soft like silken honey.
Your words ever venomous,
glimmer like sugar,
itty bitty sugar crystals,
bending light as they
pass between your lips.
The Promise of LandIn a vision, speak, I hear you
whisper. Your voice, the wind,
so softly on the waves
breaking high on the shore.
The sound of promise, the sand
when the wash recedes, your voice,
more than any other, is the wish for land
to a drowning fool.
Father, Son of ZeusHe’s always been the tall man, warlike, arms at the ready.
As a child, I’d watch him ball his fist and raise it to the sky,
and in his shadow, watch him block out the sun.
I’ve seen him, giant’s son, uproot trees with his bare hands,
back flexed, shoulders squared. The tree,
ancient dryad, gnarly and bleached, clutched at the earth
with her roots, but soon found herself bowing before him.
Those same hands, scarred and calloused,
left no enemy intact, that begged for his attention.
He’d turn away at taunts
—fighting the lions in his head—
of the fools in the parking lot or shopping mall.
Fools who’d eye him up and down while stabbing
countless daggers in his back with their muttered curses under breath.
Fools seeking to measure themselves against Hercules.
Returned from battle, bloodied, eyes reddened,
brows tightly pinched behind his darkened shades.
He’d quietly shut the front door and see us, his family,
and let the thunder from h
Party FishHello little fish. You’ve popped all your pills.
Why are you here, in a cooler full of strangers?
You’ve never danced a day in your life. You’re
forgetting how to swim, flopping around the deck,
hoping to pass yourself off as a predator.
Dragged from the pelagic deep; gasping for water.
Go ahead and press that menthol inhaler
to your flaring runny nostril, and fight to breathe.
Your eyes, used to a dark of the Pacific depths,
blur in the strobes, sunlight for eyes that have never seen it.
Bathe in the colors that ocean depths can only hide, the colors
of light you never knew you wore all your life.
Too exhausted to move a fin, collapse in the cold ice.
The other fish have stopped moving. The cooler
is emptying. Your eyes are stuck open.
The Secret to good PoetryShow me the honey comb in her hair. Show me
how it bleeds amber on your shaking fingers; how
your fingers part the honey waves as you caress.
Don’t tell me you ran your fingers through her blonde hair nervously.
Play me the sounds of the cello in your breathing. Play me
the tune of a low bass rising to a treble, faster. Crescendo.
Play me your breathing as your fingers strike the note of his body.
Don’t tell me your breathing was deep and heavy.
I want to see what love is, fading spots dyed into your skin. I want
to see the plums planted in your flesh, bruises left by lips seeking
to conquer every inch of your neck. I want to see the love in the kiss.
Don’t tell me love is anything. Show me.
Colored Man Chapter One: My ChildrenA sudden tap at his bedroom door brought John back to the present. He had been staring at a little hand painted portrait of a dog sitting in the middle of a lawn. Again the tap on his door came slow and deliberate.
“One moment,” he said setting the piece down. “I'll be right there.”
He straightened his blue collar and brown belt then walked over to the front door. Peeping through the peep hole he saw them. The men in the black suits came to collect him. They appeared as if someone had cut and pasted the same person ten times over in his hallway.
“What can I do for you fine gentleman?” He called through the door.
“Mr. Carlon we're here to take you into custody. You are accused of a color violation and as such must be immediately taken to the House of Eyes. Please do not refuse or we will use force.”
John unlocked the door and presented his wrists. The men in suits restrained him and proceeded to lead him away. Another group of men walked p
Working ReflectionsFrom a commuter bus window, I watch
the world. All these cars, meant to go
over rushing streams and dirt roads,
over long paved roads and dimly
lit tunnels, could drive a thousand miles
on this island, but never get anywhere.
From this window I can see people
rushing to be where the buildings stand
like giant stone idols to paper vomiting
gods, or memorials to human decency.
There in masses, knelt prostrate
in leather thongs and chains, praying
for a dream that never comes. From
this great wide bus window I see
my reflection pondering every word
I write in memoriam of the dream
I'm told must die.I refuse to put down
my pen, to cease my scribbling on
the empty spaces between humanity
and the blank page. I do it not
for immortality or the glory of a coin,
but for the memorial of the human being
I watch slowly die. From my miniscule
window on this bus going nowhere,
Empire of DustCan you dream it? Can you build the sky?
Will you take the clay and help the world mend?
