What are you? Where
did you come from?
Recovery at the bottom
well, half filled with mud
and looks to climb up
the side with short nails.
a tall skin of ghosts that relapse
living on a molecule of sort, half
dependent on the government
watch, a Helsinki story, to see
a new estate.
But I don’t blame you, what you
came to know these dopamine
withdrawals as trees foraging for
kids to play in them these days
mostly spent waving at the waning
sun. The older dog, the chef with
beard, the undone voice of penny
loafers soft to the mention of church
I have a piano. I have half a
wing to space. Down the street,
light blinking, because that’s what’s
to do when asleep: keep going.
we are gold and love. Measuring,
the two river dams separated by
metaphor, a nostalgia for pain, that
exists as an electronic beat on your
favorite place. The kite and we fly high
for a satellite to marvel. The boxes will
still remain for a sort. What words do you
contain? What idea does it become? The
ladder emerges as air and the grip as light.
9:32 am • 21 September 2014 • 37 notes
If Blood Tithe
Ever since the doubt came creeped
to house a twin, I knew the drink was
near. How do you get to where you go?
Does the road have a cold wet sound?
Your hands have black marks where
the light was. Taken prescription fancy,
having a notion for the place to gloat,
I took your eyes into my shoes and held
them up. Love left for the rationed ghost,
the yellow shades and pencil remarks
of fuck my heart. Erupting in honest,
safety in fear. Never sure of the target,
won’t it come near the dad we always
had to carry us to bed. I haven’t heard
the way you sign your name. I see only
three shapes outside the window. The
well of mud can be close. The way we
turn the page, a god damned miracle,
with animal fingers and a human nail.
A spiderbite dawns on thighs to end,
lets you know how it’s been. Bringing
New York to Georgia between seasons,
a passing offer to elongate the coffin we
served from tin urns. The first reconciliation,
moving like rain, bleeds long past weeping.
12:24 am • 20 September 2014 • 8 notes
Intentions of Me
My personhood has evolved to
many colored Sharpies hidden
under the desk. A black uniform
when the blazer cuts our grass,
I love the wrapping outside your
body. This cadence, an arpeggio
that midnight becomes at birth, is
an entrance to the berm of a sharp
glistening headlight beam. There’s
Wendy telling me how, in express
terminology, to stay positive with my
feelings and to hug the despair
of everything. It make it nice, when
the Dekalb roads have flooded.
There might be someone waiting as
the lightbulb waits. A cabbage in
the sink, my hands were wet
once, a solitary white hair in
my beard not like my father who
forgot everything including his face
but love. I walked her to the the
car after curfew. The niceness
of controlled interaction with the
weekend me, having that foresight
into an unformed mirror. Kids
talk back under their breath and
avert their eyes. Pillows of thought,
a pigeon hang glider like the moon
I sail into a convenience store with
the intention of buying water and bread.
2:20 pm • 18 September 2014 • 15 notes
move sort of completed, internet connection established. yay hardwood floors.
12:36 pm • 18 September 2014 • 1 note
The Palm Faced Meaning
The first time
supposed to be funny
clash of light excitement
made from the black box
below the xiphoid process,
indicative, and lovely
as circles to nature
have no transcending
grace to call upon my
name of glass told to leftists
who run up mountains
and want to pull down cloth
moves about town in drag
meaning many faces that live
within the black polka dot tie
thought of the story to tell me
upon waking but got confused
only a few minutes late to work
by way of false recall
a joy in the background has
teeth in his beak like nothing
has ever stood before precipice
to decide: this exit is closed,
the radio is on, my razor
rusts falls down the grid
no mention of the lavender setting
of steam that rises as the bed
falls between cracks and dream
visions of bathrobes and a multipurpose
faucet that elevates our balloon
many chances to think, a poor
word desert, negligible atrophy,
caffeine and a sweeping of palms.
2:26 pm • 15 September 2014 • 13 notes
ughhh so this “writing break” i took has turned into workathon 2014 and other mundane life tasks. moving soon. hopefully will provide a better for space for writing. reuniting with my animal will certainly. sorry! will be around more soon. i teach choir tomorrow. hallelujah.
11:33 pm • 11 September 2014 • 3 notes
writing break almost over, migraine almost gone, sadness eternal
sounds about right
10:29 pm • 3 September 2014 • 3 notes
yayyyy just submitted my first manuscript anywhere ever to a contest, read a poem at an open mic, and got published! holy literary day, i’m tapping out. start again at 5:30.
