Category: Poetry

Maybe One Day I’ll Earn My Own Plum Sweatsuit

  A pint of strawberry stems sits plastic and dull on the bench in New Lynn. We share the space; least I could do.

Adding What I Find

  When I signed up for this, I was told it was my soul on the line; that to do nothing was as good as having nothing to do: and that was unfathomable.

Dissonance

  Warm summer eases against my skin, a kitten, pawing for affection, pawing for attention—the grass beside me is envelope haven and the wind, which raises my hair in caress, is a friend, it sings, only ever friend. But I find myself resolute: tight-lipped arms-crossed brow-fixed sat, shiftless, in the midst of murk determined, sort of, to sift through the mist but not sure … Read More Dissonance

The Vagabond Muse

  This is what I talk about when I talk about the wandering vagabond muse: truly truly the difference between “getting” and going that of “seeming” and being that between “rare” and raw. The wanderer, alit with the muse of equitable bliss rarely gets anywhere. Instead opts for the slow methodical languid locomotion of going. Going where? Going here. Perchance there. Going anywhere, and … Read More The Vagabond Muse

+

Staple Tales

  The inefficient stapler, what with its effeminate undertones, emasculates the opposition into petty submission to do its bidding til the end of time. Inefficient? It asks itself as it gazes with lust into the hallway mirror. Hardly. Subtle swagger lights up steel hips and the stapler sways back to its black hole.

Legacy and Longing

  By the passed humanity, whose active progeny is the heart beat rocking my sense of soul—as I clutch the leather-bound covers of Burroughs, of Whitman, di Prima and Ginsberg, in the soft lamp night, rain shadows wrapped against windows, me, folded into fresh sheets, with a cup of tea; hungry, Alive, washed, I sing— and selfish do I less than pause before the … Read More Legacy and Longing

Solitude

  Solitude is a bridge. I clutch the railing and can see a panorama of worlds— the ancient child the youthful vigilante the compliant adult the manifested— I, on my bridge, pad about in the middle. Well: not in the middle; I’m removed from it all,

Under a Tree (in the Rain)

  If you could see, right now, this piece of notebook paper upon which I write, you would know practically the whole story. The ink smudge bullet holes would be enough and you, in your intelligence, wouldn’t need the sight of my speckling jeans to know that, now: it’s raining.

Tendrils

  Tendrils of time hang loose sloped dampened a bit by misconception recollections the sorts of stories recounted in dreams and spread like gospel bonfire. I should not like to entwine with those loose hung tendrils of sticky time.

We, Like Water

  We, like water, like water under a cloud sky, so evenly lit, illuminate— our flow, our companionship immeasurable pleasing intersections we just as soon leave but recall.

+

Hunger

  —500 meters : Mountain cafe!— You cook dinner with your old apron on the one that still has blood from my tooth you yanked two years ago —400 meters : pony rides!— Yeah Jazz is on which is cool but more than that is me: who is dancing wait, not just dancing but DANCING —300 meters : real crystals! —

Gazing

  Tiny tricks of vintage blues I tear the streetlamp from the roots and gesture upwards, past my brow to skies unlit by fire towers. Trigger tails of unmatched hue I sit in silence open mouthed as mesmerized by ticking time as tree leaf branches’ ending chime.