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In the QuietWhat am I to do
when every day is Sunday morning?
My eyelids droop into a slumber
I once knew all too well
and the sun outside screams cold and pain.
Where am I to go from here?
When I was a child,
the cold was a symbol of the things
I could never quite hold on to.
The snow always came too early.
I would catch it as it left through the back
door, creeping slowly as through hiding
from the sun, bitter in its nighttime failings.
I stood tall in my winter clothes,
begging for that blanket white and soft
and biting but in a way that makes you feel
Mouth shut tight, eyes bright and
burning with hope
that tomorrow would bring something
I forgot. It happened slowly, first with
to awaken to the light reflecting
bright and proud off the frozen ground,
then with apathy for the school delays
(it was always hard to find
and then finally with the understanding
that nothing could last forever,
not even the silent pl
Who WasIn early summer days Katherine would walk along the pier,
gazing down at dainty feet burnt black and tar.
No light to it.
Fishermen would watch her swaying in the seabreeze like tattered silk
flimsy on the gale,
whistling in tones low and reverent those tunes of yesterday
they knew she once loved.
They had hoped to be graced once more with that smile so radiant
and shining like a star-system born of her own
lips, blazing beacon-like.
Fishermen remember what no other men do: the softness
and beauty of girls grown old before their time,
the fragile recklessness grown gray and foolish and false.
Katherine, fifteen years in the making. She claimed to remember
her infant years, her mother would muse
over coffee, Kahlua-infused,
to a room as empty as her daughter’s own self.
Stupid girl, dangerous and beautiful
beyond measure. Devil child, sent to rid the verdant earth
of all that makes it.
Suitors came and went in lines of fire:
Adam, Jacob, Edward, John… all as uninspired
... and Other FolliesThere will be time in the morning for regret.
“We have entered the age of recklessness
if only for tonight.
Feel my bones as they move against yours.
Clattering under the weight of the bulwark
suspended above our heads,
and the ancient whine of steel
on glass, and the glaring truth reflected from within
of a million foiled mirrors. Feel me as I move
inside you, filling in the lonely spaces.
And all the words you know as
meaningless, and the subtle way I brush the hair
from your face, tendrils of light and silk and soft.
The unexpected tenderness of my hands,
rough like frayed rope and brittle brown.
The insatiable bitterness of my tongue
as it glides along yours.
Taste of this forbidden fruit and you will know
the value of waiting,
of keeping. Anticipate my every touch.
There will be time in the morning for disgust.
Follow yourself back in time
as the dead earth revives itself,
hacking and coughing through dusty morning
AnalyticsThere are parts of me that do believe
Your knuckles swollen and cracked
and gnarled like ancient roots,
calloused and rough
and ever growing.
Accumulating Life like arcade tokens,
building up to disappointment.
And the way you swagger in becoming
twice your age,
and the haunted-ness of your eyes
blue and gray and clouded.
The arch of your spine like a ladder to Dali’s Heaven.
Twisted, impossible angles.
Artist’s angles, sharp and reverent like
new age symphonies.
There are parts of me that do believe
shedding the bounded chains of solitude.
Parts that believe in you,
the easy laughter and aching truth in the way
you say my name,
bare-boned and unadorned.
The way you look at me with eyes like
illuminating every reflection, every
The simple truth is that I have loved you
in a thousand
different ways before breakfast,
and will love you in a thousand more.
Let me count them,
each by each.
Who Is and Always WasJacob thinks there is a certain romance to
silver-smooth like satin on his skin.
Velvet-touch animal furs like old Hollywood glamour
as he remembers it,
draped about feminine shoulders
perfect and white as new milk.
He inhales and chemical smoke fills his lungs,
thick and yielding like liquid metal.
It yields to him, slender fingers leaving
patterns on his skin: feather-light,
Jacob spends his nights in dive bars
and dingy coffee houses, the walls yellowing and thick
He orders grand parades of bitter drinks,
IPAs and Columbian brews
kept coming until dawn breaks, the sun peeking out
from behind the clouds blown black,
He stares at crinkled notebook pages,
pen poised awkwardly in bony fingers like daggers
in a dead man’s spine.
His nails are bitten to the quick, leaving little
to the imagination.
His skin like opals shining through clouded windows
thick with shame,
stale sweat reeking.
