Prose is Writing Poetry

To each reader their own poem

5 notes

Pastoral

I won’t manicure the lawn
or bribe the sidewalk to seal
the cracks between here
to where the baker sets
the rising bread loaves to cool.

I plant upright sticks
in the garden instead
of gardenias or a rose bush,
no means to cut my thumb
just swords to fall on

since I got tired of trying
to outgrow the city. Dusk bowed
for prayer and the moon
lifted its face from the bowl.
If we held our breath

tight enough in our chest
we could see the season’s
first snow, as well as the bruises
and the necklace that wrapped
around your throat. An embrace.

Filed under poetry

5 notes

Dragon

Fire the other animal. His hand masks the sun and the shade tells no secrets and I keep mine closed too. My body unfolding with his like question marks facing or wings reaching. The heat in his breast, the scaly fingers rough and cloying and the sense the sense the sense of the insensible him.

A boy goes beastly stranger to surprise to something well-deep. The many veins the mountain also holds. The many ways a sky becomes more than a sheet of paper and paint swatches. A line of ink more than stitching that binds a page. His lair too small to stay. We say we’ll see each other again. Every time I’m the comet ellipsing. Shards of ice and gas and rock and maybe even melt. I tell him to make a wish.

Filed under poetry prose poem

2 notes

Advice for Everything Else

I wore my shoes so much
the pavement ate them.
My feet go in bloody chunks
so I use wrens for walking instead.
Now their little squeaks
ruin sneaking up on you.

The sun comes up in a lit room,
but across town his boyfriend
bites his nails in the dark.

Okay okay so the point was this:
Everyone is DYING and I’m too busy
to wipe my chin with a napkin.

I play words a minute,
feel better about the eggshell moon
at the lip of my desk
and the knot of driftwood
I hung in its place,

while I assemble my friends
from tap and toilet-water.

No luck. No duck that just swims in
and scars the whole scene.
Lately the promise of corkscrews and knives
has gotten appealing again.

From a distance I watch
old heart-aches smile
through a horizon of rain.

My flash drive says Stay Fabulous
and I try to take it to heart
but tattoos are only skin deep.

I just peel carrots
on my neighbors porch,
watching cars fall into the sky
until a blade catches my thumb.

Filed under poetry blood cw death mention cw

2 notes

Minutes with Eli

»Philadelphia International has many legs long-stepping the cracks in the country but no hands for me reach into Dallas when I get there when he gets there we say hello with our tongues

»The city words out of order my yellow shell crawls the roads vines through brick

»A house in a face-mask of scaffolding and open-mouthed panting

»Everyone is carrying their scents inside thrashing on the walls and licking the plaster off to make sure it smells like them

»The richest kids even lift their legs and power tools whirl and snarl

»We break in his mattress we break inside each other we break the silence we held for months

»The mattress gets flipped over and we make the bed and carry the fridge and suitcases upstairs

»Oh the places you’ll go I’m legally required to say TARGET, BB&B, CVS, IHOP, A SMALL THUMBNAIL CRACK IN THE EARTH

»A copy of Herodotus flew off into the night to practice vampirism elsewhere

»We watched dragons in the sunset hoping they’d burn the city down but they played in the sprinkler wetting the neighbor’s lawn and we told the fan to wind faster

»Cold showers so we took our coffee into the stall and drank while we washed off

»Theories of negation

»The minutes I spent staring into him negating the days without

»Early mornings and no words but little grunts and growls and puns and a laughter still hanging on my ear

»Our bodies folded against each other like facing question marks and maybe even wings reaching

»Dressing business casual for our goodbyes the construction workers pulling up to finish the facelift for the house

»Going north on I-81 with New York tearing like a zipper and not looking back to see what rose from the open ground behind me

Filed under poetry poem

9 notes

Witch

I left her behind before she bloomed from the sea foam. Tiny plain. Tiny hands. So much for stones to make her sink but her tears many times rolled marbles through my hands. She speaks in bird calls. Has a spell to make sure I migrate back to her every year. I take her to lunch. At the zoo we admire how the animals know all four corners of their cages. I carry her on my shoulders to mimic giraffes. She is still too young to cast her magic into the horizon or take a broom there and scatter the dust. In her bedroom: a calendar marking the days since I last saw her. I make sure to leave while she sleeps. Turn the light off in her room, and find my way back in the dark.

Filed under prose poem poetry

2 notes

5 THINGS I LIKE ABOUT ME

  1. In a world of birds I am rooted to the spot and not jumping or scaling trees to leap off or any sort of thing though here is the black little pinion I pulled from my wrist this morning and a trash bag more in my living room one day one day one day I tell myself and let gravity be the judge.
  2. Technically I have my own field of gravity! I am a planet but more a star since I will definitely implode one day in a self-immolated fire. It’ll be cool. I plan to write my will and bury it in a dark spot of space and then expand until I’m bright enough for someone to find it.
  3. I can map two points on a sheet of paper and the uncertainty of blank can come in a spectrum of colors. I’ve kept my cardboard paper since the second grade. History doesn’t trace farther back than that. A million pine trees migrating north into Canada. Climate change making all of us breathe differently. I didn’t see the forest through trees, the city on the other side eating at it or the boy and his balcony and the few stars he tossed over his back.
  4. There are many boys I carry in a sack behind my back. I never see them, but I keep them with me just in case. I reach into the dark and when I pull my hand it is covered in tiny, precise snake bites.
  5. In a serpent chamber I am twice as good as anyone else at getting swallowed. One thing I really like about myself is this: snakes can swallow me and snakes can also swallow birds which means I get closer to flying every darkening day.

Filed under I've been very busy lately so I haven't had much to post up here A friend wanted me to do this tumblr meme so I thought why not

1 note

Vampire

She loved me but also the taste of my blood! She kissed my cuts. Began a wine tasting that left flecks of copper on her tongue. We were each other’s thralls. Always after the taste of the other in parking lots, the hushed top floors of libraries, around the back of a church. Many nightly possessions. Steak knives across skin, sharp words, and tears that turned in to apologia. A drama that unfolded its bat wings and lost itself as a speck in an endless starless sky. When we almost sucked each other dry, I ran east and left her in the quiet, suburban tomb of her grandfather’s. There, they tried with gentle hands, to seal her in a coffin. When she escaped north, we both had a view back to those moments. Of the homes where we set stakes to each other’s heart and drove the hammer down.

Filed under poetry prose poem