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.
Robot Cheney
“Dick Cheney’s Robot Heart”
He growls upon darker paths,
like a metal moss moving
to enrich a rusty madness
bringing the pitch black home.
He spears us; until we swallow gallows,
and he wafts all peace away
with every triangulated plot that
he constructs. Oily black plans.
Now, we gather patience for his grave,
waiting for his metal to rust,
but his heart beats on,
til’ the smog covers his husk.
Blackberry Squish
“blackberries”
I squish the sweet protesting black
berries between my teeth, heaving sweetness
the ebony royalty gushes tart and flowing,
spinning a web of sweet syrup down my gullet.
Check out what this poem looks like on a print! Buy it here.
The Unholy Saint
“Any”
She feels the black,
around the sleeves
of her slender soul.
She shares images.
Black and white nights.
Her life inside.
Her planted art,
unfettered heart.
Found scattered on the internet.
Word Birth
“A poem about writing, please, for one writer from another. ^^”
The collisions of grimy memories.
Slurping on the tides of melodies
like freshwater shaking the sea.
Sprung forth from dirt, words
unharrowed, unburned, begun-
pour from pens like spicy wax
coming alive with changing passion.
Now these poet’s words
rest loose on rocks
ready to be splashed and cracked
open for my brave assembly.
My hand plunges into the black
to take what disconnects senses from sense,
which lingers on roots of tongues.
I stitch it into curtains
to decorate and encapsulate
the life that surrounds us
within our swirling existence.
The wooden dusk is foundation.
The heavy rhythms of old rise up
from the depths of rusted fog
whispered from the untied worlds
to caress our unbalanced.