here in 3 years?
in 5 years?
in 10?*—
like a haunting hold,
a ghost.
but we have still made it,
after all.
for me,
and my 13-year-old spectre,
the question is not
how do you see yourself in the future
or where do you think you will be by then
or even what do you want to be doing in ten
but merely
will i see myself.
will i see myself.
will i get there.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 12:12 AM UTC
Dear Sledgehammer Heart,
You are tough as nails,
and you are also soft as silk.
You are wildflowers
blossoming in the spring,
and again in the summer.
You bloom more for yourself,
than for anyone else.
You are both student and teacher
with fistfuls of love,
clenched for those that hurt.
You taught me
the importance of a good porch:
The Foundation Must Be Solid.
A Home can be built anywhere,
as long as the Foundation is Solid.
You taught me to announce myself,
and to be proud of the songs that come out.
*(Even when the sounds are sharp,
they must be set free somehow, right?)*
And you taught me
how to handle a heart
as delicate as mine
pretends not to be,
with soft hands and gentle love
Stones smoothed into little pebbles
at the bottom of a river.
I can only hope I have learned
to hold your heart
with the skill and grace of bird wings
And to lift you
higher
as you do me.
It is the only way I can think to return
the lightness
you gift by existing.
Please remember,
My Sledgehammer Man,
you must simply exist
and the universe is lighter
for it.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 2:08 PM UTC
in dreams i met the fox again
this time i asked him to use words
grabbing sandcastle fistfuls of his fur
until the tide swept in
and i howled.
i asked him for the essence
secret ingredient
that made him a fox
as if it could be answered
= fur. paws. snout.
so we built a den of bricks
and i seal it over and over in vines
-just hold this together-
in thin flora we both know he could tear down
(if he wanted to)
the fox and his mystery mortar.
one day, the fox opened his mouth and said:
"wait".
do i ask for his appraisal
or do i riddle me for mine?
tearing down the wall to qualify
my own little bits of stone
twist my silver hair
because maybe i'm not half as scared of knowing the fox
as i am of knowing
the wolf.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012 at 10:25 AM UTC
**All Hours of the Night
you get it by now...
I'm no ordinary dude
I'm the Guardian
I vouched for you
and if I don't make you accountable for this mess;
you were quick to stick the puppies face in it
because she's gotta learn right "you know how ******* get"
a moment of weakness you've called it
crawling back now on the same bended knee
you take to to pray about it...
on the same bended knee you take to to take him
and you kiss your kids with that mouth
how irresponsible it would be of me
to not post your offenses
tough love
or tough talk
which one are you
I'ma go with my gut
because you said to... I'm paraphrasing
"always take a ***** at her word"
we set better examples here
so I'ma put your nose in the wet spot
and as for your performance;
I gotta give it up
kudos
standing o
but I can't wait around for the encore
and I can't wait to write your review
and now when it's aching
and everything smells like me
clenching won't do;
fistfuls of your bed spreads
feel like your back is breaking
but no more O's for you
miss it
All Hours of the Night
you're supposed to
do you miss him like that too
oscar - nominee
my crown is your crown now
that's how we felt we were supposed to get down
for the rest of
however long the rest of
turns out to be
there's never been a language ever spoken
or scripture ever inked on how we move
because it's a given here
where we quietly defend the dynasty
inside these gates
outside ourselves
and between me and the walls
haven't you been nervous for no good reason
haven't you missed the butterflies
because you still can't wait to see me
we came in undersized
but your crown was my crown now
because you know good and well
that's my breath
when a breeze leaves just a tease of warm air
under there
and because you love butterflies
wasn't *** better than ***
fascinating **** huh… me
like you didn't know before now
and now that yearn
can't be made well by any earthborn figure
outside these gates
or inside you
and only between me and the walls
there's been no language assigned
we still can't pronounce it
but it's called love no matter your accent
or if you speak in tongue
fight it
All Hours of the Night
it's tiring
and you're weak
I give it a week
before you come crawling back
on the same bended knee
you take to pray about it
and to take him
you kiss your kids with that mouth
I am no ordinary dude
I'm the Guardian
I vouched for you
codefendants
love is war
I thought you understood our plight
I have to make you accountable for this mess;
you gotta learn "you know how ******* get."
