Tag Archives: Poetry

Ch-Ch-Changes

Note to metamorphosizing self: every cocoon quivers and trembles, every process of change brings with it a new set of keys, and claims, every slumber implicitly contains the charge of wakefulness, and every grief minnows within a sea of holy … Continue reading

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Prehistoric You

There is, perhaps, nothing truer than the myth of one’s own innerlife, a revolution, rapt and lidless, the carnivalesque autobiography of spirit, endlessly turning upon, and twinning within, the Soul’s vanguard and prehistory, unsigned.

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Shed

It was the way she talked about rain pouring down from between her thighs like liquid snakes bottomless in their appetite for razors and new skin that made me think and think again about shedding through the slake of fire.

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Lull

Sometimes, even the light, in its radiant parry and thrust, needs to be laid down, in order to receive, openly, the starried lull of brokenness.

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Slowtorch

Beneath the cauterized furies, and unspent silences, amounting to greater deficit, there is, and always has been, at heart’s nimbus base, a soft, wistful melancholy, not unlike the adagio threads of rain silvering the opened palms of a small child, … Continue reading

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Wildflowers

The child in me the fire carrier has always wanted to love big with no barriers or wind tunnels or bubble-clots to gum up the flow. I think maybe this is the Paradise whose greenest tips I have grazed and … Continue reading

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How the Heart

The sound, the fury, and brassy racket the multitudes within have made on my behalf, or fractures to mend, yet my heart, bare in its asking and grievous wants, resounds its measureless bask to innocence with no end or fixed … Continue reading

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Swallow

Today the glass is half empty full of singing void and fire me cutting my teeth on the rim tonguing rapaciously at spiked air clenching at the impossible slake if only I could swallow smooth as grace this bitter seethe … Continue reading

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Song of Hope

They kill poets in these parts don’t they? When I got here I saw Walt Whitman’s wizened head out back impaled on a stake flies buzzing round its concomitant rot and stench I heard one of the locals say it … Continue reading

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Romanticism 101

If I were there right there goggle-eyed and flame-pawed between her legs and she began secreting the deepest most lucid mirrors and glaze of honey waft of orange blossoms crushed and enmeshed in heavy musk would that appease my hunger … Continue reading

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