Wordle #260


I sweep your boiling shadows
into my fury, into shrunken parks
with swarms of confectionery crows
and chain-link fences far as the eye can see.

I watch you shimmering,
ripping me open like a wound.
My blood rises to meet
your kiss, black with exertion
and the deceptions
I have been made to swallow.

I have such terrible dreams,
such terrible inclinations.
I turn and turn,
but for every passage
there is another wall
twice as thick.

Your eyes search me as a storm
stripping me of everything
save my crucifixions.

I watch you rippling
your careless eruptions
castrating my silence.

What is this illness
that shores me up
and plucks the sutures
from my seams?
Is this love?

Who is this woman-
her features pleated as a lampshade-
peering past every reflection?
Is she the avatar
of a querulous soul?
Is she me sick with excuses?

Glass House


I dance this path

Of fire with you


By the failings

Of an incurable youth


Though the heart

Is pliant

My bones do not

Forgive trespass

An unmade bed

Would betray

My animal instincts

So we lie

Captive in the rage

Of a muzzled spine


From your sharpened tongue

I gather defect

These excuses

Like bread crumbs

Drive me back

To this house

Of dangerous angles

This one is 5 years old and from the catacombs of my blog. I am preparing poems for submission to The Newyorker at the moment =)


Wordle #48 “Insecure”

Wordle 48 Feb. 16

Alliances rarely survive shifts in altitude.
If I succeed in the culmination of our vision
Then there is sure to be a crevice
Sufficient to justify your failings.


For every plunge I was there,
The chime of reason
A bridge to vanquish insurmountable odds
Perhaps I helped too much,
A leather whip may have served
A more compassionate cue.


Once I straddled your heart,
Its only willing occupant.
I allowed for the mastication
Of my grievances, swallowing all doubt
That you might not combust under critique.
My belief, the sort that only,
A hallucination could induce.


I never left though you look for me
As one who has lost everything.
I never left and still you trundle
Futile, in your paranoid renderings
Perhaps my love is too discreet
To account for your insecurities.


I am looking at my tendency to make excuses, the strange and inevitable rifts in identity that occur in mental illness. The seeming loss of innocence. the disconnect from reality, the raging insecurities. I am not completely satisfied with this one I think it is the flow or wording.


On another note it looks like I was given the wrong form *pulls out hair*

Submission for


Fault Finding

Black and White Poppy

From the bowels, a profusion

Of butterflies stirs

Their blundering flight

Announces your intrusion

And the feast that was within me

Will not serve as a barrier.

I have only to wait you out

Soon enough you will leave

But not before I die unconditionally.


A wake of vultures

Holds service in my heart,

The frenzied assimilation

Of your unwelcome presence

And a penitence that I must now attend.

I am tired of hating myself,

Of your eyes scouring

Of the rotten breath

Of the hysterical laughter

That forfeits humor

And I am tired of the advice

Of the meticulously applied faults

Which were never mine to assume.


A mirage, a clinical, self-soothing, oasis

The glass here has not been fashioned.

Each grain, a leech, an undulant minion

Endeavoring to empty me of all substance

Baring so many constituents I cannot but mirror

It is not me that you hate, it is your own failings

Which I reflect faithfully

Even though I have no words to define you

Only a dictionary rife with excuses.