IceWhen the glacier slides, I'm the one. . . lost. Wondering where the right path is, with doubt biting. Frozen memories, icy distances. When the world grows colder, I'm the one. . . cracked. Standing on my own, with the past craving for me. Stolen, missing. When the snow falls, I'm the one. . . drifting. Trying my best, to make sense of it all. Wandering, wondering.When the hail storms, I'm the one. . . walking. Holding my guard, locking my heart. Smiling, pretending.
What If We Were Poets?Do you ever wonder what it's like to come face-to-facewith the planets? To curl your fingers in the air withoutmeeting thousands of plaster ceilings? What if I showed youhow to cross Saturn's rings, inhale the atmosphere of Venus?You would enter the Earth (and it's a strange place to call home,really) with ice crystals at the corners of your mouth and ashclouds stuck to the insides of your fingernails. Let me tell you,it's a beginner's worry that you'll burn up in the atmosphere,but I've had helium and hydrogen daubed on the base of my tongue.Oh, and do you ever brush past the windows on train carriagesand wonder what cornfields are like when they're your skyand your Earth's crust? What if I took you to the white cliffsof somewhere or other and taught you how to spread your wingsand not hit the ground? What if I showed you mazes, and becamethe red threads around your thumbs? If you'll just trust me, I'll let yousee that getting lost should only worry you in jungles of co
Cassandra - Prologue and Part 1Even in death, Cassandra was lovely. Her hair cascaded over her ivory shoulders in sable cataracts, pooling in the soft hollow between her breast and throat. She was wearing the white nightgown, the one she knew I loved, and the fall had thrown it up, weightless, in gossamer drifts across her legs. Her bare toes were painted salmon-pink, the same colour as the roses in the crystal vase by the door.So elegant, my Cassandra. I might have expected that she would sprawl, as one imagines that people do when they have died suddenly, but her body refused to surrender its accustomed grace. One hand curled beside her face; the other lay, palm up, across her cocked hips, its open fingers tenderly beckoning. Her eyes were closed, peaceful, the fringe of dark lashes sooty and familiar upon her fading cheek. Her lips were parted in expectation. At any moment, she would wake, look up at me, smile. Cassandra. My hand found the banister, gripped the aged wood and guided me down the stairs
the drifter i.i tried to tell you that Marley was a ghost,but you wanted to walk with wingsacross gleaming midnight. How marvelous, this stone stands sturdy and musty; this glorious church holding up a ticking sun that slowly cracks the trippy stained glass.you drilled way below the church stone, and found dried palm leaves and old jointslike clues to the map of an exceptional life. I love this torrential literature, I love a racing heart. ii.i cannot sleep, i keep dreaming, ezekiel's visions leave me breathless. Take it up with the Big Man. Surely the cannabis creator must exude a presence that lingers on synapses.iii.i've lost my ability to fly.a tender sky with reddening clouds, the sights of death give birth to no life. Well, I'm l
Fragile Magpie MoonsIt's only spring when you first wake up,two magpies and the dull ache of menstrual crampstapping on. Death's windowsleeps in all our bones,a dripping water faucet.Brittle things--like love,marlboro midnights,a jar of not-quite-nothing--small and fragile and oursare the presences we carrywhile running from the moon.
lines for rae armantroutFor instance, an old oak grovedisassembled.And to you, Rae, because what appearslike campfiresis always the cosmic cascading bodies,torched and tumbling,and someone screaming evacuate-meaning rebuild, re-haunt.***Reading about the experiment,it became evident-the traffic of moans,crowds of shadows standingin the peripheral,a sense of expectation and dread.This is how death comes in poems:The last campfire in the distance goes dark.
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung wordsTogether on row upon row againOf blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,To point with honesty failed verse of thine.No real poet discards upper case words;Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.You seek to free verse of those stern letters,Sever away bleak capital fetters,But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,To make our dull words sound great all the time,Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,Heralding a poet’s summer prime.Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,The subject not gilded in raiment fine;Your bold ink font, crystal waters divineTastes bitter to the ton
Something Borrowedgirls in white dressesdon't always want weddings.the priests would speak of leaps of faithand my hands would clasp the wood in horror,knuckles bleached like bone- and i foundsomething old: the knot tied in my throat. my vocal cords did not let empty words escape.and there was something blue: the heart that hesitated. how can a seedling prophesyits harvest? how can a caterpillar promisethe power of its wings?so let others gather flowers.we will skip the massbut not the bed: and throughthis something borrowed,earn a little time- and a place to rest our heads.
