"novellas" poems
The porch bends beneath me,
its gray boards sighing.
I light a cigarette,
send my breath to the wind-
maybe White‑Shell Woman
will carry it to the horizon.
He's fired again,
last kitchen inside forty miles
that could stand him,
bridge burned behind.
At lunch I’ll call,
say get out
or Daddy and Jimbo
will haul your whiskey bones
to lie with the rattlesnakes.
I swore to Mama and to Owl,
I will keep the night honest,
I wouldn’t spend my years
driving a man to dialysis,
watching Irish blood unravel
like wet lace.
But I remember the long Covid winter-
two bears in one den,
one soft, one starved-
when Spider Grandmother
wove us together
in the dim blue light
of tele-novellas and snow.
I almost believed
it was love again.
He pops up like a coyote
in the truck’s passenger door,
smelling of smoke and ruin.
Eighty‑five down the prairie road,
bug‑spattered glass,
sky bending blue,
fields gold as escape.
This isn’t working, I whisper.
We want different things.
Don’t, he says,
fingers crawling my thigh
No-
I shove.
Sweetness peels,
the sleeping volcano wakes.
Before his hand
can teach me the rest,
I already know:
there is no leaving.
The road is long,
lined with white crosses,
and the Ghost Buffalo
that's been leading me
down it
all my life.
Aug 5, 2025
Aug 5, 2025 at 3:41 PM UTC
All the days are graying and I'm fraying like the sweater my grandfather gave me.
It still smells of cigars and old west, I'm ever quested and pressed with emotion.
I've become a faded flower fated to the pages of an old almanac in the back of the library.
Scents of worn novellas standing solitary on shelves and fragrant wisps of wisteria.
Alone to settle and mettle with dust and dialogues full of empty follies and triumphs.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 11:21 AM UTC
you are a fool, Sophia. As I look up at these city lights, every neon sign seems to advertise you; they all remind me of what I'm missing out on. I pass strangers and hear them whispering your tender mercies: "so?" "fee" "ahhh..." I may be being quite forward so early on in our correspondences, but the theory that you are a scrap of paper that someone would allow to slip through their fingers is ridiculous to me. I say that because even after only meeting you once, by such a fortunate and faithful chance, I wanted to write screenplays, novellas, and entire manuscripts only based on how beautiful your name sounds when I say it. I will be absorbed in everything you admit me to learn about you. I only hope for your amusement when you discover my own scorched trails. I'm stupefied by your compliments, and I will catch every drop of your defrosting heart on my tongue. I felt so stupid but I beamed in pride seeing I could make you blush as pink as the roses on the bush behind you... such a delicate, feminine, sensitive color; white blossoming into red, purity blooming into passion. How I wish I could be the one to awaken a passion in you. I'm terribly sorry if I'm smothering, but you've an expert pen dipped in ink of naivety... in meeting you I crossed the border between respectable me and questionable sanity: the Sophia Line (your kiss would be turpentine, **** anything I used to be to become anything, everything you need from me). Ah... fee so... you've given me a lot to live up to. xo. Josephine.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:56 PM UTC
layers of scars
over your heart
sedimentary footnotes
pages of insults
stacked one atop another
novellas of reminders
select a spot on the bookcase
pray to forget
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC
“I can calculate the movement of stars, but not the madness of men.” Sir Isaac Newton
I can, but only of my own,
the orbits of the stars
within my envisioned mind,
this anti-expanding universe
this black hole of anti-matter
collapsing inward, the gravitational pull calculable
where I, madman creator,
am the sole witness mine self-destruction
I summon fate, luck, random numbers to the dock,
but all pleadingly state it wasn't me,
"I was somewhere else, had to be,
you cannot see my mathematical probability,
ergo i am definitionally
not capable of being guilty-
my orbit of madness
non transferable to you-mans"
who then can I blame?
for-seen poems every where,
upon on every face lay dime store words of bad novellas,
awake to work in dread,
return from it more deadened
and the piety pointy poetry pills
refusing to cooperate,
and the madness equation
has too many answers viable
what shall I title this poem?
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 9:33 PM UTC
I enjoy the word "sweet," it accurately describes the succulence of your lower lip
I wish to ****
and bite, and bruise.
"Hard" is your body, lean and tough
and assumedly rough
intense
passionate, all those lovely sensual adjectives that cheesy soft-erotica novellas
(that I "don't read")
use to describe a Man on a horse,
or in a fireman's coat, covered in soot,
saving kitties and pleasing cougars.
You are quite the male that I crave,
absolute perfection in human form that tempts and tortures my guilty thoughts and heaving breaths
so that I feel like one of those helpless heroines who swoon over a sensitive, wounded man.
But God do I want to inflict wounds on you, and lick them clean.
