My original Poetry, Artwork and Photography
Small but powerful thoughts and tidbits of feeling. Mostly unedited and “raw,” faintly sentimental, resentful and other strong-and-fast states of being. Things one might scrawl out on the back of an exam or a napkin, meant to be reflected upon for exactly what they are and nothing more.
To be relentlessly strong and kind
Like melted glass flashed into stone,
An ancient alchemy, when
Breaks the cold water all over it.
How could my back be stacked
On the same grime the same grime
Would my ears be above water
When multitudinous, dread
spreads like coral beneath my feet.
I can erode.
I am unfortunately a sculptor.
I slipped and cut my own hand with
My own tool, and glanced over my shoulder
Just in time to see you chipped
And my world’s sky grew deep-sea nebulae.
The invention of music
After the pain
The stretching
Sore willow wood
At strained resin arias
Each violin cried
For a great truth
You struck the rock, prophet
with a shovel until
yellow cryptograms strewn out
rose in the breeze relieved the
rustling of bible leaves on your neck.
Broke your voice for us like
a pomegranate offered me a seed
with pain in your face I liked
to stare at and searching
my head frantic, your eyes were a little boy
some treasure always spread encrusted
under the first layer of earth
handed us linens and grandmother quilts
to cover over ground. You ached
for a death
we’d need to stir the dirt
a stir perhaps pull out a waif
in your old clothes. people-
clients told me despite it all
I looked like the soul
of my father. A sacred pause
in me each instance. That night
I stirred through my head words
to find a gentle lure for your ghost
without you even knowing.
I am a commercial
With a missing leg oh this
A story I’ll tell loudly
Smiling
You had a secret name fermenting
Under my tongue. I smiled and
It went yellow in my mouth.
A budding unseen burial
Ring shinnied silver tones
In my bone where you were
This is what you do in
Tiny doses. My medication
Never beamed old history lights
Or pinstripe lights your fingertips
Through a womb of dust
Stirred a new pigment.
I cupped the back of my hand neatly in your corners
Like a wave.
If your blue eyes had a breeze they would,
The cool wash up through
Force
Stone dank and dark underdown
Archaic stairsteps
My soundproof head capsuled
In the moss
Until you touched it
Neatly unfurling and so quickly
Untangling in an inhale like ink in water—
After curling inside the couch for
2.5 days I clicked your description
you were called a Black Witch Moth
and you were filling my whole room
the light was aimed at a dark glass
somewhere behind the white door
I prayed you away.