Jacob once loved a girl who was the World,
The HuntedIt is a place of mystery, of men
who reek of destruction and earth and
broiling sweat. Dark-eyed and leather-skinned,
crouching in the trees like cat-beasts,
coiled up in serpentine patterns.
Danger weighs heavy in the air, growing
with each silent breath.
In the distance, the open sea calls them
to freedom, crashing on the jagged shore littered
with shards of glassy rock, glittering like gemstones.
It is a song they know by heart.
Voices drowned and gargled, icy fingers
They remain among the leaf-stuff, the living moss
that takes them, one by one. Meaningless words
etched into their minds, insidious lies.
They remain crouched and coiled as the green
spreading spores into their crevices.
Far off, the ocean beats pitifully on the trapdoor
of the gods, begging for these souls
to be spared.
Its cries grow fainter as the men become harder,
statues of plant-life dreams.
Covered head to toe in grisly roots,
black and charred like death. Pride still burns
in their co
I Remember Your Breath on the Wedding Day MirrorD,
My earliest memories are of you. Organza and taffeta, snow-white Sunday shoes. The word they use is “family” but I am too young and too confused to understand. Thrown into a world you weren’t ready to belong in. I remember. They think I’ve forgotten, but I remember. I remember the vows, echoing. Empty. Colorless. I am the only one who seems to notice.
The menorah, glowing red-gold. The greatest warmth I’ve ever felt. Small hands rip apart newspaper-wrapping, exposing the treasure inside. I hold it up. A toddler’s book, carboard-bound pages. I frown, unsurprised. Mumble a thank you and chalk it up to another day of disappointment, hidden behind pretty, petty words. Promises echoing through an empty room.
He is gone much of the time, off to fantasy worlds of sand and sun. I am doing the best I can, you say and no one questions it. The screaming starts and I learn quickly to keep tears quiet, do my best to soak up the pools of Spaghetti-o sick seepin
Hum(an)Shut it out. Danger breeds outside
the box, pressed up against blackboard
chalk lines. Palms out, legs spread.
Anatomical, building block logic. Approach emotion
like you would science, draw up graphs,
color them in blue-gray ribbon.
Observe how the great lovers always die young
from the passion, the vodka and Powder that burns
their throats, burns their blood.
Fucked-up, coked-up sex, sweat like velvet
droplets beading on the skin.
Sex like that is never loving, never gentle
or kind. If you wanted to be fucked like
the animal you are,
should have stayed when you had the chance.
To be human is to be
safe, in bed by twelve,
debating threadcount and planning,
The slut in you will always seek
simple chaos, nothing more. Mouth to mouth,
skin to skin, bone
to shattered, bloodied bone. Teeth filed down to rip
and tear, consumption to satisfaction.
All speech is superfluous, replaced by
feeling: blood pounding gritty in the ears,
sparks spitting needle-fire in the abdom
Song of the Sea-GodsAbove all else, I remember the singing.
Cruel, pretty sounds
deflected off tongues, flecks of spittle decorating
the air in rainbow hues: bruised-ego blue,
They painted you life-like, filled in your
with collagen paint, acrylic humanity.
I never understood the appeal of being
empty, in some way incomplete.
You said nothing when the singers came
to make you whole,
remained silent as they fixed your blown-glass eyes
and airbrushed over the cracks
in your skin. I thought, if only we could all be
so lucky, so blessed
as to have an artist’s interest taken in us,
every last one.
I thought, I would cry tears of flawless joy if I could be made
so beautiful, so painterly-perfect.
But you looked on, and looked on some more
standing stone-strong as the song touched your lips.
The music of mermen, terrible and great.
I thought that I should speak to you.
I thought that I should know your mind, this one
so mighty as to face the sea
lost my voice.I wrote "I love you"
in the sand at the beach.
The tide swallowed the words
and drowned them
before I could speak.
HauntedI see her there with
Coal dust carved
Into the icy skin
Under her eyes,
And on her lips
Dance a chorus
Of bitter lies.
A skeletal hand of smoke
Claws at my neck
Until I bleed;
She tells me that the pain
Is just what I need.
And her blood
Zooms in her veins
Like speeding cars.
She looks at me
At what I am.
She’s a snake,
In the guise
Of a lamb.
‘What happened to us?’
Of what I used to be.
‘I may be you,
But you are not me.’