You have been a bad boy;
go to my room.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
*the sun streams down broken by the leaves
and my head sketches romance novels out of the patches of blue sky
that she illustrates with her pleasures,
she weaves a life out of the pure love that she feels
sometimes its pattern of shadows dance with a passing breeze,
sometimes its the harbor lights as a ship slips away out to sea.
she rests her cheek against her arm,
letting her soft brown hair spill loose
cascading down in a strawberry scented river*
lined with lilacs and lilies,
swaying in time to the beat of her heart
she looks to me;
she looks right through me.
Sometimes it's in the cardinal's call echoing through still woods;
sometimes it's in starlight that glitters across rain-wet city streets.
She blinks her eyes,
her mouth moving into a smile;
she speaks, letting every lovely syllable trickle from between kissable lips,
soft, caressing words,
finding their way to the clouds.
*she rises moving into the evening...
letting each supple line of her form be the subject for novellas of desire,
letting her every motion and gesture in my presence
be her love letters to me...
her tender thoughts of our love affair
and of our moments of sharing our very souls
have become her joy which shines from within,
sometimes like cool moonlight on a summer eve in each others passionate arms
sometimes like the laughing abandon in loves playful embrace.*
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:16 AM UTC
I'm not walking
like this
to look cool–
my pants
just keep falling down.
I saunter side-to-side,
head cocked
hand on crotch.
But no, I'm not cool.
I'm not trying to
look hip,
aloof or tough.
You see,
my pants are just too big.
The inseam is far
too long.
And although I wear
this belt, they seem
to slowly creep
further and
further
down
as if once they reach
my ankles
they will finally
escape
and wander the streets
morph
into some sort of Blue Jean
Blob Creature,
and slink
into a nearby gutter
only to emerge
20 blocks away,
apply for a job at
Panda Express
and for a studio
apartment
so that they
may have some
steady income
and a place
to work
on their novellas
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
With Witnessess as our God's,
Our love was meant to be forever.
But we spent to long, straining,
heart shrapnel, from lukewarm coffee.
Celestial fire due to write super novellas
in the spaces we shared,
instead blinded us,
with bright lights,and stardust.
I'm still burning the fire that started when we met.
I feed that fire, like I fought the depression, when you left.
But I tell you now, as much as it scared me.
God **** It was warming.
I never meant for us to be the spark
that died before the flint.
Two damp squibs
choking as the air left the room.
Leaving projectors to play monochrome fantasies
in the smokescreen of your absence,
as the acrid plastic nasal tumours,
grew inside of our silent movie.
The coughing had lost it's soul.
Revealing a struggle for air.
All the dance routines had died
life saving became life,
I am so sorry, I spent my time,
kissing gifthorses on the mouth,
while looking for Trojans
instead of just enjoying your presence.
They say if you love something, set it free,
but bluebirds sing in cages
better than any canary
when fed on tidbits and tall stories.
So forgive me my dramas
Let me soap up in my failures
my ritual clean begins at the home
we built from borrowed time
I hope heaven loves you as hard as have.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 8:05 AM UTC
She has thin lips that rarely touch—painted Merlot
and sheltering teeth—those perfectly aligned, white-spined novellas.
And when she speaks, her satin tongue presses out sweet breath
that hangs on your head like a daisy halo.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
I love my mother
like the prodigal son,
she introduced me
to activism,
and where I'm at now
I can't release it,
even as we went
to the Lincoln Homes and Estates
to set up computers,
to give people that look like me
a chance.
I remember the older
dudes would tell me
to keep my head up
even when I was down.
There is a heart
in
"da hood"
as the white people
around me put it.
There are fathers
pushing strollers.
There are mothers
making it
against all odds.
There are families
decreasing,
but
increasing.
There are computers
full with words
and poetry
and novellas.
There are black children
picking up books
more than guns.
Picking up basketballs
more than guns,
and why should they be
labeled
as less intelligent?
****
they just want to get
out
and achieve
and it's wrong
that you say that's the wrong way.
I hate going to funerals
for faces
with cheekbones still heavy
with baby fat.
And don't love me
for telling you this,
don't love me
for being that "black guy
that talks about problems
in the ghetto,
da hood!"
Change it,
go there,
help people,
hand out books
to children.
There is nothing scarier
than ignorance.
Feb 25, 2012
Feb 25, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
"If you could erase a person and all of the memories that come with them from your mind, would you?"
Memories of you flood into my head,
Into my lungs,
And I begin to drown.
I don't write about you often,
I don't like to remember you.
It makes me feel as if I made a mistake.
An awful, horrid mistake.
As if I stripped the beach of sand
As I washed away your name
On my lips
With alchol and watched
Your face evaporate with every
Puff of smoke.
Oh how I hate that I still love you.
Others touch me and
it only brings me back to you.
I've had better days
But the nights are the worst.
