Category Archives: Poetry

Moving Day

So maybe i feel
             cleaner
Today
As i walk again down this carpeted hallway,
(This building used to be a hotel,
      And perhaps for me, it has remained as such.)
Fishing the keys out of my pocket another time,
i think of this as a vacation,
A pleasant diversion i’ve lived
For a little bit of year.
“It’s stifling in here,”
      i tell him–
Maybe it’s just the heat,
Maybe it’s just me. Continue reading Moving Day

Terminus

I have been the candle’s flame
Burning on for endless nights
Many moths have been drawn close
And I have watched them fall, consumed.
A passion that has burned so brightly,
Its paraffin has been my heart,
Slowly melting away.
Some I have spared from the terrible heat;
My fingers trace their images trapped under cellophane–
I have kept them safe-distanced
Through a camera’s lens and a few dance steps. Continue reading Terminus

Gifts Of The Magi

A substitute for you
In the scent of somebody else
Which haunts my day-old clothes

A longing ache
In the bed of another
Which leaves me blissfully unsatisfied

A desire so painful
In the depth of my heart
Which makes me long to taste your lips

These gifts I give to you, my love,
So deeply have you cut me.

Love

In this moment, you are all that ever mattered to me.
Dark on light of flesh through tear-filtered eyes,
My hand covering yours as the words escaped;
My heart flew like a monarch from my chest.
The fear had left me; of words, of illness, of emotions
             and consequences and futures and pasts
             all sluiced from me like so much skin shed. Continue reading Love

Full Moon

“It’s raining. Again,”
He mutters to himself as he steps out onto the porch,
Withdrawing from his pocket the half-smoked clove cigarette
Which he had abandoned before Ritual.
(Better just to take a puff or two,
Enjoy the buzz, but butt it out
Before the high gets too serious.)
Lighting the stub from a burning candle,
He sucks a thick, airy cloud into his lungs–
Fiberglass shards cutting into the soft pink of the lungs,
Tar (perhaps) smoothing over the bleeding.
He licks his lips and all he tastes is cinnamon. Continue reading Full Moon