11:59 pm • 31 August 2014 • 14 notes
Molted flowers / apace mine belief
9:47 pm • 29 August 2014 • 8 notes
Tired & nothing
the big real of coffee
I’ve seen the way
a breath sulfur can
Pulling craft beer
never seemed so
out of place than yesterday
Haunted by notions
of fragment’s facing
you upside the ceiling fan
But like the way
bodies tend to fade
I’m no magician yet
Here can reality become
a television show on basic
talks about hypodermic
The last peach
that ever grew inside
was a sacrament for lying
If you were the dark
would you say to me
I can’t follow you home
The capital seance
believes in something small
living inside our trees
Deep feeling only caresses
the hair follicle on floors
staring up as we laugh at
Wither scorned apparatus
mumbles to the dawn as
faults fall to their knees
A shiny idea arrested
by frequent moaning will
invade my subterranean desire
Place the halo at the door
and there will be at least
twelve hours to sit on your heels
9:12 pm • 28 August 2014 • 45 notes
Cheap Subtext of Gravity
Time’s got that gravity
inside without what we seek
the bawling of stones
that look down into beating.
We’re not what we believe
a holy götterdämmerung of sighs
the gone is gone
the here is slippery.
No good news not ever
punctuates the bright night
sleep enveloping the horizon
the world hung through fuselage.
I’ve got twelve reasons to rest
when the connections dissolve
a running boy from the Virgo demand
where does the side reel end?
Let’s masquerade as ex-cons
feel the black moving through equinox
feel a kinship to the ghost motion
and the ending has five paces to give.
I’ve got three cicadas on my dragonfly
necklace, they symbolize the times
I drifted off with Absinthe and saw my
face through the fountain cloud at last.
If you’ve transcended the moment
won’t there be an epitaph to breathing
that extends from your red lipstick
the chakra burns through this pleasant aura.
When it all starts over again, I won’t
be aware of skin. I won’t have enough
words for the dawn, the static will consume
the dogmatic humanity we love, we love.
Let’s have some beautiful decay,
that picture Turner did of the poet leaving
Rome may be us, how the vinyl siding
will converge on the whole, praying or no.
In any case, it can be great if we hold
hands and tell tales of the way it was
or will be. They want our soul but the
only thing I have to offer is cheap subtext.
1:39 pm • 27 August 2014 • 15 notes
I’ll have roses,
in a bouquet
on my palette.
Slipping a taste
of one another,
a puddle is made.
It is murky like
with new regret
the mixing of
brings me pity
for my creation
pursuit of a dream
to a wretched being.
2:04 pm • 26 August 2014 • 13 notes
The Dust in Our Eyes Shall Become Our Purpose
When we reached the seventieth
it was like so much had happened before
and so much to come. I remember the
hill in Paris, what clever Basilica towers,
that sacred heart of knowing not what
ideas would be. Too many Jesuits on
the dole but for my poppa who wore
the uniform of the gods. Speaking only
for the open door of creators, I took
Mondrian home with my face of anxious
seeming. Braves the gate to awkward
sojourns with brown haired men smelling
too many cigars deep, the fluid twinged
the soul of clearing up wars the men had
made their own body affair, Pigalle, another
world where we met clear air under lamp
light and emasculated grief, took the creeping
meaning of long lost brothers. Charmed, you
could help me cry if I’d lose this mask of teeth
praying love looking, looking on the ground.
Iambs to justice, the school through Florida
and Georgia talking about laws and cocaine
sun dreams. I will never break this cantaloupe
of loss while my mother drowned via toes
dredged in Margaret’s feeder stories. In the
morning, many red birds with names singing
The Beach Boys and how it felt then. Hey,
the road becomes unsmooth as fingers pry
my unbeing bound to the horoscope of
Athena. Medicated by myself how, I never
saw a truer night than the lake by the fire.
I could undo my shoelace with a gasp. Little
black dress on the tanned self, cognizant,
a doll without sound, breaking through seams
of satin ground, before the heat would come
I could see the room. All the eyes, all the sights.
I have some measure of patience to know
the past that won’t disappear but tries its best.
The noetic notion, Christmas on a pallor bent
side, where I saw through the chairman blues.
