Climate’s Change

(via Daily Post, Finite)

 

The flames are always finite,

For they rely on the generous giving of

Others bodies for their warmth.

Eventually they get climatized

To the predatory pity and decide to fade,

Ash to dirty ash, spinning and

Cackling like newborns

As they spin free, dust returned

To dust, so fine it lingers

In your life line and love line

Through each wash, growing darker

And more a part of your skin.

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We Used to Talk

Ponder with me, if you will, 

Those distant cousins who crafted language. 

To emerge, erect and erect from

The shadows, the lack, the before, 

Into the mistakes of Eve. Imagine

The poetry rolling through 

Hills of tongues, fjords of teeth, 

Just to taste it and birth bird song. 

Imagine how the moon conspired

To create romance and lust,

The Sun spawning wonder and the guteral sound of art, 

Doubt oozing out of the swollen snakebite

And the venomous glee in being

The smith of words just to hurt. 

Ponder the creation of song and wails, 

The utterance of a messiah and the horns of Jericho, 

The white horse and death rattle. 

Now, Speak. 

Help Me Name This Poem!

Howdy folks. Quick look into my writing process offered up here. I always write my pieces without titles (or vice versa and create titles without poems) and then try to find a title that sums up the work at the end. This one eludes me. Like, I have no fucking clue what to call it. So, I offer this untitled work to you, and give anyone who reads this the opportunity to give it a name. Until I get your help it will remain nameless and unloved, and it’s my baby. Help me name my wee little baby, wouldn’t you? kthanxbai…

 

Untitled

Garbed in militant wools

and all this black,

rakish smile hidden away

in a back pocket next to a wallet

that’s mostly just symbolic,

we head for that millennial dive bar

hoping the nosebleed seats

lack their usual sweat stains

and sorrowful middle age women

that are so fond of Springsteen,

but hey, they give me free shots

of well whiskey, which serves as a whetstone

for my blade of wit, which

exists to vanquish every friend who approaches

and wants to comment on my physical appearances

like I did it for them, folks

honest enough to admit that the rest of us

are just background, still, their heads shall not roll

because of childhood agreements,

those peace treaties of the past.

As for you, I suppose you could have

stayed home, or crept across the rooftops

and just watched this show of force,

My dirty feet slapping the spilled drink floor

all off tempo and my paws pulling

at the off kilter top on a little countess,

but you make a good alibi,

conversation, and walking stick,

a compass to my heart

and the mask I’ll wear

In the two AM revolution.

Shadow Boxing

A great fear of mine

Resides in the uneven

Angles of light waves

And the subsequent shadow

I cast not being able

To stand up to the ghost

Burns of Hiroshima. What

They have is so forever, etched

Into stone and dancing immortal

In the fire of God’s eyes.

 

My partner flickers.

He grows and shrinks

And hides, never

Showing me as is

Or as possible, but

Simply as an after thought.

 

I took my shadow out to an old

Abandoned limekiln surrounded

By choppy ocean and broad-leaf

Trees and waited until

Sunset. Using the powder

Discarded at the base, I attempted

To trace my shadow into the

Cliffs so he’d finally

Know what he could look

Like at his best.

 

Eager to not be another

Subtitle under sorrowful

Photographs in dusty,

Dull textbooks, my shadow

Left me to the darkness

With chalky hands.

Chalky hands, and the

Incomplete shape of who

I am, or will be, etched

Into stone and dancing immortal

In the breeze of the moon’s hair.

My DNA Test Results Revealed a Lineage of Bad Guys

A snake spirit guards my wooded kingdom,

My naked flesh and apple heart.

Like snow, the leaves have turned the

Ground into a bed, making the same

Screams with each footfall,

The same reminder that no one else has

Crossed my path. My gait is met with

Bowing backs of crooked trees, and

The occasional assassination attempt

By naïve twigs,

 

Perhaps I am Rasputin, shoved back into a

Body with jitterbug legs and a smoking

Habit, excuse me future smoking habit,

That won’t kill me or my black magic,

That stuff I use to bite the hearts of women

And more men, that stuff that leaves cosmic

Fungi in the corners of your room. Consume

It and ejaculate knowledge.

 

In the back alleys of my beard I plot

A secret bonfire, the sort fueled by

The Magna Carta and the dead sea scrolls,

All the better to birth a phoenix companion,

The sky is so lonely and the hawks I hunt

Have all adopted the hoods of falconers,

Opting into servitude just to have something

To rebel against.

 

Entry #16

When school finally started back up, it was with a visible weight on everyone’s shoulders. The hallways were filled with huddled groups discussing Maggie’s attack, and in a special session of homeroom students watched their teachers stumble through lectures on depression, sexual assault, victim blaming, and self-harm. The senior class in particular was targeted by the staff, getting an assembly on underage drinking and consent with a speaker from Washington who was in the AA program. The PA system rang out throughout the day, asking for specific students to come to the office for a brief conversation with the principal.

 

After Halloween weekend, the school had been closed for four days and was getting back into the swing of things on November sixth, which fell on a Friday. Approximately half the student body showed up that day. Noticeably missing were some of the names that were called out over the PA.

 

“Ethan Largo, to the office…”

Continue reading

Entry #14

Ann Marie laid on the bed and browsed Facebook as the warm sonic tones of Maggie singing “All That Jazz” drifted down the hallway. It was a month before the end of summer and most of the pictures on Ann Marie’s newsfeed showed various acquaintances on vacation in sandy places or laying in the sun at the Quentin’s Lake Reservoir, so named for frontiersman Nathaniel Quentin who founded the first trading post in Deercliff in the early 1800s.  Ann Marie scrolled through the newsfeed absentmindedly and then rapidly flipped back up to the top of the page to check her notifications. She had posted a picture of her and Big Mac about three miles up Harris Creek Road at one of the many waterfalls that ran alongside the road where they had stopped to drop a fishing line and enjoy a picnic. She saw that only four people had liked the photo and decided to turn off her phone’s screen and to drop it gracelessly onto her chest. Continue reading

Asking for a Friend

What is one to do when

Their insides, their kosmos,

Their chakra, boils over, leaking

Essential nutrients onto the hot

Coiled salamander of the post

Modern world, what is one to

Do when science and spirituality,

Who were about to kiss

And create alchemy, turn face

Last minute and leave the room

Empty, what is one to do

When every snare, line, and

Plan only bears old boots

And heavy clouds, what is one to

Do when the tide becomes too

Clingy and the moon decides to go

Find itself another planet?