I lick concrete, the rut

Of your inconceivable footprint.

We are ancient as the stars themselves,

We are weary of spinning gold into fire.

Winter is for shedding sentimentality.

I thread my cold fingers around his heart

He endures, he adores, he is a superstition

Imposed and dispossessed.

I write my poems in the dark,

Whomever the muse, it’s always my blood

Supplying the ink.

Predestine is the default

Of the uninspired.

I stroke my erections with

The knife’s scheming edge.

Life means courting the reaper

With an open-fist.

I twirl my hair into dirty alphabets.

Apprehension is the only faith I preach.

Greys blossom into purple and vermillion.

I am alive, in a manner of speaking,

But beyond the technical there is

Very little that I or anyone else can say.

My only chair faces the window.

I shuck paper dolls, shavings of soul

Mixed with December’s unending treads.

Is it true that we are born clean?

When I post I never know what publishing interface is going to appear. Why are there 3 different ones? This has nothing to do with my poem, it was simply curiosity. You may have noticed before but gender/sex means nothing in my poetry I could be a boy, a girl, or both.


Writing Prompt #132 “Collage 10″

Collage 10

Bottom Left: Rossatty

It wasn’t my heart that was confused

But the stars themselves

Queer and dead what hope

Was there that our love would flourish?

We used to take the Ferris Wheel

In place of the stairs,

Riding high on the morphic sheen

Of our subliminal expectations.

We used to fashion satellites of paper

Letting them drift, aimless

From our open palms to the floor.

Do you remember the rocks

At the bottom of our fish tank?

The contracts and confabulations

That we used to crack open our bones

That we could drink from

The marrow of our being?

I remember tearing

Your still frantic body

From the gutter where it lay

Adjusting to the cataclysm

Of an ill-acquired wish.

I remember but it would be,

Better surely, if I could forget.

A quick write today. My birthday is today so I will likely be busy and unavailable a good portion of the day.


The human heart holds the capacity

To embellish all modicums of being.

Angel, monster, what a terror you are

Always looking into my closeted spaces

Always tasting, always thinking.

My god, how I love you

And with such compelling stupidity.

I thought surely that much would penetrate

Only it never has for you hold so firmly to your hatred

That no other opinion can be considered.

You misunderstand me when you assign motives

To what are merely gestures of affection.

How is it that motives are permissible in court?

Milky hypotheses that add little more than grief,

There is nothing typical about my contents.

The heart softens under fire,

Like a candle,

Primitive filaments

Reshape themselves each night

Only to turn brittle on cooling.

When I express myself,

It will not be done with mediocrity.

There can be no excuse

So encompassing that it could

Explain justly my actions.

Sometimes there’s no reason,

Sometimes feelings arise spontaneously

Ramifying nimbi, watermarks

Semi-transparent stains devaluing,

The objects they are designed to secure.

having a rough time with Depression right now

Poetry Prompt 21 – Overwhelm

Her eyes are spades

Harvesting, fractures of obsidian

Bloodless, shapeless

Without mourning.

They bury deeper

What they cannot find

And taste whatever they can.

Of what use could a soul be?

Fingers like worms inundating,

A flood of untapped

And untethered insight.

A swamp of infinitesimal desires

Notices, delays, cumbersome meetings

And then without warning, loss.

A miasma, this love that cannot be.

A miasma, this rage that does not cease.

I will not surrender to the flesh

To defenseless musings, to engulfment

Of what use could a heart be?


Didn’t end up with a ballad in the end though I did read the description and I did have my rhyming dictionary ready to go. This is a work of fiction. The contradictory vocabulary in the poem “a swamp of infinitesimal desires” is to indicate the denial and resistance of the male character even though he has already been caught. To indicate how all these seemingly small, seemingly innocuous things are building and building into something ultimately inescapable.

Wordle #113


Her giggle shatters in my wake

Scoops the moonshine

From its anguished cage

And sends it chattering into

A blustering, cinereous sky.

My sides split and crazy cuts it way

Through the caves inside my head.

Common sense does not exist

When held under such a fearful load.

What a farce it all is?!

If there is anything I can take away

It is this never trust a smiling woman.


Short, silly, and a bit nonsensical. A lot of social anxiety today. I can’t tell you how frustrating it is (actually maybe I can because I wager some of you know already) to have the words fall apart as soon as they leave your mouth. I am humbled everyday by my blundering idiocy.

Wordle #117


My conscience mills away the seconds

The frail, incomprehensible notes

Of loneliness occupying my mistakes.

I am sick, undetectable, on the precipice

Of translating your meaning in chasm.

Friends do not leave fetters

Where hearts are fated to rest.

They do not peel back tears

Only to inscribe fresh ones

At the first show of togetherness.

They do not offer you piecemeal

In order to garnish something false

And festering within themselves.

No, no it is not I that you betray

But yourself and all that was ever

Worth the validation sought.

There are no labs within which we may

Reconstruct our former selves,

There is perhaps forgiveness

But even that cannot justify reunion.

Wordle #118


The night repairs my longing

Restoring tears and keys

Driven from orbit

In the becomings of day.

My thoughts stumble

Through mesh and chiffon

A single no could shred

The nerves conducting my efforts.

If only I could think myself beyond

These sloppy, insidious walls

Beyond the slate of machined ideals

And personal inoculations

Beyond time and caricature.


The whole family is at home together sick (the poem has nothing to do with this comment)

If You See Mara

Even my bones are red.

I am full of apostrophes

And irrational yearnings

But I am still meager

Not for want but for the shame of being.

Regret is a dish of starvation,

I wane even as I consume.

For every encounter there exists

An existential debate.

What have I done and to what end?

Why do my pieces fall wherever my feet attend?

Is Narcissism really the opposite of self-loathing

Since they both condemn a man to preoccupation?

And doesn’t any man who recognizes himself

In the mien of another lash out in self-preservation?

My demons occupy their smiles,

My blood their throats.

Paper dreams remain stationary

However, pronounced the creases.

There is dignity in the effort it takes to lose

In the addition of heart into any occupation.

Nothing lasts as long as a scar

It can be passed through generations,

It can slip into the backs of others like a shiv.

If you see Mara in passing say hello

But do not linger in conversation.

Wordle #72

Week 72

I pour from the lips

Of a dwindling bonfire,

Hair catching on ash

And dragon teeth.

Once held nothing

Escapes my heart,

Unmarked vessel,


I pick splinters from

Trickling knees

And contemplate

The bastards both

Piqued and imagined.

A world emptied

By a tenacious wind


My myriad fractures.

My eyes track the shadows

Pinioned inside,

The liminal shards

Of my untethered mind.

I rip the sleeves

From my favorite shirt

Plug the holes

In my leaking chest.

Demons glimpsed

In a hallway mirror

Bulge behind

My wallowing eyes.


I swallow my feelings

With a glass of salt.