The children gather and laugh by the ring
and I recall that Jesus died for me, aren’t you
impressed? Aren’t you, this thing expanding
before hands, more than anyone could ever
explain through denial and screams to the
half-hearted moon? I never came to socialize:
it was serious business, the ladder climbing
with my bare naked breath held straightaway
to the deepest recesses of fear. In Atlanta,
we moved past the southern tendency to
destroy moods and bury words. Strange
solemnity that said did you ever? Not once?
I did. Forever clasping string beyond the valley
of forgotten creeks, the bridge toward building
moments out of gravel, dirt, dust steeped
ceilings. All too naught for the nihilist in us
both, what could expectation correct under
nearest forfeit. Yet we go on, for we must.
I climbed the tree to under lit skies, heavy
through warm fog, creating sentences at
a time. Finally the crack after gift given
season, the memory flew. Only slowly,
as if you never knew the definition of torpor,
how it looks in sky blue, the collected toenails,
or how the flour scatters to the floor like
a pale plate thrown. Home, without children
and their games, comes to the new retribution
for everything I never confessed. All those little
days with the hardwood and the phase of kind
shadowing, we found the music light between.
For the love given ground under synthesis
teaching tone, we grew into one darkening oak
of white squirrels and the Speaker called you
to testify and I would listen again. Again,
if the tower to imparting window wouldn’t
waver, lips, sweat, and tongue; I cannot
know verdicts of cases tried without my
regret. Still, the light filled up my glass.
Will do again, but enough. How easy it
seemed to pass and grow in a Georgia rêve.
Too hard to watch you go on your own
direction, I had the half feeling back. I
worshiped the same demons I loved to wish
they might unbecome or saints. I watched
as the tow-truck plowed through the den
and said a little bit of nothing with a small
white smile. Where’s the symbol for our
transformation? Oh God, a reckless hole
in the sun and an alchemic emotional bond
made of stone and rusted salt ions. In this
one, I added your portrait of self change
and grew still with the water moving down
towards gravity and the bottom of all things
salient denied. I am deeply aware of the sense
that days convey. I am still steeping my tea
bags and awake. The train is not danger
nor is it track; a transported colloquium of
shouting stars before a tree pose, a migrant
idea of love, a withering little tooth in the tree.
How can we fly before the dusk reconvenes
as a wisping weeping willow thought I had
when I was young? We wake again and blink.
Photo by Brassaï
10:07 pm • 25 August 2014 • 28 notes
We hold onto
each other like
as the jaw scrapes
and screeches like
We’ll battle it out,
but who will last
until one is left?
No, drag my teeth
out of contention:
lasso a noose, yank
hard until whipped
numbly off track
to bleed the oil.
11:02 pm • 20 August 2014 • 34 notes
Want to Go to Heaven, Don’t Want to Die
Rocks that crack on our upper bodies
can’t grow up to a sickening view
that terrorized this mutt. Across the
parade of hipsters, strong feelings toward
white light. I’m telling myself not to
sweat. Alone, apart of the graphed
appetite for building sorrow. Where
the eclipse goes when it’s right? Calls from
the probation office and sterile coughs
that hover and separate. Give us
the sign, what colors the line’s done
leaked, since immolation of the peregrine
chin hairs. Nonsense to envy outside.
Hand the black apparatus of control
my now healthy liver and beak. An enzyme
to worship together, duct taped remains
of glass from the twin robberies: my
fingers and smiled. Keep the dialog
asleep while we dream; I insisted on
spinach despite the taste, an inner
connectivity for pawns. So you won’t
let mice through your cheese cloth,
I can see the sound of no money and
agave. This contagion to loss, a country
of bats, clever kneeling before the doors
that open a riptide and raft. My bedsheets
tall and bound to your memory of trees.
I know that you offered a rickshaw
glacial that holds a red heavy quilt.
In order to find the more, we took
up arms against the electronics with
faces. I’m calling it the always incipient
apartment wanderlust. A too long sentence
I ripped from a headline about the police,
here it whines about its needless needs.
Sticking out your tongue was never cool
in Toulouse, my earnestness exploding
because it could and smells like nothing.
Whistling wills to the nightly pitcher.
It always storms when I try to start.
It always seems another chance to
become the new heraldry for pushing
idioms: baby’s on the bottle again.
I can’t judge the way a cannibal
speaks. You just pretend the wrong
end’s up and dash down the blue hall.
We ran from the quiet gaze of eons
and lacquered our bodies with an
emotional decline built to humble
reality. The carnival begins with endings,
the magic mountain moving between
the high strung necktie of living.
10:06 pm • 20 August 2014 • 39 notes