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
Odds and EndsA cup is just a cup
until it's the last cup that she touched,
and a car
is just a way from a to b
until it's the way that she arrived
A picture in a frame
is lovely to see, even if only ever viewed
in the background, passively,
but when the image
locks in place
the last smile on her face
then your grief turns to regret
for the memory
trapped beneath the glass.
An old pair of slippers,
tucked neatly beside the door,
every time you cross the threshold,
until the day
when you have to toss those old things away
and they are as heavy as anchors
and more treasured
A scent that fills your head,
the comfort of a familiar figure and
a warm embrace,
but when you can no longer detect it's fragrance,
it becomes a mystery
impossible to solve,
a memory lost to time
like the ghost of a kiss
lost somewhere among the rest.
A name is just a name
until it's torn from the tongue and carved
into the stone,
and a dream
is a just a thing between the nigh
a kiss requires
is two pairs
and a willingness
for the dream
of a raft
you might find nestled
between the hundredth
pair you try;
even more broken
in the pursuit
of a love that
firebirdAutumn has gone up in flames,
winter brings ashen remains
Fragile bird skeletons with
white blazing feathers they
break easily in this
brittle-bone weather I'm
inhaling cold ashes that
rattle my lungs//my ribs//my heart
and this phoenix is falling
a p a r t
but sometimes that's necessary.
too (iso)late(d)touch-starved waistlines
recollect memories in old text messages
and incomplete composition notebooks
they argue with themselves
about self-preservation in a predatory
wilderness: the privacy of homes
and thick bedroom walls
with birds calling them from hiding spots
amongst the fear and hope
unfounded and unfound
& steady hands let go of their centers
to grip reluctance in pens
recording the songs of bluebirds
outside, outside, outside
as growth sets in with resignation smiles
vasha ptichkai want you to read me stories,
the very same ones
as i wrap you into,
catch you in their bindings
and smell you,
clean and summer,
inside the pages.
standing in your shower,
i wear the bodywash
that is a signature of yours,
foreign on my skin.
sometimes you are there with me,
and we are children again
as we splash water
on one another's naked bodies.
i am turning you into
a bigger reader,
a braver hero,
a stronger soul;
you tell me that
you put your phone down
and buckle your seatbelt
when you get behind the wheel
because you imagine my face
if you told me you didn't.
i want to be something new for you.
a better lover,
a happier smile,
the warmest arms you could ever need.
i never want to waver
even as tides crash my knees,
and i want you to always hear it,
close to your ear or across the state,
when i tell you
you mean the world to me.
on certain occassions fallacies exist for a reason[innocent is a synonym for boring
innocence is a symptom of ennui]
i'm not in the not in the not in the
to be the knot in the noose: loose
unhinged. disjointed. you know:
you know the drill & you know
the drill in my head is always
impaling my skull & you know
there is no difference between
this psychosis & you. no. i am
at best your greatest parachute
(if you fall into the abyss of my
mind, you shall float, as gently
as a feather in the wind) i am a
zephyr at worst: a tornado sans
entropy. i am the #1 cause of a
broken heart & most dangerous
catalyst since 1991. more fuel?
fuel, for what? fuel
for an aching heart
(ima hack ima hack
ima hack my wrists
which is what hacks
do) all of them do it
(i am a hack, hack, a hack
hacking up my irony lungs)
blacking up my exxon & i
mean blacking out my eye
really mean i don't mean a
thing i say & i say nothing,
nothing but when, but i'm
not in the not in the mood
innocent is a synonym for
Nude Pictures of French GirlsWhispers lingered, premature like an Indian summer;
heavy on the leaves and heavier on the lungs.
Until even the wall flowers began to wither and die.
The wind brought with it dust and unkempt secrets.
Reversed burials where words tasted endlessly like bones.
We stared down at ourselves, drowning in rivers of drought.
And as our tongues carried us to the headwaters of this
mechanized plague, we at last saw the architect of betrayal;
A mirror, higher than the mountains, with two unhappy statues
standing far behind it.
2P Romano Hetaloid x Reader (Part 2)“talking”, ‘thinking’
Despite you pleads Flavio kept undressing you, leaving you only in your (color) frilly undergarments. “Frills definitely suit you my bella ragazza but I wouldn’t mind taking those off for you too~” “NO!” You quickly avoided his hands as he was reaching for the clip of you bra, and since beggar can’t be choosers you picked up the first piece of clothing you got your hands on. “Aaww~ Alright mio amore you can still wear it but only if you put on that dress you got” “Fine, I’ll be back” You went into your room and locked the door to change only to realize what dress you have picked out. It was a short (color) maid dress that you bought yesterday just thinking you could wear it for fun while cleaning the house.
‘Dear God why!? …Maybe I can escape through my window and-’ “(f/n)~! You done? Don’t make me go in there~” “Fuck my life”