I've spent each night
Drenched
In tears and sweat
From the sweet words
You used to leave in my ears
Like flowers left on gravestones.
God I love you.
If I could erase my mind of you,
I would never
For you and I grew together
Entangled in each other.
We were one beautiful book
Bound in laughter and sleepy eyes.
But one day that book withered away,
Becoming two completely separate
Novellas.
I wish we never parted.
I'm so sorry.
I would never wish you away.
You asked of me, one thing.
To never leave you behind.
I promise you,
You will never be
Just another memory.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
I went back to the places once traveled through years ago
they smiled when they saw me
thats a good start
today i turn 36 years old here
i really just want 36 more
made it past jesus at least
but my father didn’t carpent
but carpets he brought brought on his back
i didn’t do anything really
3rd person story glory glares like novellas
but take it as your own
you’ll blur out your empty spaces
and stick out in just the right way
i answer phones all day so as to not answer my own
i really like want 36 more
ill do better
i promise
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 1:31 PM UTC
30/30 "Day 6" 4/6/2017
Muse
Blankly observing from the doorway
Me on your mattress while you were gone
I wake from my 9 to 4 Rest after third shift
To your stare
Sunken into the doorframe
A limp contrapasto
This is the first time you have shown me
Honesty
You are not eager nor professional
Manipulative, nor Passionate.
Simply Home.
You are home
I've never seen anything more beautiful
set to the frequency of a good book
After years of us swapping stories
Shooting fireworks at comic book panels
Lighting each other on fire when we aren't
Quite sober of heart
When we speak in streetlight colors
or profanity
Artists after midnight
You were never comfortable
Tonight you shed all mask
Facade
No intention, depression, expression
You were done today with social interaction
I've written you into a thousand novellas
Without ever looking you in the eyes.
I saw you today, Muse.
Honesty draped limp in contraposto
Hanging limbo until I left silently manic
Smirking out the front door for you
So you could live vouyerless for awhile.
Nose in a good book
Heart stirring tornados in my chest again
Like I was blinded by future ambition.
You told me you found out
what you wanna do with your life.
you told me today,
you know how to stay alive.
Apr 6, 2017
Apr 6, 2017 at 8:54 PM UTC
I leave this work untitled
Like every book on the wall
Like the wall, I hold these works on me
No names, no faces
I look into the mirror
I see no face, no name, no title
Just a book, an unfinished piece of work
No work on this wall is complete
And thus, deserves no name
The untitled works, the poems and novellas
The epics, the short stories, the sagas and chronicles
All unfinished, all untitled
It’s hard to find a piece of writing
When the covers are all the same
All white, all blank, nameless
If I set fire to this room
It would be like nothing had been destroyed at all
They sit on their wall; waiting
I lay on my bed; waiting
Waiting
We are waiting
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 1:50 AM UTC
close-knit but tongue tied
these knots have formed around my limbs again
and all I seem to want is to cut ties
but I keep running in circles
the rope gets tighter now
there's nothing strong enough to cut
close enough to break from what brings me down.
There are days when I don't see myself too clearly-
I make a mockery of all this progress
and reversion encases my jawline
builds a fortress around my cheekbones
lets these tears I own fill an arc all the same.
Never sane in what I am saying
never too close for comfort
never still
always silenced.
See this mind of mine has torn in two
and I am seeing stars again
I looked too closely into the light
that became of me
and now I have trouble seeing anything.
Blind optimism has turned a blind eye to currently
to the reality I live which feels nothing short of a fiction novel
but these spells are not long enough for many chapters
So I fill this shell casing of who I am with novellas
and hope the print isn't too small
and the dialogue isn't too excessive.
Feeling apart of something bigger
has always been my call-to in this world
has always been the north star guiding me
to the place I want to be.
See I've never really felt the words "family"
warp around my skin and make a home inside of my psyche
but it's the only word thats ever meant anything to me.
Which is why these words turn to a warm gun
and I hold it close to my chest
inching to pull the trigger
in hopes more of me will scatter onto the floor
and into the world.
But I strive for consistency and stability
so the gun is just a way to protect me
these words will always be there to protect me.
When I grow old-
when the color fades from my hair
and you can no longer see the outline of my youth
etched inside these expressive tendencies
that is where you will find my happy
in the names of every offspring
and every person I've ever loved-
every good deed I have ever done
that is where you will find my happy.
I have lost myself inside the toxicity
and it clouds the mirror on most days
but sometimes the smoke clears
and I can see who I am again.
Repeating "I am here"
until I convince myself it's true.
Dear me-
I lost myself inside of you
and I will be coming to collect soon
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
With others I tend to
flinch, stutter, and stammer.
But with you-
I am still as a book,
my spine never broken,
yet well-read.
You touch my back cover
and my mind is bound by novellas.
Apr 9, 2019
Apr 9, 2019 at 9:04 PM UTC