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.


Ostensibly Numb

Natalie Shau

Natalie Shau

I need to believe

That there is something

Inside still salvageable

Some overlooked heart fragment

Still red, ripe, and pumping

Some hint of the original

So that without

Too much embellishment

I can say

I am still myself,

At least the parts

Worthy of presentation.


I thought it was okay to die,

My right to step into the war

And come out again

A hero, in a discreet box

Adorned with some flag.

A picture of you perhaps?

(The one who murders

Has the right to confiscate

My body, having emptied

The suit for deployment)


I have thwarted evolution

My component fibers

Coarse as burlap

Settle in the gut

Like a mutiny

Of bewitched caterpillars

They chew the binding

Of all my diaries

That not a letter arrives

In the order of consignment


My self-improvement efforts

Are much too clinical,

They don’t leave much space

For living, only doing

And I’ve done enough

To earn the title of Sisyphus.

A visit to the anesthesiologist

Will keep me ostensibly numb

Numb as a glacier passing

From ship to ship,

An eviscerating tower

Unalterable in its contacts


The less we know

The more encompassing

The excuse

I live to pilfer

If you possess it

Why shouldn’t I?

And if I am you

Than I’ve no reason

To acknowledge my roots

Those obscene snares

Which remind me

Of the refuse

From which I rose


No I’d rather be you

That I can remain pristine

A Goddess, infallible,

Untouchable, reduced to ash

In the eyes of unscrupulous mortals

Yes I’d rather be death

In a human disguise


x2-simon-siwakArt By: Simon Siwalk

Chimney smoke

And arctic currents

Synthesize obsidian

My days are black

And superficial

Too many veils

Have blinded

My sense

Of responsibility


The ego

Is my greatest

Magic trick

An interloper

Who stands outside

Of its manifestations

An impetus whose

Undercurrent swallows

The very surface

On which it stands


I am a virtuoso

Of nothing

The ammunition

For a weapon

Centuries before its time

The final sacrifice

In a string

Of incomprehensible scars


As you know I’ve had a lot of seizures, today as well. So this poem comes to your curtsey my subconscious.  My mind is like a big black oozing void and my hands just blindly type


adrian bordaArt By: Adrian Borda

We as man,

Pay deference

To insensate machines

And through imitation

We as man become

That which we beseech


Atop funereal clouds

We regress

Unable to fathom

The depth

Of our earth

Scarring beneath

Of what use

Is prevention

When I live now


Such is the attitude

Of a man

Whose comprehension

Of poverty lies only

In the delay

Of a quenchless greed



My hands

Have become worn

Reverting paper into pith.

My heart woke

With a requiem.,

Silver and spiritless.

Underneath the Bodhi tree

I find neither epiphany

Nor inveiglement.


Today is still

And with heavy eyes

I consume in silence

The exhaust

Of countless

Defeated sighs.

In the next inhalation

A star will find, within me,

Some distant ancestor

But for now

I am without whim


I’ll save my wishes

For another day

A day of turmoil

A day when the ink

Spills motley and riotous

In the articulation

Of carefully

Arranged winds

Tomorrow I’ll be

Jackson Pollock



I’ve mapped the stars through inversion

The reflection of a deadlocked pool

Superficially favoring a change of course


This love accumulating over time

Has grown exponentially more exhausting

I suffer from neither contrition nor objection

Only the unshakeable conviction

That “I” as the subject have died


So much of your heart remains uninhabited

Immaculate white rooms with no juxtaposition

We sleep with our backs facing, crepuscular eyes

Seeking truce in a bilateral quarantine


I find you in the belly of false stones

Unable to extract a single door or window

From your departure, the fireplace

Winks knowingly from across the room,

There is no heat left in her body,

Only hypotheticals

Fossilize (Audio)


My heart wears an expression of mute terror

The sort of expression that is inherent in all unsuspecting fossils

Your observations pass over me like an avalanche

Every bone-shattering collision helps to soften my rage

Because unlike my morale gravity is infallible


“Blood dilutes over time”

My heart is an underfed furnace

When in school they used to shove

Firewood vertically down my throat

Now I sit clucking my splinter free tongue

In search of none negotiable rubbish


“Insanity is the display of any emotion

That defies a preexisting ambiance”

Your limp-fisted smile is the height of fashion these days

Like a guitar string that lacks a prerequisite tension

I find your voice cackling in the pursuit of others

When in isolation, I find that your register has risen

One full octave, as if there were a helium leak

In the space directly above your shoulders


I wonder if your eyes have any other orientation

Besides open/closed and if given enough time

Will I be able to force a wink out of you

Or at least an honest to goodness frown





Underneath a grim sky

Fluid with specks of dust

And the rapture of a fertile moon

I wonder will it always be thus?


My face pale and wane

My eyes dull and lifeless like a sharks

A mouth that speaks of trivial things

With a high timid voice

That understands nothing of words


The tender dialect of lovers

Will it ever move past my lips again?

Tiny shards of wisdom

That linger and endow me

With strange enchantments

Will I ever be inspired again?


My hands occupy my time with work

Daily I labor

For nothing in particular

Like a barren woman

Who tracks her ovulation

Even knowing she shall never bare any fruit

I am empty like that woman

And just as insatiable


Each night I fall into consecrated bliss

Yet even my dreams are ashen and uninspired

Silence gives me hope

With its ominous turnings

That both frighten and consume


This poem was Plath inspired and one of the only poems I’ve never edited. Though very old it remains curiously close to my heart. It is one of the only poems I have never hated.