Posts

  • “Name your torture,”
    one of them said
    with a wink.

    I wanted an orchard
    but I swallowed the vodka
    he handed me
    willingly.

    “The Gorge”

  • You said things

    take sacrifice and I

    agreed.

    We were giant and we

    both would shrink

    to fit inside a

    cavity that would carry us

    back to each

    other.

    You always proposed

    the meeting place

    and I always proposed

    the time.

    We both loved

    compromise and we both

    understood sacrifice.

    I promised you sometime

    in eternity and you

    promised me somewhere

    on Earth.

    “The gauntlet”

  • I keep a bromeliad at the doorway
    to protect me with her spikes

  • “I have opened it.”
    –Alfred Tennyson’s last recorded words

    marrow cage
    pinned under his sex and a
    a grab for steady wages,
    three thousand pages of 

    unique rejections
    and my wrists are bound
    together by self denigration.
    a noticeable attachment to water,
    currents or anything that’s
    palpable,
    a noticeable longing for windows.
    my veneration for absence.

    a noticeable longing for door knobs,
    my admiration for sadists
    and what they take,
    an unwavering self-beratement
    tightening the joints of bone bars,
    my masochistic streaks
    and the interminable door
    slamming shut
    and less concerning to everyone
    involved:

    a noticeable absence of love.

    “door #1” or “the daydreams”

  • “there is heaven inside of you.

    other things too.”

    –responses from God during meditation, 07/17/17, 8:43 pm

  • “Name your torture,”
    one of them said
    cutely.
    I wanted an orchard
    but I swallowed the vodka
    he handed me
    willingly.I don’t believe in simplicity
    or explaining the meaning behind things
    it’s why I write poetry
    I say with a hint of clarity.

  • you are buried deep underground
    like winter’s favorite
    slaughter,
    spring’s daughter
    Persephone
    in her tomb of
    bone and gold.
    you are the sudden
    eruption of fruit on vine,
    and fences lined with
    a crust of
    flowers.
    you wraith like honeysuckle
    and rage in thorns.


    you are both
    the rising,
    and the metamorphosis:
    the  lasting arrival.
    you are the dark queen
    in her final hours
    returned to Earth
    to wage a
    war.

    you are Persephone’s
    final futile hours
    screaming at the flowers,
    soaking everything in
    massacre.

    “the crusade”

  • but in the sun

    I’m thirsty,
    let me be a rose about it:
    dew sprung,
    rained on in
    blood red gown,
    opening.
    something always
    noticed; something
    often picked
    even lined with
    thorns.

    1.

  • You send me butterflies

    at night

    to assuage me,

    but it doesn’t take the sting

    of ambivalence away.

    I return the offer:

    I dress in wings,

    suck the nectar from 

    dusk’s flowers:

    a long nightmare,

    a black balloon,

    one long dry choke.

    You spend the year immured

    in poetry and pieces

    of half finished dreams,

    obsessing over everything

    you see.

    I become immune.

    I spend the year

    immersed in beds of

    black obsidian and

    forgetting what it

    ever meant to

    me.

                 who’s the wolf 

               and who’s the deer?

    Run a bath of rose quartz and

    whisper those three words

    you’ve been dying

    to hear:

    this unfolds,

    reversing.

    “datura moon”

  • watch your men,

    girl.

    they are starting to talk,

    shiver,

    watch you

    from a distance .

  • all that glitters is usually filtered
    unless God is involved.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