How I stood on the glittering brink holding out a branch for you to grab. How you spit in my eye. The nightingales don’t sing where you’re going. I live now in a cave full of paper mache and feral mirth. You bury your name in ash and call it a bath.
Category: poetry
The Life and Times of Us All
Life carries her green magic market. Verdant veracity will be verified. Time will be devalued and beaten.
Fear
Risky grass points at the sun, accusing her, blaming her for their birth. Here, the bullets hover just above the nape of the neck. This is a wholesome place because Fear is the primordial feeling, black and polished as onyx. Fear is honest. It does not succeed in subterfuge.
A Drowning Woman
Winter rebrands as peace. There’s a barcode in my phosphorescent heart. Scan it and ring up my frosted ambition. Music is balm to a world wounded by so much silence. To film peace, place cameras on either side of a drowning woman. Wait two minutes.
I Will Never Get What I Want
Irregular dreams snag on the rough edges of my mind. Fortune favors the invited. At the gold boundaries of my name, the breath of my lover moistens me like a valley. One dream is moldy. Another is antiquated. Still another dream is dripping with purple amoebas. But all of them collect on my edges, and I begin to crumble from desire. I will never get what I want. My wishes party like reprobates on the front lawn of Destiny, and they didn’t invite me.
Simplicity and Serenity
Simplicity serenades Serenity. Tonight they will make love, and in the apex of desire actualized, they will say thank you and turn away to sleep. I could never be satisfied with fried fire and elastic hope. I need something to hold me, to remind me I am bad but also that I can be good. In 7 days the dead will rise. I must try to get away before then.
An Alien in Washington, DC
Pugnacious earth battles for me as I try to ascend to space. There is more space in me than outside me. In my name are many caverns of conspiring fungi and blind creatures of emptiness. I am a science fiction flavored novel about an alien trying to assimilate in Washington, DC. Politics are muck between my toes. I want to be in a felt universe of needlepoint stars, not here in an antebellum planet tied to gravity like a little brother I don’t get along with.
On Michigan Drive
On Michigan Drive, I grow up pressed between rocks. “More weight,” I cried as I gasped toward maturity. The fire that formed my bones still burns bright in the bleeding Earth. I won’t break just because the universe demands I do. Trees claw through the twilight sky, sagging under the weight of amber weight of Autumn.
In My Mind
Circles circumnavigate my globular mind. My day is a spider waiting to suck the marrow from your youth. My night is a silken web with stars captured in it. They are desperately trying to writhe and squirm away. Time is always hungry. I am cornerless, fearful, fecund. In my mind are three races of thought, and they are always engaged in some imperial war.
Soft and Hard
I am soft like sex when it’s raining outside. My musical blood plays Lacrymosa while my feet climb toward success without me. The ivy strangles the wall, and everyone driving by talks about how beautiful the wall with the ivy is, as though tendril and stone were lovers. As though a kind of abuse isn’t happening in front of us. I am soft like the fertile hillocks of Kansas. The disaster of vine and structural integrity. Gravity is a cheap hooker and a terrible pessimist, always bringing everyone down. I am soft like a memory of pajamas with feet in them. I could never pretend to be a stone wall, but still I am tenderly hunted by the tendrils, their iron wills coiled and ready to strike.
Miniature Moon 