The sun comes up:
Yesterday is gone
But see it this way;
The past is part of the future
But the future isn’t the past.
You choose which bits go,
You choose which bits last.
On WritingWrite for today
And like it’s all
That’ll be left of you
Never write for popularity.
Write with clarity, but
‘Don’t make everything said’.
Write a million things;
An ode to the voice
Inside your head,
An elegy for the living,
A carpe diem for the dead.
Write to tell
To just keep
They’ll find a way out.
Don’t write for approval,
That way misery lies.
Poetry can’t be judged,
Not properly –
Write for yourself;
Doesn’t matter if it’s
Good enough for
You’ll never be Shakespeare.
But he’d never
Have been you;
Pour your heart into it,
That’s the best
That you can do.
How to love a poet: Expect them to be flawed,
a field of wild flowered-
& an inability
Love them anyway.
Know that when they look at you
they are noticing the little things.
Loving A Guy Who Cannot Love Himself.Firstly, tell him that he doesn't necessarily need to be the “strongest” man in the world,
that if he cries, you won't look down on him for it,
that you won't call him weak.
Tell him that he doesn't have to like sports, or fishing, or football, or any of the “mainstream” things that boys are “supposed” to like.
Let him know that liking art, or dancing, or singing or acting doesn't make him gay, doesn’t make him any less of a man, it just makes him who he is.
A human being.
And for goodness sakes, tell him that blue does not have to be his favorite color, than he can indulge in pink, or purple or even magenta!
And to the girl who take on the task, remember please, that it is not always the Knight who saves the Princess.
No, this time, the Princess may need to save the Knight.
Do not pour your problems onto him, rather, balance each other out.
Be a shoulder to cry on. A friend to be there. A love that never leaves.
Perhaps more than often,
I Fell In love Inside of a DreamI fell in love,
inside of a dream.
And woke up,
with a broken heart.
But it wasn't my heart,
that was broken.
It was his,
and I'll never see him again.
That long haired, pale skin,
blue eyed boy, will forever remain,
a figment of my imagination.
So close, yet so far away.
And I will never be able to apologize,
for my mistake.
ShatteredIf I found you, on your knees,
trying desperately to collect the shattered pieces of your heart-
I would kneel beside you and help you pick them up.
I would not cast a blind eye,
and pretend I had not seen you.
If I saw that your hands had been cut,
by the very shards of hope you were trying so hard to gather-
I would take your hands in mine, and hold them until the pain subsided.
Then I would kiss every wound- no matter how big or how small,
until I was sure you would be able to use your hands again.
If you were crying from the fear that you'd never be able to pick up everything,
I would hold you until your tears stopped, and I would comfort you with gentle words.
But I would not lie to you- I would never lie.
The heart is a frail thing- once shattered, it can never be fully repaired.
Parts will remain missing, and the mended hope will always bear cracks.
If we found that we'd gathered all that we were able,
and that there were a fine powder remaining of what we could not collect.
veinte.i am regressing
i am regressing
i am regressing
i am regressing
you are not a dynamic character.
this is not your story.
you are static.
you are static.
this is not your story.
you are not allowed to fly.
i am regressing
i am regressing
i am regressing
(there is no one to talk to anymore because you feel the need to hide away all of your feelings; you don't talk to people because you cannot pretend to be happy with people that know you are not; you can't keep doing this you can't keep doing this; you're killing yourself and you don't even realize it; you're going to explode one day)
Plea BargainIf I trace my fingertips along blood lines dripping
from scars in cement
blocks. If I trace them they will run.
If I trace them they will stop.
If I am high off bathroom cleaner fumes,
settling in my hair, and if I inhale just enough
(not too little, not
too much, just enough), and
if I do it all for one crackling smile (yours, mine, who's
to say, really?)
If my layers blow away into worse
than nothing. If I smoke until my lungs are black
as cancer, dry as lecture,
sore as death.
If I hate myself. If I become
If I do it all in the name of the poet's God, a figure
more distant than yours, stone-hearted,
earthly. If I do it all for the sake of my own mistakes,
begging blindly to bodyless feet.
If it's all for a chance to be
beautiful, to be good at something other
than suffering. If I know I am wrong, but the other
half has been erased, eroded by glasspaper sand.
If I do it not for myself, but for everyone
who has ever stared, eyes and hearts
too empty for silence. If I do it for
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
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