how irresponsible it would be of me
to not post your offenses
tough love
or tough talk
which one are you
it's okay to miss me
you're supposed to
do you miss him like that too...**
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 5:47 PM UTC
it is unseasonably warm
from across the neighborhood
******* ******
the rumbling masculine undertones
of his voice compress my heart
i crawl into my stomach
seeking shelter from a nonthreat
"liar liar liar liar liar liar liar liar"
he spits
and i cringe
his anger pulses
every anger
that has ever been shoved in my face
whispered in dark rooms
the anger i have witnessed
pierce the skin of women i do not know
the rejected wounds i have absorbed
all wrenched from their hiding places
pulled in pulpy fistfuls
from the crevices of my body
he shocks my system
of sympathetic nerves
like lightning
my palms sweat
i close the window
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 8:44 PM UTC
Five years ago today you departed this earth
5 years, 5 months, 5 minutes, 5 seconds, they all conjoined instantaneously, so conveniently
I don't recall the day of the week , the time of the day
Although I memorized the confines of your face, your rugged unwavering hands
Your guttural voice often immigrates within my head
When I soul search, I look for you
The fading air that I begged you could take
Fretfulness settled into the restristed room, submerging into wetlands
Incomprehensible grief as we bathed in tears
Prayers were addressed to our ears
Gentle brushes against your skin just to feel your warmth
I thought what is the sound of a heartache?
Because I knew at that moment even sorrow knew grief
Having no words for my own mother who lost a son
Knowing that there were three brothers and now one is gone
Recognizing how delicate brothers can be, yet unbreakable
I envision you discovering fistfuls of copper
A sacred river that delivers peace and there's berries to pick
With sawdust on your fingertips and a smile upon your face
The fish are always biting, and you can always hunt deer
Rings of kaleidoscope colors paint the sky, calmly on the shore
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 1:22 AM UTC
Fumble in the dark,
Become a tangled, clumsy mess,
Then laugh at it all hysterically-
Oh how deeply I relish Awkwardness
Awkwardness in love,
In little things I do- in everything I do,
The 'neat and clean' ones won't get it,
But it's known to us blundering fools
That tidily cutting slices of cake
And eating them in plates with spoons
Comes nowhere close to devouring cream
In fistfuls and untamed scoops,
And licking the blueberry syrup
As it trickles down your hand,
And fighting over the part
With most icing,
Getting some on your cheeks in return.
Shyly wiping it away from your lover's face
With a tissue comes nowhere close
To kissing it off his skin,
Don't you think?
Awkwardness is real,
Proof that we are alive, not merely living,
So, taste the deliciousness of it,
Let go, and dig in!
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
Broken lips, I smile inwardly,
watching you amongst the books.
Wanting you.
Internally, I ridicule my fascination for you,
I mock my lust.
I see the other men just like me.
I see them everywhere, all wanting you.
I hate relating to them.
I hate wanting you.
You posses a designer desire,
like ******* you is all the rage.
Everyday we all see your face
in every newsstand, on every front page,
but only because we all look.
Only because we all want.
And it's me crawling in the dirt like a worm,
it's me licking the doorknobs of every bar in town,
shoving fistfuls of knotted hair down my own throat
from every shower drain in every filthy run down
apartment complex covering this ******** city.
And it's me still wanting you,
sick with the want,
driven mad with the want,
dying wanting.