When all is dust, will you refuse to die?
Hear the sound of the crumbling stones nearby,
and feel the parched earth tremble to our end.
Can you dream it? Can you build the sky?
You broke the seal and let your arrow fly
which made the rain twist and rend all the men.
When all is dust, will you refuse to die?
We built our towers to touch the high
and whispered irreverent in our sin:
“Can you dream it? Can you build the sky?”
When all was pleasing to the greedy eye
you found the hunger and asked it, though blind,
“When all is dust, will you refuse to die?”
There is no one left to weep, none to cry,
or even miss our empire or mind.
Can you dream it? Can you build the sky?
When all is dust, will you refuse to die?
The Desert in MeSomething in me feels of sand. Of flesh slowly
rubbed against the grain of the sort used
to strip the surface of wood. Each minute
of everyday, though I walk with my back straight
and eyes forward, I feel it scrape. Every organ
and bone in the center of my body is felt slowly
worn by the movement of being. In being alive
I feel the sand like coarse salt in freshly cut
meat press into my gut, into the imagined hollow
where the soul is supposed to be. Though I am used
to the sensation of the sand in my ever present wounds,
I can never get used to the sand filling every vein
and spilling over the breach of my waking mind.
The sand grinds in more than just my gut,
but in the corners of my eyes, in the corners
of my lips. It grinds in between my teeth
and pours out of my mouth in obscenities.
Work in Progress: Matchlock PoetStand the gun with its barrel up and remove
the cap from the powder horn. Tip a little
of the powder down the barrel. Ram the shot
and a paper wad with the rod until you hear
the packet sink to the bottom.
She sits all alone eyeing the letter in her hands
curiously as if the letter would talk. Her fingers
move as if trained to do so, shaking as if it is
the first time she traced a line. Her lips purse
as if to kiss an unseen person before the utterance
of a word. Issued from her lips, she reads out loud.
Thumb open the cold lip of the breach cover
to expose the pan. Pour a little powder into
the small bowl and close the cover shut.
Take the match cord in your hands and blow
until the cherry glows. Pin the match
to the firing arm, and lift the gun to your shoulder.
Her lips tremble as she issues each word in a voice
reserved for the quiet corner of a library. The tip
of her tongue dances around the curve of every vowel
and consonant. Gingerly the tongue meets teeth
and the teeth meets l
Color PsychologyThere's a demon of color
Whispering in my head
Telling me to listen
To all that will be said
He tells of hues aplenty
And shades numerous as stars
He tells me I could paint planets
From darkest Uranus to bloody Mars
I however, wish not for color
Nor for difference of shade
I only speak in black and white
All else in fallacious charade
But he bemoans my narrowness
And lauds the singing shades
He tells tall tales of marvel
And begs me play his game
I am not one for pageantry
Nor pomp or frivolous parade
The lie of colors and pigments
Are naught to me but shades
Ghosts of things conceived by fools
Wispy whims of psychopaths
Painted faces, hiding the truth
Of blunt black and white-hot wrath
The demon writhes and gets his due
he made me cry long hoursI think the man who opened
the Starbucks door for me today
knew that I was broken. I think,
as he rushed to get the door
before I got there, he knew
my arms would snap off if I tried
to open it myself. I think he saw
something crooked behind my
straight teeth. I think crying
is my job and a day without bawling
my eyes out is a fucking holiday.
just so you know, I've learned how
love works: it's you doing nothing
and that meaning everything to me;
it's me doing everything and that
meaning nothing to you. we're broken,
you know. like a song on repeat, I've tried
countless times to fix us. I even volunteered
to be a janitor to sweep up all the pieces.
but I can't fix something that you broke. so
will you just leave me alone already? I'm not-
look closely, I have 34 syllables just for you:
my lips can't speak so
I settle with the open-
ing of hips instead.
I am begging you
to please be careful when you
pull off my tight pants.
