poetry

Things We Have In Common

Alcohol abuse
Arsenal F.C
Broken hearts
Broken knuckles
Dead parents
Disproportionate reactions
Drug abuse
“Eating is cheating”
Extensive (to the point of being alarming) knowledge of serial killers and their crimes
Emotional/psychological instability
Feeling stuck: in relationships, in this town, in our pasts
Fiercely loyal
Giving The Best Hugs™
Guilt
Main source of others’ entertainment
Professional troublemakers
“Rehab is for quitters”
Skilled in the art of self destruction
“Sleep is for the weak”
So much guilt
Uncontrollable rage
Both love me
Both hate me

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fiction, Uncategorized

There were Four Russians Outside of my Door This Morning

photo_2018-12-10_16-42-40My mother grew up in the 70s. This means that all of her favorite spy movies had eerily similar bad guys with names like Boris, Ivan, Ivan, and Boris. When my mother visited me in Russia, she stepped out of the arrival gates and said,

“Holy-fucking-shit, I’m here.

Since American media had already moved on to Arabs by the time I crawled into the world, I never thought of Russia as an enemy. But today there were four Russians outside of my apartment building this morning. They rang up, and I thought,

“oh, they are here to murder me–I am going to be taken to some dark room and tortured until I admit anything, they want me to admit. it won’t take long, I am so squishy and pink! Then I will be hung in the Red Square and I don’t even know any Morse code, so I won’t be able to send any secret messages to anyone and I get stage fright so even if they let me speak, I’ll probably just sweat and mutter until my neck snaps–“

My girlfriend–woken from the ringing–stormed passed, spoke through the receiver, buzzed the men into the building. On her way back to bed she looked into the kitchen. I was still half-hidden behind the cabinets, peering out.

She sighed and went back to bed.

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art, fiction, life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Pure & broken

Emily-DiDonato-Nude-Narcisse-Magazine-Spring-Summer-2017-Cover-Editorial03Lie in bed

Child

Lest what stands beyond threshold

Threatens calm

Waking to the sound of winter silence

Clutching at inanimate objects

The seen friends who do not reply

Delve deeper into the mind

Where disturbance is held away

By merciful imagination

How long can a child

Pretend

And make-believe?

The sounds of fighting through the walls

Even the deaf hear

The crack in plaster grows wider

Each day carpet higher

Till jungle swallows child

Alone

Her own words ingrowing

Dance when no one is looking

For nobody did

Turned faces absentees

Hunger for attention

At first an annoying shame-faced thing

Then the end of longing

Acceptance

You placed me in a room of my own and said

Thrive

I did not

Instead

Half of me turned into plaster and chipboard and carpet fibers

And half climbed out windows and got lost

Letting her feathers be plucked early

By stranger fondling hands and false words

Prophet’s without prophecy

Girls born without reason

Growing in one ache

The silence their lover and their torment

Sliced in half

One, a creature straining to survive herself

One the albatross of finely dressed humans

Absenting themselves from responsibility

She says

You damned me

You shut me up

You expected me to thrive and grow in darkness and coal

As you closed the door and said entertain yourself

She switched the camera on and let them come one by one

Watch her fall beneath the lights

Mayhap dancer, mayhap pornographer

No words escape her

She moves her pain

Above you like light streaming down

Pure and broken into prisms

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poetry

Sunflowers and Factories in Full Bloom

The Madness has run away with my head
Thrown in a sack with the black cat and raven.
Sweet, artful Madness; I thought you were dead

He reached through your eyes, he grabbed me and said:
(Oh, look! It’s you, I have found you again)
The Madness has run away with my head.

(Just kiss her, keep her, don’t let her from bed
if her back but turns, I’ll drown you in yen.)
Sweet, artful Madness; I thought you were dead.

It won’t do, if ahead, lay last thoughts of you.
I know it is coming. Not what, but when.
The Madness has run away with my head.

Insides frayed, flayed, floating; asea in red.
Some madmen have swords, all I’ve got(s) a pen.
Sweet, artful Madness; I thought you were dead.

Sanity stumbles and hangs by a thread
Fingers fumble, the words walk by and wave.
The Madness has run away with my head
Sweet, artful Madness; I hoped you were dead.

 

*started reading some villanelles. Anyone know any good ones out there?

 

 

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life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Wordless & Spoken

1516979922624549-Helmut-newton-8

I looked for you

as my eyes squinted into fog

I saw your luminescence

a beacon lighting way forward

unwittingly becoming life raft

I tried not to cling to the wreckage

but swim deeply through water unafraid

did it matter what direction or where

I would end up?

without you there is a drowned map of the world

made of hide and slick with oil

if you look carefully you can see the outline

of where you drew your location

like a red circle with closed eyes I can

feel the pulse

drawing us ever closer and ever apart

a wave upon wave in an ocean of sadness

there was a time when I believed

we were separated only by

our will

and if we so desired

nothing could really keep us separate

a chain of silver running through water

linking us irrevocably

it helped to feel less alone with you at the end of myself

as if we were bound and raffiaed like Viennese masks

waiting for wearing to bring them alive

you possessed the key to my firmament

you lit beneath my intransigence a fire

through your eyes I was alive

my skin burning for your touch

driving fast down empty roads

your fingers playing splendor beneath my skirts

the bruise of hours

ellipsing sense

you my patchouli girl

rendering me senseless with your unexpected strength

painting our together with shades of unfolding passion

as if we were Bedouin and all we have is the tent of us and our journey

deeper into the delta of the other

where secret streams convey a woman’s urge

wordless and spoken

lying beneath the way to heaven

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fiction, Uncategorized

some butterflies

It is late, the dark has started weaving nests into crannies. I’m drunk. We’ve only known each other a few weeks.

“I don’t want this,” I told her, a few minutes ago.

And so, she paces.

She stops.

“What are you?” she asks, her arms limp from nail biting.

I frown at her, drinking something–a beer, probably. “I’m a man?”

She frowns, “No–no! You are arms–yes, legs, eyes–yes, three hundred pages of verse, maybe–but you are not a man.”

She goes back to pacing.

I roll my eyes. “Why are you being so dramatic?”

“I’m not being dramatic,” she tells the other side of the balcony, “I’m being poetic.”

She walks back and stands over me.

She looks down, into me–about to cry or kill me, I don’t know.

“Some butterflies are beautiful for only a day and then they die,” she whispers. She kneels down, places her face on my leg. I put my fingers in her hair.

“Am I supposed to be a butterfly?” I ask, finishing what certainly seems to be a beer.

She shakes her head. “No–you are not so lovely a thing. You are a stomach ache, you linger–you do not die, not beautiful enough to die.”

She sits back on her haunches, she laughs. I laugh too, not understanding.

Like a blind man clapping at a magic show.

My laugh goes on much longer than hers. She kisses my hand.

“You poor boy,” she tells me.

She stands up and goes inside.

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