I’m One Lovely Blogger, Dammit.
Paul (aka wwwpalfitness) nominated me for the Lovely Blog Award, and I’ve been feeling lovely ever since. Paul is generally pretty awesome, writes some cool poems, and he retweets my rather questionable poems on twitter sometimes. Thanks Paul! 🙂 You guys should follow him now. Really. Right now. Then you ...
long ago, and far away
long ago, and not so long ago all of this seemed possible I thought to myself that I could be a writer you know, make a real go of it sometimes, on sunrise mornings even saying so-- out loud tho, I'd been alone at the time ...
young plebeian
I come here, of preference none speak of brilliance as a younger man as a plebeian I played an ashen guitar on a perch stone as the gray creek's thin-froth murmur mumbled its drunken poems wide-eyed bluegills listened warm sunshine glistened with never a mention of shame as a younger ...
sweet ariel
sweet ariel, what of the rest of us? my father hasn’t yet died nor my mother nor my son I’ve still a roof overhead, for now I’ve been subjected to no particular abuse worthy-- yet, I’m weary of the beatings like everyone but we haven’t much to complain of when ...
negro streets and lascivious priests
There are poems everywhere. Mine. I find them on my phone, and on my computer, electronic napkin-back scrawlings I’d thought to hold some poignancy at some point, ideas or phrases shouted into my phone while speeding at 85 MPH and late for work, poems that I’d planned to finish when ...
nothing
I didn’t think it even possible to feel nothing nothing not even rain's acidic burn not even sun's remorseful chill not even wind's resentful hatred not even compassion's thorny bramble as it sliced bloodless fissures into benumbed skin only a gray ache in the clearing where once we stood and ...
slow-hand promises
time’s bountiful illusion fills the silent ache between us with its slow-hand promises, its lies tho-- when pale and aged, awaiting the day on which the dark hounds arrive hungered, and insistent we shall, each, be well aware of whom-- we’ve, each, left behind ...
souls
the soul is a child tho we’d squander its fragile splendor denying its crying infancy its insolent adolescence its soft-eyed wishfulness the purity of its essence its singing-wine-glass hymns the entirety of lives, given to the poverty of pretense this powdered-wig masquerade oh, my darlings-- aren’t we brilliant sophisticates? and ...