Missing GirlsMissing GirlsThese snippets of girls, broadsheets, ballads,a one paragraph whisper in a smudged newspaperbeneath an ad for a pizza, two for one.But they are singular despite their raveled tangled names.They are still awake, a litany of how young girls die.Delia is gone, 14 years old, cinched and muzzled with rope,two bullets. He was pardoned. She sleeps somewhere unknown.Her bones whisper to the unknowns. At least Delia has a song.Johnny Cash sang about her, the Man in Black.Did they bury her in black, a thrift store school dresswith sweat stained underarms?They tell Delia of truck stop stores gaudy with harsh beaten light,racks of DVDs of Country’s greatest hits. A bus stop smelling of aged urine.He promised he would leave his wife, girlfriend, so many words.In a church bathroom. He had a kind face.Grainy posters stapled to telephone poles, taped to smudged windows,small store billboards cramped with fading pleasamidst ads for babysitting, massage and guitar le
Falling Into StarlightI am falling. I have been caught by a monster which cannot be seen, but for the path of destruction it carves through the cosmos. It pulls me in, and as I plummet the universe bends and folds back on itself, and for a brief moment I can see everything that is and ever was.In the twisted relay of light I see the nebula that was my birthing ground. Its radiance surrounds me with heat and color. Bursting clouds and arching forms in writhing wings of gossamer, painted with hydrogen and illuminated from within by the glow of its children.Mother nebula had formed me, along with my sisters, from parts of herself. Coaxing and coalescing until we were strong enough enough to shine on our own. Then she breathed into us life and our hearts began to flutter with the embers of fusion.In our mother’s embrace, I played with my sisters, plunging into misted veils and swinging through spangled swaths of life-dust. She would tell us tales of the far reaches of the galaxy, where the giants dance
fishermanI am a fisherman-all roaring wavesand rush of sea saltbeating seagull wingsand a tongue carved fromrough driftwoodMy hands break leveesand my breath births damsthe taste of chilly mornsstill melt on the roof of mymouth like I never wishedfor anything besides the smackof sodden rubber boots andthe scars from entangledhunks of ivory netsthe sea has notforgotten my voice-I can hear themwhisperingwhen the wooden floorboardscrackle like hurricane bruisesfrom water laden sauntersthrough land sunk librariesit has been a foreversince I held a dreamcaught between my fingertipsand the gentle rock of aboat and foamy froth onmy lipsbut this new trip I have embarked uponcarries more clanking hooks than screeching sinkersyet- my line has not changed-I am a fisherman and the seadoes notforget who its children are.
Water SignsThen water, you and I,Scorpio and Cancer, respectively,yours the calm fathomed passion of lakemine a spring fed, fast-tumbling brookYou taught me to swim in your deepwith caressing breast and leg strokeI flashed my silver moon flair, leapt,like a fish, into dizzying ozone airmatched my fall-freedrowning-dive to your quiver.Oh the silky innuendo,shimmered laughter and sparkling jive -though you wanted more of wet and more wet,I, the tiptoe through shallowfearful I could get lured, hookedby such a catch-and-release kind of man.
a modern opheliashe found fennel beneath her pillow,and felt the familiar flutterof glassfish between her ribs.to distract herself, shescattered the reddest petalsin her bathwater.she braided poppies in her hairand, gasping,let regret invade her lungs.
Dishwasherafternoon light flickersthrough the curtainslike a mothher fingers brushthe lined edgeof a plateas the sink fillswith waterthe sound of paper, displacedshifts behind hershe countsthe careful stepsthe cat takesacross the tableoutside the rosestrace their shadowsacross the lawn
Dysphoriashe sells 9mm shells by the seashore,says she can hear the ocean.but if you listen close to these shellsyou can hear ghosts.something borrowed, something blue,something broken, something bruised.she traces her fingers across the autopsy scarswhile she counts her bones like currency.she'll leave your skin screaming,and sink into the whites of your eyes like a shipwreck.can you hear the ocean?
Paradigm ShiftEmerging flash of starlight papbetween sunset and ocean capcolliding spang into my eyesfor once to have me realizenot everything becomes a song,and I shall sleep before too long.
Nervous MovementYou're a dime a dozen in a sea of billions.Individuality has no significance in numbers so vast.And while this fact may make looking forward hardwe can't keep living in the past.You're a nervous movement in a freeze frame scene.Steady hands won't help hold up such a fragile act.And while you take your time keeping characteryou fake what you can't take back.With nothing more than a thought we form our actionsand this is where we extinguish the lie they tried to invent.The lie that we painted our lives without passionwell conclusions are useless with no attempt to commence.You're a song I can't name stuck in my head.I've listened to you before and probably will again.And while I can hum the melody all day long waitingfor it to hit me I still won't know where you've been.You're a gust that has never changed direction.Nothing can touch you you're only felt as you brush skin.And while you can't be stopped nothing lastsnothing escapes time or an end not even the wind
Everything You BorrowedOn Sunday afternoon,after exiting the church,you plucked the sun from the skyand hid it in your palmsso that when I held your handsthey would no longer be cold.When Monday night arrivedyou snatched every single starand used my tears to makea necklace.Tuesday's empty dawn shonethrough the cracks of the door--you stole the promise of whatcould never beand draped it around my shoulders.After Wednesday's twilight passed,you grabbed the cloudsand wove a tapestry of liesthat I hung on the wallsof my prison.Thursday crept through uson silent tiptoes,waiting for us to take notice--instead, we merely waitedfor midnight to come.The dusk of Friday wanedwhile you stripped it of its sorrowsand sewed them into my skin.When Saturday cameyou tried to steal the moon;I watched as you stood on your tombstoneand stretched to reach it.You fell, then--fell, broke your neck,and landed six feet under.I couldn't cry afterwards,for you had taken my agonyand washed it out to