I have mailed the notes-to-self
to my eye sockets, the ones tha
to cry and be heldhe's awake and he's cold and he's
crying in my arms, whispering songs
singing the sound of the rain into my ear
tears are falling on our cheeks
our skin swallowing the water
we are naked and calm
beneath the cinnamon tree
our skin cracking as its leaves land in our hair
holding dry leaves in our hands
holding them to our hearts
he's kissing my shoulder
the wind blowing my hair
onto his spine
my skin is bruised and cold
but he holds me as my eyes cry
into his heart, soaking the leaves
our bodies drifting and fading
into sleep, the leaves awakening
our skin cold and dry- the leaves alive
if the leaves were our hearts
blowing in and out of the wind
landing in our lover's hair
soaking up our lover's tears
falling asleep and awakening
with the seasons
Simdi Bir Yerlerde
"Gün günden odamın şeklini alıyorum"
ŞİMDİ BİR YERLERDE
Şimdi bir yerlerde topraklara su döküyor kadınlar
Şimdi bir yerlerde ekinler tohumlanıyor
Sazlıkların orman orman diplerinde karıncalar sevişiyor
Kumsallarda toprağa değiyor ay
Güneşin hatırasına sarılıyor
Çoban yıldızı gözlerini yumuyor
Şimdi bir yerlerde deniz kokuyor
Kimsesiz köpekler ayaklarını denize sokuyor
Mandıralarda peynire, yoğurda ölüyor inekler
Çeltikler, sulak ama yalnız güneş ülkesi
Derinlerinde tane tane inciler
Derinlerinde bir tok toprak
Çeltiklere varamayan sular
Doyuruyor karpuzları, buğdayları, günebakanları
Kovana dolar gibi
Şehirlere doluşmuş et et kalabalıkları
The Stalker's PathYou allowed my presence
To be your malady
So fragile in essence
The last of the letters
Has finally been sent
No newspaper cuttings
Just these feelings to vent
Alone in my abode
At the dining room table
I relinquish romance
To the realms of fable
The time of no reply
Holds sway over my life
Fork for food, spoon for sauce
Redundant is my knife
Have you forgot my name
Watch from your widow's walk
As you drench me in shame
Out to sea, out of sight
You cast my memory
I'll run aground on the shores
Of your inequity
IgnoranceBroken dreams, a shallow heart,
Wings of innocence torn apart,
Caught in a moment, but out of time,
Lifes a song that just doesnt rhyme,
Selfish wants, puritys destruction,
Snared in the wildfire of needy seduction,
National suicide, greed became lust,
Having to lie in order to trust,
Nightmare, wide awake,
Watching society burn at the stake,
Shattered faith, gone with yesterday,
Back before love was a cliché,
Light inverted, shadows lead,
Growth is faster with a tainted seed,
Destiny, approaching fast,
In a race where all come last,
Apparitions, icy chills,
Blaming ghosts for making the kills,
Breaking silence, whispering screams,
Accepting everything as it first seems,
Ignorance, we brought this on,
Then were surprised when all hope was gone.
compulsive liartruth: my paint water from two days ago is still in my room.
truth: it's murky.
truth: it's foggy outside.
truth: I can't find my shirt.
truth: that's nothing new.
truth: whatis ever new anymore?
truth: that was a rhetorical question.
truth: I lie when i write poetry.
truth: I have suicidal thoughts during dinner often.
truth: there's a reason why I wear baggy clothes around the house.
truth: I'm so ashamed.
truth: lately I've been eating less and getting full more easily.
truth: the pants that were too tight on me are beginning to loosen.
truth: halfway through brushing my teeth I realized I was using someone else's toothbrush.
truth: I didn't care.
truth: I just lied twice.
truth: actually I just lied six times.
truth: I follow you around like a little sister follows her older sister.
truth: I should leave you alone.
truth: I can't leave you alone.
truth: I could've loved someone better than you, you know.
truth: he wouldn't avoid me like you do.
truth: he would notice the days we di
Wheeltapping the DreamsCan apologize for many things but not dreams.
pain is felt without the blow
laughter seen but not heard
the dead alive again
I, beauty and love
MorphineMy tongue swells like a gallows
and sticks to the roof of
my mouth each time I say deliverance.
The doctor says it is only
temporary and that I will
get over it in time.
Some mornings I wake up as a
poet - a random man of bones
and meat, clattering down the
sidewalks, hardly breathing
and afraid to move too quickly.
Once I fried an egg on the battery
of my car because I wanted to
see the summer heat rise up
like angels and tangle in the
power lines, knowing I am God's annointed.
The nurse says it's ridiculous,
that I should know better
that morphine will not kill me
and I can still step on cracks
without the world slipping through
but I won't get caught like last time
because crucifixion is a bitch
and I have nothing left
inside my pockets
for you to taste.