Blare of the Birds

Poems Published.

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They’re Not Asking for Radical Solutions

Breathless; shaken; craving the crown of torn clothing and scarcely blanketed In ethic - by the usual. And this is glory- this is breaking ground at sea-level.

opening caverns of rolling waves, grave cries - a crisis of confidence and broken, gleaming bone. Soft spoken lies and for a second I am in their grips until light warms cold skin and erases the memories of my arms The signs of morning break through a late-bloomed hour And fall like rain Into my eyes.

*Published in 2008

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One Baby To Another

the bridge at the back of my neck bends beneath my brain and its’ nest of veins that howl themselves out and close like catacombs - small and damp.

lying beneath this perfect pixilation: your pores in their rows that, once peeled from me, are put away and are heard as they bay for me all night, in the next room.

my back aches where it lies on the mattress and the arches of my feet are peeling off. still, I’ll stand on them and somehow soon reach the corner you cry in.

*Published by Maverick’s 2011 Compendium in December of 2011: https://maverick.whisperingcoyote.net/wordpress/?tag=compendium

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Ketchum

He’s growing sad - Reloading in the dark basement, crowded in by crumbling boxes and olive-green curtains.

He’s been assured of his rebirth. So, spoiling the air with the stench of blood means nothing.

The taste of wind and sand howls in his mouth, even as he stands here mutilating himself and muttering that once, though a long time ago, days were longer and easier to live through.

*Published by Psychic Meatloaf Journal in April of 2011: https://www.psychicmeatloaf.com/

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Grown in Half

Kiss my collarbone goodbye.

Cut, crisscrossed, against its ridges and, for the last time, engrave your teeth on my skin.

Burrow them under my blood vessels and tear the feeling from my breast.

And when you’re finished, lick the taste of me from your lips, slow and try to birdcage it in your brain so that, someday, you can sit and listen to the memory of me sing.

Lift your head from the prospect of my final harvest and there will be the face of my affection for you - hollow, and watching your appetite end.

*Published in December of 2010.

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Luckiest

Today, while it was still warm, I walked for hours in the sun.

I imagined that my arm was elbow-deep into your bones - the brittle white cage that protects your pulse.

I broke the shell of you - pulled at the cords and squeezed them between my fingers, tangling and tearing any fiber that would be frayed.

I tired their loose ends back together and lingered in your cavern, carving into the walls any words I thought beautiful.

I imagined that your blood was slick and orange - full of pregnant seeds. You: A pumpkin I was harvesting. And I felt warm and healthy.

I imagined you, rotten and melting into the dirt beneath my feet.

*Published in December of 2010.

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This Is Never Going To End

Sideways veins, like wine bottle countries, bruise and face east - gurgling, drowned in Ophelia skin.

Tender white, I am unkissed and aligned to perfect - both arms overturned through the water. Warm and hidden away from the air that settled into the lines around my mouth.

Gone under, sunk like morals, I bend to the weight of wailing - a kind of godless relief.

Apples lower the branches overhead - full and closer to me, bending the grass on the banks neaby with sunny seeds that chip away my teeth.

I move like rotting glaciers around the curves of throats, sweet fingers travelling around the jaw - across a dry mouth that dies, grinning blindly up into some kind of sun.

*Published by Psychic Meatloaf Journal in April of 2011: https://www.psychicmeatloaf.com/

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I’ve Said Too Much

Your lips pressed to my ears are wild bats hissing and biting down on this feral birth - the sounds of your words like ragged roots.

It’s like clinging to the faucet, full of ravenous thirst, and trying to pull the drops out with your tongue -

the water tasting warm - all dirt and growing grass, turning green the mouth it fills - enraging a dry desire and satisfying nothing.

I am frantic in thie new skin that gapes around my smile when, somewhere, there is your speaking.

The veins in my eyes move, suddenly damp, to you.

And there is another ringing of reaction in me from your fingers around my throat; my spine -

Or from the religion I feel from your touch: Pale and angry.

I gather my muscles and pile them into your hands and pour away the rest.

*Published by Maverick’s 2011 Compendium in December of 2011: https://maverick.whisperingcoyote.net/wordpress/?tag=compendium