Wordle #270


I kick at your insulation,
at your smile as it fades
into oration.
I would listen to you talk
all night if it would save me
the enunciation
of my own bungling sentiments.

You are not original.
Heel, toe, line
lines flashing,
lines insistent
lines without terminus
or dominion.

Without statement
you are trivial and cold.
A park in the depth of winter.
I adhere to your limits,
so much as they admit me.

You are a terrible mimic.
My rims quiver and itch.
Alone, in a valley
of infinite selves.

My heart flips and fritters.
I am envious of silence,
of open spaces,
of transience
and all who appear
inevitably before me.

If only I could tolerate myself
long enough to become someone else.

I am really struggling to express myself at the moment. My anxiety has been particularly high lately.


Wordle #257


The warmth leaves my fingers,
as if it were laughter.
What is this nothing
into which I empty
my wit daily?

The bird in my breast
grows fat on a quilt of stars.
Who dares make a wish
when the twinkle has fallen
from my eye?

Let me weep in abject silence,
salt is the sole spice in my repertoire.
If only I could lift the music
from these moonstruck pages
that alone would suffice.

How can I claim reason
in this habitual state of shock?
A sigh is the heaviest
of all sentiments,
when I reach the bottom
I promise only to dig.

Wordle #259


My fingers twist,
a plait of moonlight,
a page grilling in an open fire.

My flowerless family
does not sing to me
and if I could I would remember everything,
remember the pain until
it ceased to grieve me.

A train bellows in the distance
shaking loose my bones
and in my heart I run alongside it,
unfettered and certain of what
it means to cross the finish line.

I did not ask for this
but with my very own heart
I have fashioned each response.
I have often been mistaken
but to revisit those check points again
would only spoil the life
I have come so desperately to love.

We are never okay,
but that in itself is alright,
who wants to stand on ceremony?
To be is to cease,
one must become again and again
until there is nothing left
but to advance.

Wordle #119 “July 25th, 2016”

Week 119

My words fidget-
a resonance so shrill
it continuously escapes me-
like damselflies careening
over bitter pools.

My heart is a skiff
chasing storm-tinctured skylines.
Its vacancies easily doused
I fight for breath underwater.

I have a knack for anechdoche,
for transmigration but wherever I go
it is to that same backlit frame that I return,
a motherless fetus exhumed.

The damage is mostly internal.
Eternal, I propagate my faults
though the addition
only serves to diminish.

Where do I even begin. I am having trouble facing certain realities/situations and I have sort of shut down emotionally which is making writing difficult. Also because I have been writing less frequently I am feeling uncertain and out of sync.

Wordle #25o


No one wants to be selfish
it’s just a consequence of loneliness.
I stir and stew, eyes woven,
knuckles drawn like a veil.
Every other word is “no”
there’s no compromise at all.

I am a serpent, a road
undulant and without map.
As defiled as the swastika,
no news leads to interpretation
and I’ve reason enough to rant.

Your heart is only for show,
I stroke my memories
through the aftershock
a shell entranced by the peeling patterns
of my recumbent cell.
The moon never leaves my side.

I wrestle your mass,
your mighty inertia
silencing my retreat.
We do not flow
but stick together,
two sheets sweated through.

Your name arrests me,
a chant grating to the ear.
I hate you every bit as much
as I love you, perhaps a little more.
I’ve blocked all the exits,
your leavenings left to lie.

The word swastika comes from the Sanskrit svastika, which means “good fortune” or “well-being.” The motif (a hooked cross) appears to have first been used in Neolithic Eurasia, perhaps representing the movement of the sun through the sky. To this day it is a sacred symbol in Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Odinism. After WW2 we came to, at least in the West, associate the symbol with terror and genocide. That is what I meant by “as defiled as swastika”

Needle’s Eye

When did I become me?

Was I born obsolete?

To what end do I furnish these rooms

they are only closets

keyholes by which my bones are passed.

I have such an impossible heart

it goes up like a balloon and at the very apex

crashes with the weight of mountains.

She is discord, she is fruitless

a mother wounding babies

and such a mother is not fit.

If only I were outlandish,

substance-less, ornamentation

then it would not hurt so much.

Each breath, an onslaught,

a firing squad, a punishment.

I was not made to last.

I hold out until morning

chugging the aurora,

the stars so contentious

in departure

my soul a scintilla,

a needle’s eye view

of memories unbending.

I am sick possibly delirious that has nothing to do with the subject of the poem I am just making conversation. I had work today too and a fever the whole time but I am afraid to miss any days in my trial period (my own craziness). Tomorrow or actually today because this will come to you on the 22nd is my 16th anniversary!

Wordle #236


I trace the roses wrapped

around your throat,

signs and thorns tumbling

from your blood-ripened lips.

How could I live without your flair?

Your beautiful right brain spasms

between euphoria and melancholy,

I would follow you anywhere.

We line our drinks up by the bridge,

it would be so easy to fall

but I can think of no meaning

in death that life does not better serve.

You hold me so tight

there’s never breath enough to spare.

My impulses frighten you,

my pale, ambivalent face rising over

you each morning like a nascent spell.

I always go into panic mode the day after something important. I am just scared and full of doubt hence struggling to write and the iffy poem.

Wordle #229 and Magpie Tales #298

playground getty

My voice has the power to disembowel

and I have used her, at times, as a weapon

though she has never served to avenge me.

The mass of your web impinges

upon my meager thread and we grow together,

spinning until our seams match.

The vertigo of my youth fills me with weeping

and I can think of nothing that would

account for this shrill blue sky and my terrible feelings.

Being blind for the people, by the people

I agree to adhere to the madness we have collectively chosen

though I do not know why I have chosen it

when I fought so long and hard against it.

My heart insists that there has been a betrayal,

that I am not fit to govern her though she is forever

in my keeping. She collides with me like a drum,

membranes drooling, I have denied her everything.

She wants space but I cannot give it to her.

Sometimes I remember myself as a child

and I wonder if perhaps we liked each other more

but in reality we liked each other less.

Until I am safe I imagine it is better not to feel.

We are never safe and I continue to feel

with fanatical precision all that is on offer.




As my heart shrinks

so does my tolerance for charades.

I want only the truth

even if the truth disappoints me.

Everyone has a spark,

a moment when ignition

transports their seldom-sought

muse into another plain

of seldom-sought, heroically-induced

bliss but most of the time

we chase and inflate our egos

looking for a way to apply

our genitals while maintaining

every conceivable form of anonymous.

My horns drip with the blood

of my adversaries, scores

of green-tongued deviants

scorching their way through

my disheveled veins.

Medication doesn’t slow time.

I sit watching the trains

charge blindly into a hemorrhagic skyline

my thoughts twitching down to powder.

I’ve lost interest in everyday happenings

and all that being human pertains to.

This weekend I am painting my living room so I might be unavailable and unable to post.


Once upon time,

Is the color dreams

Develop on ripening.

My world is concave,

No longer small

But steadily inverting.

I think I would look

Better if I were inside out

Then you’d see

How deep my convictions run.

Perfection is an illusion

Favored in hindsight.

All this wanting, all this looking

And still nothing achieved.

How does one fill a hole

That isn’t there?

I am paper, I absorb

The realities imposed on me,

The contradictions

The fallacies labored

And satisfied at the expense

Of my gravel-ridden soul.

I have no questions for you

Only accusations and even they

Are mostly self-inflicted.