Tuesday, March 26, 2013

Modus Operandi

Old poems are faithful things,
Little cottages dotting a hill
Often I fly past, 
Float above them
On my way to build another

A skipped stone gaining distance

But then,
Sometimes I step in
Fill my lungs with old inspired dust
Got to close my eyes at first,
Walk my hands along peeling paper 

Faded but infinite

Words stain the walls
This is a room for violent scribbles
The next all thoughtful chaos
Then sentences leading nowhere in particular
But collected in this room,

My concise pearls

Little glass boxes house them
Sitting huddled in a large space,
They are the first few blossoms
And they are few when my eyes are open
But dear to me

For, "Rome was not built in a day" 

Monday, March 18, 2013


Used to ball my fists
Used all my tiny strength
   Hanging, chalky spheres at my sides

Did it when I couldn't fight back
Did it in art class when a voice above me said,
   “Drawing is dumb.”

I ceased my crude cross-hatches
I ceased my paper and pencil holiday
   Obtuse classmate, spitting lies in the air

How could I precisely enter his oddly-shaped skull?
How could I precisely determine my argument?
   There were reasons, I felt them, but couldn't make them words

I still don't think there is a perfect set of things to say
I still don't think there could be for that
   Not one set, no

There have got to be more reasons than there are stars
There have got to be more purposes for paint than shades of it
   But they aren't for throwing at a frustrated 5-year-old

   They are just for your secret-self, those billions of stars.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013


I've always been fond of them -
Weighty ornaments, or floating frilled things
Such a silly luxury, a tassel, but 
Historically, present at noble events

Some lined the robes of Arabian rulers,
Or perched along the King's crown-carrying pillow
Strung about the bed-curtains, lulling an 
Emperor to sleep, little reassurances of wealth

But the once-rich reds have grown poor
The oily ocher has watered down
The deep blue oceans have evaporated
And royal purple has been dethroned

The tale of the tassel in unsung these days
Hung crudely, only tugged to turn a lamp light
Sat on, strapped like animals, to a throw pillow
Grandma's dusty curtain decor, kitsch

Sporting faded fool's gold now
Overlooked, never-altering shades of beige
Like the paled cheeks of a once-rosy Lolita
It's a sad story, that of the tassel

Tuesday, March 5, 2013


No, you can't smoke out the sinister things
And you can't drink away the demons
You never really beat off the bad
And there's no use in scratching at a scar

You can build things up, though,
To cover them, drape and dress them up
And set fire
Hope it's a glorious blaze – when it all goes up for good

Or keep it, keep it all
The filthy white rag of yourself
You have to look at it, crushed and damp
You can try to squeeze the ink out

The blackest bits of you
Drip, drip, drip
A reversed constellation would assemble
Cobalt freckles, flaws on tile floor

Then you would face it,
The black and white mirror at your feet
Only the ugly
And you have to look at it

You have to look because no one can look for you
At your little devils,
Damnable thoughts,

Then you'd see it – the delicate darkness
Negligible jots on an expanse of white
Such a slight stain you made
Your sins, on this infinite marble