"wilmington" poems
The slam poet in cords, in denim,
rambles from neon beer haven
to flybuzz brothel, cracking quiet
jokes about soup to shiny junebugs
in the relentless moonlight.
One hundred dollars in thirty-five bills
slowly retreat from wallet
toward water-cut whiskey.
He’s got a chapbook widely
available at frozen yogurt shops
across the metro; he’s got a
tour in the works, tri-county,
every middle school from
Shawnee to Seminole; he’s
got a collection of ex-girlfriends,
made up almost entirely of wizened lesbians;
he’s got an MFA from UNC Wilmington,
and he shouts this more than speaks this
from his treacherous barstool to the sleepy bartender.
One of the girls, she takes him upstairs,
and to her he says, Your freckles—islands
in the sea of your milk-white skin.
The night passes, warehouses are razed,
and he watches the loft apartments emerge.
The food trucks come. He parks beside them,
typing poems made to order out of his trunk. The
money flows in, crumpled and sweaty and
in one-dollar denominations. The Old Fashions
transfigure into Old English. And in his pocket
thesaurus he looks for a word. It’s not vagrant,
nor vagabond. It’s not homeless, nor wayward.
He lies in the long shadow of a Midwestern sunset,
starved and shaking. Up from the blackened
city shrubs comes an indifferent breeze and
just as he thinks the word Pauper, he dies one
on the corner of 23rd and Western.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:14 PM UTC
We took a bus to Wilmington
And skipped a dream or two
In order to be cognizant—
When the “Are we there yet’s”
Rebounded void of “yet.”
We parked the bus adjacent to
The paint-peeling facade
Of lonely temple Wilmington—
Threatening no demon of the sky
With a keenly polished death spike.
It had no spendthrift window of
Christ Jesus with the sick
And poor, neglected derelicts—
Who glow with jubilee and gold chloride
For His altruistic charities.
Across its door was fastened tight
A rusted iron chain
Which barred the shallow, blinkered souls—
Who loitered at the barrier’s feet
Waiting on God to warrant entry.
But we who were of cogent view
Detached deterring catch
And entered with our chins *****
A light-bulb-vacant sanctuary
Where taciturn shadows took a seat in every pew.
And down a velvet aisle stood
A lonely, weeping priest
Inhaling in unblemished palms—
That not a single pious doubter
Would dare inspect.
“Welcome to my church,” he said
With breathless, choking sobs,
“I am the congregation here—
The pastor, choir, usher, and Sunday school teacher
Of Wilmington Church of Reason.”
Inquired we what hidden woe
Enlaced with torment cast
Those salt discharged convulsions—
Quaking the sanctity of exultation
In the House of Apollo.
And with concise, unleavened words
He justified his tears
And whispered to our weary troop—,
“Alone, alone am I,
Isolated within this box of omitted truth.
“O, give me soothing slumber deep
And strip these sentient eyes
From ghastly sheaths of consciousness—
Repair this mended paradigm,
Or tell me that I am mistaken.
“Imaginary friends and foes
Make wretched hearts a wreath
Of roses red and mistletoe—
And bird of paradise to keep
Hope alive, alive and awake and well, hope alive…”
So each of us, a brimming cup
Of empathy, remained
To keep old pastor Wilmington—
Old usher, choir, teacher, congregation Wilmington
Alive and awake and well.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 6:09 AM UTC
Laying in bed, texting you all night.
the funny thing was, we'd never fight.
I remember the day, and what you looked like
back when we'd both say, how we feel.
I have so little now
most pictures are gone.
But I still have a sign,
Welcome to Wilmington
You see I'm here
and I don't wanna go away
I'm literally trying to think of what to say.
You're my best friend and more
you were always here, when I hit the floor
But one day you're gone
and I had to get back up
It was so long
there were days of almost giving up
not that I wanted to
but for what it looked, I was scared.
You can make me happy
pretty much anywhere.
I can be alone,
and wait for you
It's been so long
I have nothing to lose.
Because it's you I love
the one I choose.
If you could see
I won't let you lose.
Things are different then they were before
I'm not always the same
I grew up for sure.
I'll respect you no matter what you chose.
I'll help you when you think you're gonna lose.
I just don't want to be used
and I'm not gonna force you to pick a dude.
I just hope the answers come clear
for I already know what I want my dear.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 12:48 PM UTC
a velveteen grey cat
crossed to Las Palmas
and chose a corner table
basking in a tsunami of
Sunlight
while piccolo birds and
winter water gardens
sent morse code warnings
through the air
reporting on the
bombing of Wilmington
sinking of the Titanic
assassination of the Archduke
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
The complexity of notes
Chet Baker hits
a rainy morning downtown with
match the rise and fall
of rooftops,
the streams created by gutters
He traces the city's architecture
against the grey sky
with the wind from his trumpet-
there, outside a corner cafe on Hargett and Wilmington,
trumpet case open,
playing for passerby.
I take my morning coffee
studying Chet,
him putting notes in my head
through wired earphones,
Me writing them all down.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 8:38 AM UTC
the whispered
"I love you"'s
echoed through
the masterpieces hearts,
us being the two
most beautiful
works of art
in the room
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 5:38 PM UTC
the kisses you
planted onto
my begging lips
in that old
book store
let the stories
living inside
come to life,
including mine
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
the music that made me
feel in love stopped
halting my eyes on
his dreaming body
I could still hear
the noise of a run-down car,
his steady breaths muffled
under my chest as he
slept on my lap,
and my heart was
beating for him,
as the music started again
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
Another late night awakening
And once again more thoughts of you
More thoughts of the lover that now has a new lover
More thoughts of a girl that I can't be with in Wilmington or Georgia or Dallas
More thoughts of your blue skin as it touched mine as you felt lifeless
More thoughts of the things I loved in high school that now don't mean much to me
More thoughts of you ringing the doorbell and I still haven't let you in after all these years
More thoughts of nothing new to say with old friends
More thoughts of only being able to write late at night
I think I'll finally open the door for you now
Goodnight.
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC
wind soughs outside
slightly
I'm up late tonight
my sister careens
on the eastern coast
touches Topsail
with her lacy fingers
and I cross mine
wheels and wheels
like lockstep men
march inland
automobiles whine
like soon, treelines
I'm up so late
my best friend dreams
in the wayside,
somewhere west of me
after a long day
of convincing her boyfriend
to high-tail his *** out of Raleigh
Clayton, it is
he decided
her fret only calmed enough to sleep
by his promises of a high-rise property
and below 70 mile wind speeds
I can feel my eyelids tug
my brother's fingers thrum
on countertops
well-wishes in morse
as he says he'll stop thinking about it, now
no, wait... now
and my mother works to bend
each emerging frown
as my fingers drum up natural disaster nonsense
I watch, wait for the earth's recompense
as it surely blares through my old house's fence
rippling through the silhouette of the statue
my sister's soul had attached itself to
every crevice of county road
every man-hiked piedmont mile
interstices of feet and snow
the dirt that has seen every trial
to fail under inclement weather
they say it's overdue
that it's been a while
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 1:48 AM UTC
encounters, strangers, gifts that come
I pay it forward, but who’s it from?
credo quia absurdum
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 9:16 AM UTC