Tuesday, December 31, 2013

the lesion

it began with an aftermirage
the flickering grey thumbprint
that spiraled into my periphery.
though the hammering haze
I walked to work, squinted at clouds,
stared into the blank spots
on convenience store shelves.

at night I clenched shut the twin
portholes, silencing their watery complaints.
lightning arced through my black vision;
unwholesome phosphene, mouthing
the latin tongue for clots and veins.

three weeks stretched across the seam
of nothingness, palms planted in hospital beds,
feet dragging still through city streets.
the hypothetical horror: secreting
this knot in the core of my blind brain,
shrapnel poised to decimate the body.

today I saw the faultlines of my eyes
laid bare like maps, red roads
dead-ended and switchbacked
around a white void, the blank spot
where the bomb was dropped.

the finality of the detonation, the time of death noted,
the willingness of survivors to rebuild.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Back on the Horse

Excuses: I've been ill. Busy. Traveling. Crazy. Preoccupied. Heartsick. Brain dead. A ghost.

Truth: I am back. Every tanka has been accounted for. The bills have been paid, phone calls made. My karmic credit is good. My inbox will right itself. The apples are real good right now; you should eat one when you get a chance. 




Wednesday, September 18, 2013

Less Than 24 Hours



The zines are done. The poems have been picked. I've recited myself into a sore throat. I'm ready, Thursday.

Friday, September 13, 2013

Bad Omen / Good Momentum




 A sneak peek of my latest zine, Bad Omen, in progress. 20 pages of poetry and collage, available for sale at my reading on the 19th.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Upcoming Reading

The New Yinzer Presents: Greenlaw, Korn, Shapiro, Feldman
Thursday, September 19th, 8pm
Modern Formations - 4919 Penn Avenue
$5 or free with food contribution
BYOB
Facebook Link

Monday, September 9, 2013

Milk and Water Road

The fat plug of cream
 skimmed and sweating in a saucer;
          
           whey-clouded meniscus, a bubble
             amid the thinned curd
         
                       all streak and film, the
                        vulnerability of waste.
 


Saturday, September 7, 2013

Our Villain

A pile of bones
clean-picked and buried
in the boreal forests;
moonless Canadian nights
keep their secrets.

He’s a scar in a tree,
crossed and stabbed so deep
I can’t read his name
under the bulging tissue,
the thick wooden scab.

He’s the paw of an animal
blood-stained and mysterious
discovered on the mossy floor
or thrown into a backyard:
the knowledge that somewhere
a creature is limping, or curled
burning with infection.

Did he come for dinner
dragging in late and boozy
full of arguments and no appetite,
or did he crouch, frog-like, eating from your plate
diesel-stained fingers dragging furrows
through your mashed potatoes
and into his wide, hinged mouth?

Did he pounce on the weaklings,
a grey-haired old goat
bucking his head and screaming hot-sour breath
and bloodshot rumplestiltskin eyes,
stamping his feet until you were ground to silence,
voice lost in the ruckus of his cloven hooves,
his wagging beard?

Breathe me his name,
speak it, steal his power,
nail his face to a tree,
pull the platter of fishbones
from under the bed
and return them to the cool spring water.
A blanket of round river stones to bury his skin;
shining scales flashing in the moonlight,
the reek of blood pulled thin by currents. 



Written in response to writing exercise #60 by Rachel McKibbens.

Friday, September 6, 2013

Staring into the Heart of the Supercell

The heat built tall columns into the afternoon
broiling the ground under the heavy air,
lowering curtains of sweat and syrupy sun.

The highway baked under glassy hours
and the air hummed thickly with flying bugs.

Suddenly
the cables
snapped.

A sharp breeze cut shivers,
whipping the sweat from our brows,
tearing the sleeves from our wrists.
Butterflies ripped from tree limbs
were flung darts, torn tickets.

The tall grasses jittered, then blew
then flattened under the palm of the storm.
The trees writhed, a roiling sea of green leaves
whipping frantically, pleading mightily.

We stood and watched the black clouds
sweep across the sky and gather
in an angry curl,
a eyeless behemoth,
the heartless destroyer.




Thursday, September 5, 2013

It Would Be So Nice To Have Everything You Wanted

Hiking through the slouchy villages
of the black forest, like a fairy tale
of gingerbread and warm beer,

an occupation where you are beloved
and needed, but not so much
that they won't pay you to go away
for a month or so (see above),

breathless kisses
and an unending thunderous passion
even when the kitchen is cluttered
with filmy drinking glasses,

and on that hand, a kitchen
that never becomes a funeral
of filthy dishes,

and perhaps four chairs (not two)
around the kitchen table
so you can have company for once

and a shower big enough
that you didn't have to shave your legs
in the sink.



Originally published in Sandwich Zine, Issue 5