Boot Print

The infertile sky

carries on for miles and miles

black as a fiend’s tongue.


All that I have left

is the outline of your boot

pressed against my chest.


For now I will not

wash it off, for it must serve

in place of my heart.


Wordle #42

Wordle 42 Jan. 5

Your erection haunts me

Stalks the avenues of my brain

Entirely out of context.

A bar of soap rides my flesh,

A jackal wept of too much blood.

I swirl hostage on the tiles

The arch of my foot

A mussel’s geying smirk.


I will never be a mariposa,

A unison of dubious flair

For I am alone

A pseudo mollusk

A cable that writhes

Of Zeus’s featureless touch.

The gravel in my hand

Is what remains of your teeth

Of you sickly sweet smile.

Never again a paperweight

Never again the proxy.

That I should not be loved

Never escapes recommendation.


Unrelated to the poem

I received my class schedule it is extremely irregular, each day is different and I am not sure how to plan my days. I am entirely overwhelmed there is so much down time on the bus/waiting for the bus and I am not sure how to use it in a really efficient way. I can’t use it for my blog because I have no idea how to use my cellphone yet (I can’t even write a text, it is a rocket ship compared to the previous). I am thinking of studying but I am not sure if I can do written work. The teacher is obnoxious and it is a much larger class then expected. I am stressed!




The Mind Freak Circus By OrmHuz

OrmHuz@Deviant Art

The pauses in our conversations,

Unraveled, could circumnavigate

The globe again and again

As if a needle in a groove

So oft revisited that it stutters.

We’ve grown apart

But the stitches do not give

A hem of scars like a constellation

Of indistinct faces.


The silence is extravagant

Like the howl of a coyote

A stigmata wrapped in eyelashes

A dusty jewel, cold as a corpse’s tears

The betrayal of your footsteps

As you pass from my boundaries

And cross illicitly into hers.


Your fingers reflect

Against my flesh

Like blades of lightening

There is no reverence

In their application.

My womb is full of splinters

Of your wooden sperm

Delivered at intervals

And from a distance

Not reflected

By our mixed filaments.


I trace your smiling mouth

And wonder if the picture

Was taken upside down

By mistake

Because I don’t remember

Your lips ever reaching

That altitude.


Our misery has a longevity

Worthy of distinction

So long has she prowled

Flanked by our bones

And incessant for want

Of tenderness

We no longer exist

Without her

We are the exception

Not she,

She is the tigress, the star

Of this unmanned circus


I have been doing a lot rewrites lately and that is largely because I am hard at work on my second book “The Necessity of Flowers”. Like my first book I am aiming for 100 poems. Right now I have 81 poems (there are more than enough poems on my blog of course but there is so much on my blog that it takes a while to sort). Melanie is away (for happy reasons) so I am not sure if I will have to find another editor.

Wordle #2 Darker


Tomoki Hayasaka

There is only this moment

Headlights and horns blaring

Moonskin eyes sere and cavernous

Knuckles tense and gutless

Like the womb of a prepared fish


The scarf around my neck

Sticks in the axle of your left wheel

That queer oscillating grimace

Vital to the propulsion

Of your defecting asylum


We gather feathers and rifts

Powered Juniper wishes

Which disintegrate between

Our intimating and indulgent lips


Why must we speak of misery

As if a sacred elixir brewed

By our ancestors and given in infancy?

As if it were the primary ingredient

Of our cellular composition

Like hemoglobin only darker 




There exists

No greater fear

Then vacancy

What if

My ineptitude

Stemmed not

From inexperience

But from a lack

Of content?


