Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Life is Good

In retrospect, I guess I do have a life.

I have friends

close enough to be within earshot

I have a best friend

even though she has one too

I have a partner

a therapist, a diary, I'm sorry

I do things

action and inaction are both conscious decisions

I have fun

while the rest of me vacations in distraction

I am happy

where happy can exist in distraction

Life is good

as long as I'm distracted.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

An Apology in Lieu of Action

I've always wanted to marry an artist;
I haven't found another breed so simple
And by simple, I mean forward and honest
With a kind smile sandwiched by either dimple

Only the artist can give truth as truth;
How his mouth sags when he sings
How her freckles compliment her chipped tooth
How my face is fraught with suffering

Only the artist knows a face;
Or faces, rather, we have more than one
Another wrinkle to lengthen the trace
Or wrinkles, rather, I have more than one

On the page, the artist is the poet;
The snowy evening, fresh frost in her hair
Golden skin, summer and pleasantly sunlit
The descending blue, spring dotting her stare

Never underwhelming, but ordinary;
A quiet ordinary that doesn't hurt to be heard
Her cheeks bright with crimson cherry
From the sun, so sunlit, freckles blurred

The artist is honest;
As art is as life exists

Wednesday, March 7, 2018

60 Second Poem Challenge!

The pains of a heart beating
Are unimaginable
Where sorrow does fill the gaps
That flesh cannot fill
Around the black that rots
About the edges, trots
And humbles itself to decay
Of jaundiced, bubbling growth
That reaps blood from flies
And fills that void
Where sorrow does lie

Monday, February 26, 2018

To the Woman in an Artist's Studio

Immortalizing her in paint so she can never escape him
It is a twisted color that binds her to the page
A vile blot that traces against ill parchment
And wrinkles under weather and rage

She is of solitude and of man’s craftsmanship
Snatched from her room like a flame snuffed
Enough of his careless penmanship!
Words will never speak for her enough

"And if folly and fae do tantalize the mind
I hope to sink in it’s dreams with her and
Ensnare what is left of our logic and rhyme
Until we breach the caverns that lay under land"

He paints with a brush as thick as his brow
And he scorns the page with his gaze
The male, he knows, applies the pressure of stroke
And brings to her the weather and rage

Thursday, February 1, 2018

Three Feet to the Left

I feel like I'm living my life about three feet to the left
I'm seeing through eyes that see myself as a joke
My ghost follows close to my body, it points and laughs --
And yet my lips stay pinned to my teeth

I grasp my own ankles and I pick up my own feet
I move my own mouth with my own thumb and forefinger
Functioning is meticulous, and timeless, and hard
So much so that sometimes my stomach forgets to rumble
Or my brain forgets to sleep

And so bruises rise to meet my skin
In places I've never known my skin to bruise
Once purple and hot, they yellow like daisies
And I run together, muddy, like a watercolor

I don't want my stains to touch you right now
You've finally washed out yours to a pale pink
And my colors will bleed into yours again like the last time
And the time before that

Because where my absent body kisses your blank skin,
I see the red feathering like ink on wet paper
And I'm helpless to the paths it traces like plague through innocent veins
I wish it would just stop so I could help you blot away the worst of it

But it's hard to move your hand when you need a hand to move it
And it's hard to blot when you can never remove it
Because every time I place a finger to your frame
It blossoms with color like a mark of my shame
And no one can tell me that these colors aren't vile
Because the reds taste like blood and the yellows like bile
And I know they're unnatural against your pure shape
Because the garish procession sounds like rape
So I keep my hand to my chest and to mine alone
Because my colors already run down to the bone
And my ghost is the keeper of my tainted fingers
To smother my inks in my own drowning figure

Friday, January 19, 2018


Of course you'd have to ask. Of course, I'm upset!
I've been stepped on, screwed over, take your pick from insults --
Your promises breed paradox
And my self-possessed mind is conflicted as a result
Both truth, and untruth, they bite at each ankle
They shackle me to your purgatory
And I'm choking against the chainlink
Just waiting for it to get gorey like some cheesy horror movie
When you know the black guy dies first.
How about you get your fucking story straight first?
You speak in these tongues, and riddles, and twists
I'm so sick of these justifications
And your rambling bullshit
Fuck your logic. Fuck your cognizance!
You think you understand the inner amalgamations of the universe
Because you took one class in philosophical metaphysics
The Divine Will is strong enough on it's own, dear!
It doesn't need your heroic opinions to build it's glass throne
Because all you do is bitch and moan and groan
About how glass does nothing to soothe your aching old bones
No silk, nor cotton, nor plushy ottoman at your feet
No grapes dangling from vines to touch the tongue you named "sweet"
No chicken soup for the soul, no ambrosia for the conceit
At level with the moon shines the second face of deceit
I'm fucking over your tiresome strategems
And your delicious distortions
Take your pick from insults
But don't you dare take more than your portion.

Friday, December 22, 2017

Lady of the Evening

Sleeping next to you has been a dagger to the throat
So tonight I'll lay alone and hope you're the one who chokes.
You're a fucking joke!
I hope find this hoax easier to swallow since he opened up your throat.
I'm stifling sobs in the bathroom, so sick and sweet that I choke.
Fucking whore!

I'd slit my own goddamned wrists before I let you back inside
Where will your lechery be put? And don't forget your pride.
I'd have let my blood run out before there was room enough
But by then you'd be bored and fucking him again -- I give up.

Where do you aspire to be?
Why did it have to be me?
I'm struggling to find my voice --
My vision's going red.
As if I had a choice --
'Cause if I did, I'd be long dead.
Your sins are bleeding out --
I see them clearly now.