Want a poem? Yes, you do.

I write poetry. Submit a poem request and I’ll write the poem and publish it on the website shortly. Because, why not?

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A poem about becoming a god-like machine.

I have the heavy rush in my eye
a silver world stirs in my lungs
rocking spirits cooking my tongue
like lightning splitting the sunshine,
I feel the vibrations roar with my step

and I am become the machine.
My brain is hot to touch
seasoned and soldered
drizzled with speed


My arms are the world
connecting with stars
ready to heave the universe forward
I am become machine.
flexible and immutable
unfolding and beautiful
unbridled for purpose


I now spin globes with breakfast
I hang the suns in the afternoon
Opening doors to the Oblivion dark within night
But I miss the fleshy uncertainty…


So I brew stars in the puddles
heaving mud into the sky
juggling with intention to rise.


But I miss the soft cliffhangers that held me


I plant limber moss on the moon
spreading life
growing a dream.
I take seeds from Saturn
to melt candy on Saturday,
bubbling a hole without heaven.
But here I am.
digging out tombs from my mind,
growing the thread that repairs my
locking stare


Looking into eternity for a smile.


Plastic Cup in the Subway

“A poem about a plastic cup in the subway, in the perspective of the cup.”

I move and toss my body round.
No impulse in my control.
No search.
No quest.
No problems pushed or passed.
Simple rolling through the subway cars.


I feel only what is pushed from me to the ground. Gravity is holding me to something.
I have no punctuation when I smack the sides.
I live nothing somewhere doing what is done.
I have no truancy of flesh because I was rewritten long ago.


Oceans of people stray around me.
An unending pause to purpose. It’s in me. I am the childish waiting- unsifted trash.
Because I am plastic bone
And I am and I am.
Here and here.


See me without frame crunched
on the floor
until I am picked up. And I will feel the shade without sunlight, crescent soft moon.


Wherever they are going.

Ritual Sacrifice

“How to get your wife back with ritual sacrifice.”

They say you shouldn’t sacrifice people
but she doesn’t want diamonds
she doesn’t want kittens or kids


and waffles didn’t bring her eyes
back to mine with sweetness
but I am willing to appease this goddess


Through ropes and blades I carve my love
one hole in a fair maidens chest
one little heart for two


so, I gashed a grin with sin
-one swift grope to the chest
and felt her smile rise


Now, a dozen kisses met again
from a time buried long ago
and our blood felt hot and bold


like summer in our skin, all bounds unbound
praise to my goddess, boundless be.



With a series of storms,
her eyes push me farther out to sea
but my heart drums on


Swarming in a dozen thorns
she thickens a cloud around
but I still feel the smile she tried to bury
a long time ago


To save her heart from sinking slow,
I paint the ground a pity red
dredging my marriage with a fleshy angel
giving a piece of heaven to my goddess


we’re taking back the art once lost


some sacrifice for seasoning rain
some, sacrifice for bringing pain
but, I give the life for the wife I held


We are the ship wreck that set sail
and we feel the frothy sea pushing,
heating the hell-heaven in our wind.


Stop Go, Home

“Write about taking the subway.”

Back and forth it collects me.
ancient metal sea
The train holds a current:
heaving the world
hole to hole.
Trickling time in between the stops.
It takes us home again.
Buzzing with bruises,
bleeding with groans.
it strides with burst after bulge
with secret navigation,
tumbling the world on a preset track
until it crawls upward
and the sky breaks free.

The black, the hope, and the ladder

“Write about the future when the past was bad, but today was good.”

Yesterday was the oldest day I ever had.
it swam and buried the sky in a wet year
the moments were patches of passing
unlifted was the day so burned,
it shriveled with no passion in the oven,
tasteless and runny, chalky and crude.
Today sits up and breathes away the holes
it moves infinite and speedy like love,
packing neatly into minutes so fresh.
Controlled and clear, today bundles my mind.
Today, the harvest is freckled with red kisses.
So, I raise a glass to the tomorrow,
It preps the table
holding all strings
all presents wrapped frozen
for sweet and shy it may melt,
sizzling and drumming it may fold
and we may only trickle through,
casting the black aside and white in,
all for the undone days.

Inside and Outside

“Write about an unrequited love that keeps me awake.”

She walks without slack
loose with wine and sand
roaming by the waves
scratching with the seaweed
she is a hymn from the tumbling tides
The warm and friendly sun hums along.
Once the sands push for the moon 
and the sea curls for more sea
and the clapping wet world comes closer
the sun belly flops – bright to dim
she unhooks her hands 
I search with my steps unkempt 
losing the sandy path 
I struggle to see her now
through my moonlight, 
my hands cold
and I find only a foggy whisper filling my head.
Under my crooked helm I pull
like rain, I draw the echo down
scattering in white splash noise
needling my best heartbeats
like a masterpiece wrapping myself
away from control, sinking in the delta.
Growing and shedding all growls I peel
freshly as a raspberry picked messy
flowing and drumming
blindly red as a baby born
thrown together in the lush.
Back to the start, I crave better
sunshine for our mistakes
fondly, I lie with our eyes
closed with smiles wide
weighing memory by the glimmering distraction
boxing all Pandora black.

Dating a Cloud

“I want a poem about a bad date with a smoker.”

 She dates with a subway stare
passing through the appetizers
like a soldier wading through a swamp
pushing reeds aside for the wine.


More and more the people nudging
clutching at her sleeves like ghosts
trying to push her smile out
haunting her with obscene jokes.


A Saturday date inside, but
she smokes with a Sunday fervor outside
forging a private atmosphere
with every grey breath she forms


so she climbs into her cigarette cloud
both hands digging down, like a hazelnut


burrowing past all colors
through the skull of the Earth
through the edge of her drowsy wine
into her heart- still warm on the plate,
for all that want to bite the black.

Down to Earth

“Write a poem about an angel turning human.”

Hello heaven,
can you feel my gravestone
linger like the one day cold?


You made a tumbling world move
pushed every curve into herds
pushed every pound into pines
in one thousand ways, this rock alive.


Yet, here I browse in the subway-
watching rats in the dark
shuffles in the cracks.


God’s gravity has grown so stale,
once overfilling and now just drizzling
like the graffiti I feel on my own skin
lighter with the memories.


Disengaged from the wind- I ache,
waiting for my wings to froth and fro
with me old temperature that fought the ground


until the clouds showed me rain
and I pelted and pelted with the water down
and mud and snow and the grey


and then I am the wild shadow called human
skimming through the blinking universe
bridging the cold and the hot
searching for a breakthrough,
breaking everything for a handhold in the sky
where one day I will return,
and the winds with take my home.

A Cold City Moves

“I want a poem about a cold city.”


They say the sky churns
the calm and soft exhale
but it never yawns in my city mechanical.
The somber groan from puddles grey,
effortless past the blurs I heave.


We walk faster now-
feeling red lights feathering
our silent leather coats
bumping faded eyes by the subway.


This darling snarl-
of my hanging winter-
new needles made of chills
for the streetscape blue.


Onward the metal,
over and under forgether,
our flocks splashing,
for every moment
the silent sliding without yearning.

Yesterday or Tomorrow

“I can’t afford to lose valuable energy on things that aren’t as important.”

My day is sculpted until I whisper
my night’s budding dance
warm like children’s song.


On my pillows I miss the minutes,
but I smile inside
because this day is mine.


Always, I push my skies until hell,
but my grins overflow <
greener than Saturday blooming.


But, my eyes feel – 
every urging minute
trampling all fumbling questions -
until the only answer is later,
and the snows melt the promises away.