Narrow Marrow, Bones, and Sparrow

Poetry and other creative writings

[narrowmarrow]

Moving on (Incomplete Song)

Keep your head up, Angel. I see your slipping halo. I’m not your King of Kings: I’m just a fool who knows Woe.

Play my heart like the drums: The beat will march us both home. Didn't die for your sins: Despite my savior syndrome.

Did I manage to help you? Now leave me the hell alone. Was I the perfect rebound To draw poison from your bones?

I have taken all that you had to give: Your sadness / Your loathing Your wasted nights.

You’re ready / You’re willing You’re moving on, So leave me I’m tired Of everything.

[narrowmarrow]

It’s Been A While

My subconscious desire seeps off the page, and bends our relationship toward rage. Never stuck here. Always moving. I pray, “God, keep me from all wards, ways, and swaying.” So in honest recompense Between us, Have the following settle all our debts. Let these lovely, lilting lines enclose you. Allow the measured mutters in this mixed meter match my meaning. I mean this: My urgent lover’s fingers do you harm, As my rash, rude speech ruins us again And again and again. However, my actions have only you–– At their center–– At their center–– my verse has only you.

[narrowmarrow]

What Turns Me On

I cannot express the sugar high that I get 

from freshly bathed genitals

placed unexpectedly,

slowly and gently,

on my lips.

[narrowmarrow]

Serendipity

Our electric age has flooded our experience

Online

we swim in an ocean

with a hundred-thousand fishing lines that connect us.

Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, and a google search

are ponds that we share:

untouchable places where we could have met.

And yet . . . 

of all the rooms in all the world

we recognize each other

in a Starbucks that sits a few miles away

from our past

High School.

[narrowmarrow]

A Poem

A sentiment

A thought transliterated into living symbols

A sound bite

A tracheotomy

A waste of time

A perfusion of emotion

A series of letters read into sound images

Z

[narrowmarrow]

Fell

Waste, waste,

waste away in a land full of waste.

Sniff glue, eat paste,

savor the taste.

Make haste

to the end.

The end. 

[narrowmarrow]

Faith

I want to believe that self-sufficiency is not the path to happiness.

I want to believe that the Lacanian phallic-lapse

is not an abyss that can only be temporarily covered.

Rather, I want to believe that each of us has an amorphous hole

that is truly and completely filled, if only for a moment,

by God, and other people, and experiences;

and that because the fit is not perfect

our lack is stretched and broken in the most beautiful way,

prompting us to seek again God, and other people, and experience.

I want to believe that this process is life,

and any retreat from life into a search for autonomy leads to death.

[narrowmarrow]

I Have No Spark in My Soul to Light You (Alternate Ending)

Like a fireplace

in the Southern California winter,

I put your love to use 

(maybe) two weeks out of the year.

But I have a heater now,

so fuck you:

you can burn the last of my love,

those charred and cracking logs,

until you die without gazing

upon tomorrow's sunrise––

until you sizzle out and snuff it at 4 a.m.

[narrowmarrow]

So Close to Catching up!

A Story about how a careful combination of procrastination, overwork, and lethargy has brought us to this point.

[narrowmarrow]

I Have No Spark in My Soul to Light You

Like a fireplace in California,

your love is only useful

two weeks out of the year,

maybe. Otherwise,

you do nothing and are unused.

Like a wallflower,

your ghost sits in a corner

without fire, passion, growth, or life.

[narrowmarrow]

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