Category: Poetry

The Boy Made of Silk and Fire

You couldn’t tell, From the way he pushed his eyes down From the way he bruised his heels on the rocks From the way he flinched at her call, But that boy was brave. Brave to the core, Brave at a hotter temperature than most– Brave to the point of bursting And brave to the edge of silence. He knew–he thought he know–his braveness … Read More The Boy Made of Silk and Fire

How Good It Is

How good it is to have a place To lay my head down and take off my shoes To soap myself down at least once a day Or twice if I so choose. How good it is to have a book To read at night and out in the garden And this cup of tea that I brewed for me Thrown into the bargain. … Read More How Good It Is

Jakarta Day One

I have ventured outside today, Outside of my new cave of wonders Of safety of now familiar smells Which I have painstakingly applied During the last shower. Perhaps sitting out here Cross legged and bare shod, Out here in the breeze and thick air Will be the bravest thing I do today. For me that is good— Perhaps not enough, but still good. This … Read More Jakarta Day One

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Blankets

  Blanket me in all the vitamin D you can muster And never ask me to cease my swallowing– Never tell me to open my eyes Never tell me to get in the car Never tell me it’s time to go Never tell me to go on home. Instead let me swallow that I may glow And this radiance might someday– If you too … Read More Blankets

My World is an Escalator

  The man above me on this escalator Is wearing a hat that matches The purple flashing walls which Soar around us. He looks nervous, Almost, His expression reads, “My backpack is too tight on my arms And everybody around me can see” But that’s not what I notice About this hatted man– That’s not what I see. I glance at the ticket clutched … Read More My World is an Escalator

Thinking More in Poetry than Prose

  I find, these days, That I think more in poetry than prose. Mostly chaotic, unrhymed, unmetered strands of theme Mostly revolving around the disheveled interior I find myself carting around These days. It’s hard, these days, To get through a conversation Without longing to rush for my yellow notebook Without writing down some sort of ecstatic poem On the feebleness of time. Even  … Read More Thinking More in Poetry than Prose

The Non-Conformist Book Club

  What are the requirements for nonconformity? Why, it’s simple really: First, you should join the club Of individuals who practice Nonconformity together as one. Then you must get a tattoo, The location of which Is entirely up to you. This will showcase your dedication To individuality and nonconformity. For design ideas and tattooist recommendations Please consult the guidebook below Or ask your fellow … Read More The Non-Conformist Book Club

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Go Get Lost

  I stare at the ticket in my hand And the backpack at my feet And I think to myself: I don’t go to find a job Or begin my career— That can come later, perhaps Whatever that might be. Instead I go to lose myself– And to find truth. To soften parts of me I didn’t realize Weren’t bone. The reader brings his … Read More Go Get Lost

Let Me Be Frank

  Let me be Frank. Or Ernest— It doesn’t matter who, exactly, Just let me be someone other than This individual me Who seems to have no end to the spout of rambling Circles which sundance around my soul and up and out my eyes With no end to the internal commotion and no regard for the inner turmoil With which the endless stream … Read More Let Me Be Frank

Not Going Anywhere

  I’ll gladly leave If only you teach me how to play jazz. How to spray-tan This bluesy vibe With melodramatic magnificence and other methods I don’t understand. Teach me the staccato kick Of the jagged edge The ticker and patter of which Imports a flutter into this torpor Too terrific to strip. How can I loom like you do— Blooming and bulging over … Read More Not Going Anywhere

I Realize

  My finger jiggles as I press the door bell, my arms full of time-goblins like homemade apple pie and more cookies than ever necessary. They answer the door drinking red wine, eating celery wearing no hint of velvet— unlike me— and I realize quite quickly that people don’t ring the doorbell at these kinds of things. Nor, do they seem, to eat cookies. … Read More I Realize

Happy Birthday Douglas Adams

There is, for some reason, Something especially grim About the nature of plastic cutlery, Pocket books of poetry, Portugal on a Tuesday, And the wind chimes on the porch When you’ve distinctly called For their resignation. It’s out of sorts to believe You can solve these problems With only a broiled potato. The truth of it is Lots of people are mean, Including those … Read More Happy Birthday Douglas Adams