Some Poetry

Some Poetry

I wrote you some poems. I'll keep them here for you.

All writing contained in this blog is my own original work unless otherwise stated.

Copyright © 2012 - 2014

The crisscrossing cracks in the paint
A path like veins
The walls are breathing
Always a little less
On the exhale
Than the inhale
The lights dim
With age
All the dust settling
The vibrance of young eyes
A victim of stillness
And fading
Blinking a prayer
It careful code

Sweet apples

Sweet apples

I will walk your silken road
I will brave your heat
Navigate your rough terrain
Evade your brazen thieves
I will walk your silken road
Toe the line ‘tween civilized
And otherwise
A place find no friends
Where the known ends
And the rest begins
I will walk your silken road
Guard closely all I own
All I’ll ever know -
I wish you knew
I will guard my fragile throat
I will never think of home
I will walk your silken road

How much idealistic banter does it take to make a good person?

It was Autumn

It was autumn and I was desperately searching for a sharp edge
Upon which to repeatedly bash my head but
The edges had all been covered in impact-absorbent foam
And labeled with warnings
And drawings of stick figures
Bashing their heads against sharp edges
Their silhouette brains all dripping and collecting
Into iridescent puddles at their feet -
It was autumn and I was searching for a gunman
With which to duel –
My pistol
Empty but
Threatening enough when help up
Against my menacing grin but
All the good gunmen
Have been rounded up and abandoned
In prison cells and deserts
And efficiently-lit government buildings so
I’ve been standing here for days now
Never being shot but
Proving to be a great menace
To any in my immediate vicinity -
When the innocent bystanders became too numerous to ignore
I picked my pants up from the floor
And staggered to the nearest exit
It is autumn and I am incessantly prodding an unidentified beast
Which could easily be mistaken for deceased
If not for the low-frequency rumbling of the ground
From its breath but
There is no stick sharp enough for its ribs,
No amount of fur I could grasp in a fist
And rip from his skin
That might make him wake
The oven is electric and the car drives itself
And the wall receptacles
Are all GFCI


I might stop
Running aground and
Into giant rocks
If I rethought
My navigational tools
Followed the rules
Of those who first
Charted these paths
I might
Make my way back
Home and evade harm
If I followed their course
Not the maps
Drawn in the skin
Of my arms
These little blue roads
Never lead to the start
Always following their winds
I only ever find
The hollows
My heart


And somewhat fitting
The sense
The feeling
Of flight
In falling -
You sent me
All airplane arms,
My heart -
Six inches higher
In my chest,
My terminal

Now this is me
At zero g -
Pull the bottom out
Watch me soar

Want in one hand

I wanna be a brick
Thrown through your window
And landing at your feet
In surrender
In substance
Heavy and rough on the surface,
But strapped with a note
Paper, twine
I want to be a message,
Fewer than ten words and
To the point

I wanna be
I want to be
I’m gonna be
I am going to be
A Molotov,
Flying through your windows
Bursting on your doorstep
Igniting your curtains
Your entrances,
A message in a bottle,
Evidence at
Proof -
An unimportant number of words -
To the point

Lay me in the tall grass,
Lay me in the morning dew,
My wild lover,
Gentle kiss
Let these clouds part
Carry me through
Moon and star,
All of all
And I

The poetry doesn’t always have to bleed,
Let it bloom
Let it grow its roots deep into your soul,
Let its trunk sprout from your chest
Let it reach into the sky
Stretch its arms 
Wide - 
And hang a tire-swing from one of its wrists
But don’t cut it,
The wrists,
The poetry doesn’t always have to bleed
See - 
Just because you’re writing in blood
Doesn’t mean you can’t write of love,
Of wonder
Of yesterday’s sunset - 
Of tomorrow’s sunrise
Not the cigarette smoldering in your mind’s eye
Not the incessant reliving of your dark times
When your spark died
And you cried yourself to a sleep
From which you never woke - 
I know,
And ever since you’ve spoken
In this senseless muttering
I know it’s a dream
I’m on the outside
Of your eyelids
On the greener side
Of my fence
And my friend
The poetry
Doesn’t always
Have to bleed

Press and dip
Into you
Am searching for the hollows
I know they are there I can hear them growling
With hungers that cannot be put into words
And I guess that explains it
The growling,
The hollows
The places where I would hide if you would let me
You see,
I’ve been searching while you sleep
Making notes of approximated distances
Scribbling onto the walls like a madman
Volumetric equations of contrived variables
The solutions to which
I press against myself until,
Once pulled away,
I can still read their impressions in my flesh
Subtracting the worth from the value
And dividing myself
By the difference

The Evidence

They will smell you on my breath
When the morning is still more night than day
And I make my way
To the bread line
They will see you
In my eyes
When I glow
With a smile
Desperate or suspicious or
At least
Seemingly so -
They will find you
In my blood
When they test the composition
To confirm
Or deny
Their suspicions and
Its compatibility
With their own

They will find you
Built-up in my lungs and on the backs of my teeth
Hardwired into the paths of my mind,
Evident in the stillness of my hands,
The conviction of my path,
The length of my stride
They will find in me
More you
Than I

Inhale and release –
Your breath hovers with you
Still and silent,
The deer moves slowly,
And likewise
He has walked this forest
As you have walked this forest
And he has fed from the forest
As you feed from the forest

And the two of you seek refuge in these woods
As brothers in cyclic harmony
In and out and
Ebb and flow
Slow build and great release as bow-string,
Felled trees

Exhale and release -
The arrow moves as its master moves -
And impossibly fast
Silent as your hovering breath,
Silent as the slinking deer,
Entrance wound
And exit wound
Through and through,
And now the deer moves clumsy
Gushing -

A tear through his heart -
He tears through the forest
For thirty yards into a high-grass clearing
And falls
Still and silent
Perfect and beautiful in waves of mourning,
Of celebration,
Early-morning breeze through
Tumbling leaves

Take nothing
Without giving thanks

My newest treasure. Found at an antique store over the weekend.  Mrs. Helen G. of Pittsburgh kept this and wrote in it daily from January 1, 1958  to December 31, 1962.  $2 very well spent.

My newest treasure. Found at an antique store over the weekend. Mrs. Helen G. of Pittsburgh kept this and wrote in it daily from January 1, 1958 to December 31, 1962. $2 very well spent.

Pierce the flesh,
Gratifying release
Bruise the flesh
And do not consume
Too quickly
But likewise do not set aside
And become sidetracked
With other things
The flesh will brown,
And wither