Tripping over protruding root
Mother’s passive aggressive revenge
Broken branches like compound fractures
The hurricanes scream with
Cracking evergreens, aspens
Creasing trees and cannon balling ship masts
Falling soldiers, stiff with rigor mortis
Sabers of lightning
And sparking gunfire
Dry cracking birches
Like snapping muzzle fire
Squatting in the green
Burning down to the filter
Deep in meditation
What does it mean
To penetrate deeper than flesh;
To be further connected with the soul
You hit the flint
But they’re the ones
To burn down the town
I love the closing lines on this one, “Strong beating heart found to give chase Incisors laid, jugular vein, razor sharp.”
I loved the idea. The iconic image of London’s dogs of the wild. Maybe the real wolves run wall street.
And the rolling topography
With its subtle curves
Has become oppressive
Under the gaze of big brother.
The cold metallic wolves
Eating bit after bite
Of the earthen crust
Species of predators
Filed under Carhart, corporate affairs
To crucify the totems
We once worshiped
Watchful eyes roam landscapes dark Attentive ears tune into its mark A serious game played, hunting prey As hunger pains echo from the day The warning growl silences singing lark Strong beating heart found to give chase Incisors laid, jugular vein, razor sharp
My father’s used sneakers,
torn at the sides like a grimace
I tripped over the roots;
Veins, snarled knotted
The dark encompassing the evergreen pillars.
When the mud was hard,
crumbling like stale bread and the ground slick.
I slide backwards at each incline.
I rest in the stream bordering the trail of breadcrumbs,
Separate the scalp,
greasy pink slivers to trace into the cavernous crevasses
But the matches have been in my back pocket this whole time
hypothermia in 60 degrees won’t be the death of me.
my skin blue and cold to the touch, and the heart palpitates.
Once the beat traversed up cliff sides, vaulting over fallen trees,
but now it fades, murmuring, the rain on my face, the sap from the trees.
I find sustenance.
I don’t know if I’ll be here tomorrow,
but if the peak would be in sight,
I’d make it.
Some mazes are found within.
Some get lost, and never find their way out.
Some have mazes with no way out.
Anxiously they run from one side of the maze to the other
Combing through the barbed wire hedge
The cracks in this primitive stone walls
Crashing like glass bottles
For a window
Into a genuine
Most abysses are far from this earthen surface
The longest, hardest trails can’t be walked
The hardest struggles are not of the body
But of the soul
The worst hurt won’t be
At the end of rusty box cutters
When you refuse to hand over
To the parasites
In the darkest streets.
In the mind
Where there’s no road flares
No street signs
Just a black hole
To descend further
And further into
You and me like
Broken heroine needles and poetry
Mother likes it. Published. Sold to the one generous man living on the corner. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to be alone. Unnappreciated. He buys the poetry no one else does
because he knows,
Trying to make some money and the writing may never cut it. It’s time for prostitution, for masturbation, for anything I can do for the few extra dollars on the street side. All I do is walk, write, and read and I love it. I’d walk more if I wasn’t stuck in this form. My feet blister after only several hours of walks a day. It’s alright, but I wish they would turn to calluses. I have a whole world to explore and I don’t have time to wait for my feet (tootsies) to catch up. So fucking tired.
Below is a writing exercise about oxymorons in language. I ended up noting more oxymorons in society and public education than anything.
The player, lonely in a crowd of women.
The oxymoron of Public Education
Empower the public, with a healthy dosage of brain washing.
Help them improve society, just make sure there is no independent thought.
The teacher teaches, so the students are tricked into thinking that they’ve learned.
It’s illegal to mesh state and church, and yet we pledge our allegiance to God single day.
They want to avoid teen pregnancy, so they preach abstinence, hoping that we’ll know the off beaten trail with closed eyes.
They speak of opportunities, and bettering yourself,
but the children marked as unworthy are training by cleaning up our lunches.
Nothing induces self worth like public education.
Trying to advance society,
relieve the world of its ignorance
by teaching the point of view of the plantation owners History.
They try to produce different results, by sticking to the centuries old system.
Painfully honest seems to be something in itself.
Or maybe the truth will set you free. Both seem to be oxymorons.
He spends hours memorizing the facts that will be forgotten by the end of next week.
He wants to learn how to write, so he goes to the lectures.
Going to biology, and removing the reasons
the evidence is relative to the world around you.
I’ve lost the point to this exercise
All I wanted to do was shop
Consume the objects in my life,
That I know
Will make me happiest
Just like the boys starring from across the pool
They tell me I’m beautiful
Like I’m their baby doll
I tell them this doll’s a collectible,
but was surprised
when on my shoulder
was a tag with a price
I present my problems to the world
reveal the cost
They know anyone willing to pay the time,
Goes home with a pretty piece of plastic
Cheeks and breasts on display
The showcase of any collectible
an antique with diminishing value
desperately, I reach and grab for my buyer
Trying to steal him into an old investment,
But he hides me under his bed
in the bottom of a box
and leaves to find a new collectible
New and refined
with a soul reminiscent of mine
Naive in a faith in love
A much prettier piece of plastic
I need to be better
They’ll all leave,
Break off a corner and get just a taste
Well I’m all broken corners
Or I was until you all came around
Now I’m dispersed
Residing in the intestinal tracks
Of all of the vultures
And the man eating praying mantis
Here I burn in their stomach acid
Somehow more pure than holy water
The squirts blasting from your ass
Sometimes with narration,
The sentences hurt,
You can feel them leave your body like thorns
Or maybe we’re the wood
And prose is the axe man
splitting us into dozens of tiny pieces
Before throwing us on the fire
And using us as kindling.
I don’t need anyone
I don’t need anything
As long as I can be left alone
my fingers walking thousands of miles
Across each and every keyboard
Until it’s all written.