Showing all posts tagged as submittal-collection:

In quiet reflection.

I would like most to remember
his hands - palm pressed to calm cheekbone
a cool touch, collected
and capable of anything.

I have seen these hands
prayer-stitched and penitent
folded neatly into one another.
They have been both church and steeple - prayer and pulpit.
They have known the weight of praise, and the long, dim light of nights spent
poised in still reflection.

I have seen these hands at peace,
a symphony of purpose - harmonic
and charged with their own music -
a metronome precision of movement,
no note wasted.

I have seen them, also - uncertain
constant as clockwork
twitching and shifting agitation,
vortex of steady, endless ticking...
Fondling smoking casualties
casually, lit with fixed attention;
flicking ash into air
into cup
into upturned palms -
lighting one off the knuckle of the other,
smothering the unsteadiness of time
in the constancy of ritual.

And also,

his tentative grip - slow and timid
shufflestitch of fingers,
seeking shelter between my own.

Still, I would like most to remember this -
calm palm pressed to cheekbone.
His cool touch, collected
and capable of anything.

Paper Face

is my unsubtle origami
all scrawled up
with the bent words
of feelings

of folding inward
a wide-winged, flapping
swan of sentiment

you are an envelope
of secrets
a private letter
inscribed to your own

I am every postcard
ever written
a bold-faced book, left
flung open

my cover
so easily
catches fire

Towering Babble

to quiet thoughts,
my mouth moves
even in sleep

spilling my secrets out,
uprising seawater
licking the sand’s toes
lapping myself like a dog

and, this night
found me
all tail wag and tongue
at the thought of you.

I stuffed my mouth
with a handful of snow,
hoping to ice
all this sweetness

to thicken my tastebuds
with cold,
but instead

it all melted
from my pink lips
to hit the cold brick

of your smile,
struck down
with impossible timing.
In retrospect,

should have taken
a bite
of your frigid heart -

I was foolish
to reach for the stars,

to pry open
the rapture of God,
wielding only
my own

my own mythical

this time,
I swear
I’ll cease sharing
nocturnal linguistics

I'll learn
to stop dreaming
so loudly

hyperopic regression

Up close,
your eyebrows are a forest
of slim, graceful trees
and you smell something
like cedar

like the closet
I used to hide in
as a child,
something touched
with wild abandon
dusted with the musk
of adventure
or musty dust mote
in a ray of Sunday,

My god -
how I've missed you

I've memorized all
the details
of your absence
each empty click
of the clock's arms
to embrace the minutiae
of the day

I still hold you
enclosure of my heart
of my most beloved self

catch your warm scent
coffee-roasted familiar

Still regard you
with limerance,
limelight lover
bright center of my epic

I have been
so nearsighted
in love

the help

Never invited
to the party; I clean up
after the others.


Wine for a mellow night
tequila for a melee
whiskey for a melody
and bourbon for a story

Coffee for morning sunlight
and tea for nighttime coughs
fresh juices to lend countenance
and kvass to flush the dross

Floats for a whimsical moment
and cider for cravings of warmth
champagne for news and good tidings
your mouth for a nightful of mirth.

Nimrud colossal

Notice, first
his stone face is frozen
into good-natured features.
Carved to guard
one royal heart
and the afterlife's spoils.

Now, they say
you can't take it with you
But they believed otherwise,
and I'm envying
the ease of their demise,
one million days, hence.

burial in a pile of belongings
far better than renting
another storage unit.

I'm feeling quite sorry
for myself,
lamenting the plight
of the modern-day Bedouin.
the fact that this
lamassu was hewn

From fucking granite,
no less.

into detailed perfection
and lasted an aeon
just to be ogled
by overgrown teenagers
boggled by their own

Some days,
I think I've got it rough.
Some days,
its hard to remember
artistry is all that's needed
to turn plain stone
to masterpiece.

I'm shouldering the boulder
of a gray perspective
my own carved burden;
my own stony features.

I'd like to think
are both fierce
and benevolent


You are just one more tittering fool
with a manicured garden
masking a slack mouth with polite palm -
pushing fifty-pence words
into tired conference
dodging the sky, in favor of fair weather.

Everyone here spends their nine to five
pounding time into cartoon pictures of the Queen,
quoting Churchill loudly
while they hush his British Gulag -
it's no wonder Darwin's heart
just couldn't take the strain.

The constant drain of gray clouds
paints a grim portrait of marble faces
mossed into composure -
a Dorian Gray of stock brick rows,
soldiered toe to toe
in unmappable streets,

Shuffling feet bearing hearts
bound in tropes
and I'm amazed at the juxtaposition
of castle and cobblestone,
tomb to tome of thought

everything lost, here
and everything found.

magnolias (in haiku)

Love and trees both thrive
only with careful tending
and thought to their growth

These seedlings, planted
in loose soil, too long fallow
and without water

Will stretch their limbs high
to find their branches stunted,
withered brittle brown

Lest some concerned soul
reads the future in their leaves,
nurtures deeper roots.

We will bloom, in time.
This heart-scarred trunk grows patient,
spreads concentric rings,

lets loose hopeful seeds.


One sawed-off shotgun
of a mouth, aimed to pop off
any second, now.