Poor from the late fees
for books I just can't
bring myself to return.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
it was the
summer
of 13
when a city
consumed in a
Cronut crazed
heat wave
amped
the tenderloin
slicing the underbelly
of Hell's Kitchen
packing meat for
Russian oligarchs
pouring fistfuls
of petrol rubles
down the
thirsty gullets
of glutinous
developers
their distended
bellies welling
with aching
avarice
from an
extended
stay at an
All You Can Eat
zero interest
smorgasbord
courtesy of
Uncle Sam’s Diner
somewhere off the
West End
getting fat
on the land
reclaimed
and rebuilt
on the dust
and detritus
of an expired
Great Society
Bloomie's metropolis
rising on the rubble
of razed neighborhoods....
the vertical leaps
shooting ever upward
the heady windows
framing portraits
of endless replication
offering the amenities
of the vain comfort
found in ghettos of
soulless high rises
and the billowing
gray perspective
of blanched out
street cafes
brewing $9 lattes
and big box
boutiques busy
busking the
latest rage
of sweat repelling
yoga mats and
wearable apps
America’s Mayor
Giuliani paved the way
he arrested all
the squeegee men
confiscated their Windex
dumped it down
the sewers and filled all
vacancies at Rikers
a year after Sandy
rolled up the Hudson
breaching the banks
of West Street
licking the streets
clean of urban
flotsam the
surging boom
bloomed
Bloomie bankrolled
a red carpet
for his global
fraternity of
plutocrats
unleashing a
tsunami of
shekels
washing away
the fading
memories of
Captain Sully’s
cool headed
lunch pail
heroism proving
that 727’s can
walk on water
was now passe
Lou Reed
left town
the wild side
monetized by
the belching
banality of
Urban Hipsters
millennial
babes in toy land
embarked on an endless
shopping spree
where credit limits
never expire and
giddy narcissism
greased with entitlement
orders up room service
as the next course
in this endless
movable feast
Music Selection
Philip Glass
The Hours
9/8/13
NYC
jbm
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
The sky rips through itself with ease.
Self-destruction is an art form when
you are nothing but constellations and wonder.
Black holes tear
through the fabric of the universe
and celestial hands reach through them,
scratching at God's flesh.
Stellar voices echo
through these pits of imbibe
asking it's creator
one question:
"why?"
Fistfuls of stars thrown into
the jarring teeth of inferno;
a flame that feuls more fire.
Planets are crushed
under gravity's legs,
and, like a child unsatisfied with a drawing,
the space between galaxies
crumples like paper.
Tired of being a feast for human eyes,
and being
Poked, Proded, and Penetrated by People
God's first and best creation
consumes itself whole
to satisfy
the hunger.
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 9:55 AM UTC
You can’t really picture the place.
You don’t recall who was there.
But you remember surprise
That human ashes are not powdery dust,
Apt to disintegrate like snow,
Or soft like bread cast upon the waters.
Dad’s ashes chafed your palms like jagged seeds
As you clutched fistfuls from a plastic purple box
And flung them down a hillside
Somewhere in Little Cottonwood Canyon.
And you remember the feeling of urgency
As you retreated up the hill.
You had motions to go through,
Space to occupy,
A black and white landscape to walk
Among small figures filing along a dirt track
In the airless September heat.
Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
Someone once told me that I was "for keeps". I've never been a fan of any type of label, but I've wondered how he had shelved me in two words.
I've sought out its meaning. Maybe it was the same as how he was always proud of his vintage toy collection. I was there for his quartlery dose of nostalgia. The novelty of us was something that made him grin.
It could be how another liked to treasure letters from lovers past. Only to flood himself in regret. The names and faces garbled in the salt water.
I learned it was not the same as how my neighbour cut the thorns of the rosebushes, and left the buds for him to adore. He always kept the scissors by his bedside.
The only things I have managed to keep are my pinky promises, my drafts from two years ago, and my used bandaids. It's embarassing to recount how unmade, unfinished, and uncertain I've been.
But if I were to love you, I will not tell you you are worth keeping. Holding you would be selfish to the universe. I cannot possess your thoughts and your soul, your charm will pour itself from my grandmother's china. Pictures will not be taken. Maybe just one, to show my friends the uncanny resemblance you share with my favorite poet. I will unknowingly breathe you in, only to heave heavy sighs into your mouth.
We will thrive among white lies and speak about tomorrows with fistfuls of hourglass sand in our pockets. We will borrow light and pay in forms of miles we need to walk.
I have never wanted to be called a keeper, nor have I ever wanted to keep. The world can only afford to lend beautiful pieces of itself.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC