Tag Archives: Poetry

The Next Amendment

We, as humans, have the inalienable right to bare hearts, pouring molten light and lush vines of dark, to practice humanity in all its patterns and forms, we, the living revolutionary works of art forever in the process of becoming … Continue reading

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Hunger Strike

She wrote as if webbed viscous bits of her soul got stuck to the words and so you got to feel the raw organic matter of her dreamlife and lush panting inner delicately charred the sort of hunger that cannot … Continue reading

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Intergalactica

It is impossible to live up to the lyrical, its angelmarked bendings of antenna, and sonic proofs, to nestle in the hollows of pitch, half-bird, half-wraith, attempting the almighty bait and switch, to con the heavens into granting you a … Continue reading

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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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