"mistranslation" poems
It was not in the road
that took me there
but the way my heart
always remained the same
rushing through college corridors,
open dissection tables,
woodwork poetry breathren.
Indestructible construction
of these cerebral plates
left me the mind of a surgeon
and the heart of a poet.
In the cold operating room
they cut open his chest-
blood gushing out and I could
see why sometimes a little hurt
could cause a lot of noise.
Ventricle, atrium.
A nick that ricocheted,
a word that spelled
goodbye.
There was a rhythm in his heart
and for once I could feel
synchronicity was never so beautiful;
almost teary-eyed
I could find those verses
lost between the veins,
quietude pumping out slowly.
Lost in the mistranslation
of his chest
till the nurse said
"Doctor, your patient's dying"
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
I sold my soul for a memory of you, one not
even long enough to be recorded
on vinyl and small enough to trap in
the empty pen I used to write
down these words. In a sense you’re now
eternal since souls are boundless and
yours is now my ink. Don’t warn your children
of strangers or drugs, rather of soul buyers
on street corners at 8PM in July. Rejection
itself is enough of a drug.
(Sold/lost: a reverse connotation where one letter
is enough to overlook the mistranslation)
Jun 8, 2014
Jun 8, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
As potent as the drugs flowing from an IV drip,
I the prodigal son of this town,
the only one to infuse the blood of a much needed sacrifice into it's veins,
the one to carry the souls of those past,
those future,
those fleeting few at the end when the long standing foundation that has held up countless feet and dreams,
no longer stands and in it's place breadcrumbs fall,
thousands from the sky,
folly and few,
until embedded in the very ground it lands upon.
I, the one from the third house down the lane,
the all seeing all knowing all feeling touch,
climb the silo and above take in the view,
the little lives and scattered stories,
told once in still rooms with only the orange light of a desk lamps,
then carried away on drool into the storm drain,
with the leaves and street grit.
I, the babe,
once innocent and tender,
and still so within me exists,
carried through an entire lifetime on a sled,
down the sidewalk with only the sight of street-lamps as stimuli,
past every corner and home a dream implanted from my eyes to theirs,
yet mistranslation corrupts the many and what can I do but allow,
their own bibles to be written.
This town belongs to one king and one son on both sides of the mountain,
snow to teach them lessons,
rain to cleanse their wounds,
and to keep this monolith of a civilization alive,
all that is prophesied,
to run far, far away,
in place.
Nov 15, 2020
Nov 15, 2020 at 8:29 PM UTC
Start slow, deep breaths, shallow steps towards an end, means wrapped in chains and gasoline, the smell of fire itching its way up your nose, the taste of blood tickling the back of your throat, take off running, the forever kind of running, the dead set straight ahead hell bent full body immersion in a fever, pray for your wake, pray for the ones left behind and not for the ones ahead, the journey is holy and nothing, nothing is sacred, let the wind tear holes in your jeans let the cold slice your chest into portions, you are born whole and spend the rest of your life in grieving for that feeling, you search for it everywhere that veins ache and hearts bleed and spirits wait and debts go unpaid and lights stay on, all the time, to ward off ghosts, you cry for it, you write for it, you scream and you pound your fists and you take up arms and you become, in this way, enemy of everything - other, mirror self, target in crosshairs, mugshot, ******* and you fill your days of rage with buckshot and sawdust, while your nights of lust kiss prophecy onto window panes and cheeks and alley ways, read this, understand this: The fury is the only language you have that can't be used against you, no one will ever correct the grammar of your fists, no one will ever tell the barrel of a gun it has misspoken, and when it speaks there can be no mistranslation:
**** you, understand me
When I leave I will take this sky with me and never return,
When this burns down I will never think about it again,
I might be full of hatred, but I ain't no god of war
I will throw this feeling away and I will forget where I buried it,
I will make a home in the ruins of something greater than myself,
I will make better from worse or die trying,
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 4:25 AM UTC
Oh, good Lord.
Were you borne of love or was woven to a word?
I believe that a choir only have sung hymns — in your name, re-enacting kindness through loud utters of loving cruelty.
Because if love was found in the womb of a human heart, I wouldn't see a false God in my mother's womb.
However,
It is not you who sing the utters.
It is not them who are caged in a web made of purposeful mistranslation.
So, I hold no malice for you.
For you have not a mouth, yet — they feed you the receipt of words.
Aug 11, 2025
Aug 11, 2025 at 7:11 AM UTC
Dear Dad,
The next time you call me
An *******
I might become one.
If I do, I will be the epitome of everything I have repulsed
The entity
I would do anything
To be the opposite of:
You.
The next time you step up
Inches away
Grappling my arm
With a dense, puffed up facade of masculinity
I-might-Snap.
Not that violence
Would really make a difference
What-so-ever
But
*******
It
Would
Feel
Good
To
Punch
You
In
The
Face.
I am only capable
Of t h i s
Because of y o u
When you taught me how to be a “man”
There was a mistranslation
Somewhere along the line I learned to repeat
“Masculinity” and “Violence”
On the same line
On the same page
Of a book I would read
Too many
*******
Times
Dear Dad,
Tell me everything is fine
I dare you
Tell me what you want, but
The next time you kick me out;
I
Am
Not
Coming
Back
-dis-functional
Jul 30, 2019
Jul 30, 2019 at 3:49 AM UTC