In poem on 09/17/2015 at 18:50
“TEAM OF FOXES”
Somewhere green we met —
out of reach and shit.
Something smells like grass,
summer always happened fast.
A band of foxes sent
on the diamond they descend.
Driven mad with their disease,
stole your daughter through the trees.
Will you chase me?
Before all of this collapse.
Will you race me?
(Scar pink, moth black.)
You forgot your daddy’s joke
though you often smell like smoke.
Stood me up in Long Beach —
you were such a Georgia peach.
Will you chase me? Will you race me there?
In poetry on 08/27/2014 at 16:34
We’ve gone through the looking glass
You only catch up on time
Red wax on white cupboards,
silverfish in the sink,
is this how you imagined living?
They hand out anti–s like it’s nothing.
Change the sheets,
the memory’s overpowering.
Set out traps,
maybe we’ll catch something.
drunk as a poet on payday
left a candle burning
in the other room.
Means nothing to you.
In poetry, Uncategorized on 07/18/2014 at 17:29
Your body is a time machine
that works at
The music under the floor
through holes in my feet.
I can feel my heartbeat everywhere.
Promise me your coming out for real.
I can’t keep talking in circles
things that I feel.
I never thought I needed attention.
I never wanted a friend.
But really, man,
I’m dying without you
I mean, seriously,
What’s the diagnoses?
Is it possible to deteriorate
from an acute case
Somebody evict these thoughts from my body,
put them in a jar
that I’ll drink when I’m happy.
Stress is a killer.
I wouldn’t say silent.
Most often aggressive.
Maybe I’ve just been sitting down way too long.
In poetry, romance, writing on 04/01/2013 at 17:44
My poem “Winding Down the Month of June” was published on Word Wizard. Click the link to check it out or read the poem here:
WINDING DOWN THE MONTH OF JUNE
Moonlight and strewn asunder
under watchful gaze of
Under-dressed and obvious.
Come to me. Crawl if you have to.
I can see your face by light of the moon
under the window
where fireflies are passing.
So delicately placed
only sober now.
Rolling over and over
beneath shields of sheets
and fleeting confessions.
“Will you remember?”
My ghost stands on the porch
and watches you leave forever
I cannot keep myself together.
The summer will kill me.
The summer will leave me with nothing.
I’m so glad that I found you.
In American Radio, poetry, writing on 03/28/2013 at 14:15
America (the poem)
You’re feeling lonely
as you’re approaching,
will turn into faces
but your friends all have places
in states and
streets you never thought you’d see.
“Is Nat home?”
“He’s moved to New York City.”
In poetry, writing on 02/27/2013 at 12:46
This music box you gave to me,
the prettiest one I’ve ever seen,
a song to move the birds
from a city
that overlooks the sea. She sang
“Remember when we were married?
Speak of it like dead and buried,”
while I spill revenge on a yellow dress…I swore it an accident.
I pledge my love to you,
I’ll shine like gold when you feel blue.
On a night like this it’s hard
not to howl
at the moon.
In Game of Thrones, poetry, writing on 11/05/2012 at 21:19
Working on a book of poetry, unfortunately. Sample, about Ice&Fire:
Dany Wants Her Dragons Back
When I crossed the Narrow Sea
the septon said a prayer for me.
I just wondered if you’d wait
but you said nothing of it:
“You’re just a boy of ten-and-eight
stealing flowers.” Well, that’s great.
So unloved, I’ll take the black—
you blow the horn that brings me back.
You’re like fire, you’re like ice;
let me take you out to lunch.
Lannister red, the way you blush…
you are the other continent.
The wolves are showing us their stuff,
the dance has made you upset.
These are the knights of summer—
you thought the wolves would be your friends?
You are the other continent.
In American Radio, fiction, poetry, writing on 09/04/2012 at 22:05
I heard yesterday that a poem of mine will be published in an anthology released by Steady Moon Press. In celebration I will share this piece of semi-flash fiction/semi-landscape description called “The Narrow Sea.”
“The Narrow Sea”
Chapin Beach resembled the end of the world—so said Matt Gooding.
The sun-baked beach slanted steeply for a few yards before white sanded molted to a field of barnacle encrusted rocks. Hardly a beach at all. To soldier on seemed foolish, especially barefoot, but a keen eye could trace the flexed arm of sand stretching through the shallows, wound between vast piles of rock, plunging into a tide pool and crawling out the other side like the first trilobite born with legs.
If you persisted along this haphazard path the rocks and crushed molluscs sunk beneath the sand and you could look in any direction but back and see only ocean—it surrounded you, lurking in clean pools, threatening to swallow the sandbars at the slightest suggestion from the moon.
Further out still—where the drowned armor of horseshoe crabs roved like zombies on gentle streams and seabirds congregated around banks of driftwood, where the surf amassed in white wreaths along the shore (a mile from the beach now) and where, above in space, no smart phone satellites hovered—Aleks and Matt pressed their foreheads together and whispered tactics, slapped each other meaningfully on shoulders burned red, then came apart. Read the rest of this entry »
In poetry, writing on 09/03/2012 at 15:04
Poems and songs spill out of me. I never intend to write them. This one is from Friday night.
Envelope and Umbrellas
you talk about fairy godmothers
and discount dresses.
I know a tale as old as time or two
I don’t think everything’s a joke
now you’re rethinking everything
on the couch
gets under your skin:
you say envelopes
but say it like ‘ENvelopes’
so I say ‘envELOPEs’
and you try to leave,
you’re rethinking everything
(but now) we’re laughing,
we’re going to sleep.