You told me once

That my vocabulary

Was too big

To justify

That all love

Was a form of





A resident heart




What right

Did I have

To speak

Of happiness

When I knew

So little of her

What right

Did I have

To speak

Of moments

Not yet defiled

By a captious brain

When they stood

So few and far



That was the day

I put aside my pen

The day

That I decided


That I was nothing

I lacked

The confidence

To redeem myself

So I hid


I drank of hemlock

And in agony

My soul from eyes


Hence forth

I reside internal

Hence forth

A Judas

To my muse


I was inspired to write this after speaking to Bianca. Many many years ago before I had a blog when my poems were selectively and seldomly shared I received a critique that would stop me from writing for years. I had a friend I shared my poetry with regularly and for many years he was a great supporter of my work. Then one day I decided to write something quite different from my usual fare. I was quite excited about it because I felt that the only way for me to grow was to push myself out of my comfort zone and take on new challenges. He HATED the poem. His criticism went from the poem, to my worth as a human being. For several hours he questioned the very foundation of my beliefs, he said I was a phony. He did not like that I used vocabulary he was not familiar with and he felt that the poem was cliched and lacked emotional depth which led him to the conclusion that if I wrote it I was equally superficial. He’d read countless poems of mine before and had never criticized them for being superficial so I am not sure what led him to believe that in one day I had transformed into another person but that is precisely what he did believe. He truly believed I was a traitor. A person of depth was never happy and never could be happy that was the burden of genius madness and misery. I had fallen. The critique really hurt me because not only did our friendship take a blow from which it never recovered (he does not read any of my poems now and rarely talks to me) but it hit on my biggest fear, the fear that I had no emotional depth. All through my childhood I had been accused of being insensitive, cold, and emotionless. What if everything I wrote was cliché? Vacuous? What if I had no substance? No soul? Without substance I had no worth. I stopped writing for years. I tried but my confidence was destroyed I did not want to write pretty poems, I wanted to write meaningful poems. Everything I wrote seemed so empty. It was a very long time before I took the criticism and used it to strengthen my resolve as a writer. I hardly remember the years I didn’t write I became very withdrawn. I offer my poems to a much larger audience now as part of a resolve to be fearless at least where writing is concerned.

Painted Dragon


She could’ve been beautiful

But the makeup on her face

Amplified every imperfection

Made her seem unreal

Like a slipshod animation


We talked for hours

About philosophies

Too convoluted to consume

About ambitions

And the despair

That shapes realities

She would have sacrificed

Everything for the stage,

Instead, on her knees

Choking down creation


I find myself standing

On the same corner

Night after night


To the instincts

Of inhuman men

Selling pieces of my soul

For the abstractions

Of a primed syringe


We bought

An apartment together

On the lower end

No furniture or food

Only conversation,

The sustenance of fools

I remember

The hours piled upon hours

Of words so casually strewn

I remember

The weight of her shrinking skin

Defenseless beneath

The weight

Of our transient bones

I remember

Watching her fall


Into addiction

My spirit too weak

To stall the descent


I opened the door

To find her on the toilet

In my sagging robe

Hair unwashed

Body slouching lifeless

Against a tiled wall

And neither my hands

Nor my breath

Could draw her back

From the widowing shawl

Of a commiserating death


I couldn’t stop screaming

I love you

Until my voice was gone

And I had to mouth

The words instead

I wish I’d told her

When I had the chance

When she was crying

For hours on end

When she was screaming

I’m better off dead

When she hated me

For getting in the way

And herself more

For what she’d become

Those words never

Hurt so much

As when unsaid

I wished I’d screamed them at her

Over and over again

Until she went deaf

So no other words could ever enter

And cause her pain again


Now I am standing

In her place

On a modest stage

A modest crowd genuflecting

As I start to play

And whisper the lyrics she left me

I imagine her in my place

Squeezing the microphone

Lips as round and full

As an orgasm


Here I stand claiming

What time could not

From my heart cleanse

In her place

Picking up the dreams

That she left


This together with Paper Heart is the remnants of a novel abandoned and lost long ago. Paper Heart was written from the female’s perspective and Painted Dragon from the male’s perspective. I’ve done extensive editing of this poem over the years but I’ve never been satisfied by my efforts.