(Inspired by part of this old, atrocious "poem" of mine, http://octaviusromulus.livejournal.com/31090.htmlRead more... )

or, What is Poetry, really?

It's what happens when you take a moment,
fold it, squeeze it,
tear off the extra edges,
and stuff it into a glass bottle
as hard as you can
(the good ones fit more easily).

You force the stopper on the bottle
and throw it into the sea.

And you can only hope that one day ( Read more... )

The air, thick and cold ( Read more... )

I know a place where time runs thick,
lapping soft and still like a
forgotten pond in the blue twilight.

It lets you linger patiently,
the heavy dewdrop moments hanging
from every shallow breath.

You may find it when you listen
for the full silence in the noise -
you will already know its name.

Call you somebody
people to want you.
Fix you Fix you
Somuchprettysure.

Are there wandering men ( Read more... )

If you let it,
this afternoon will rush
eagerly by.
Hushed and clear,
it hastens to its
golden end.
This kind of afternoon
tiptoes past with
padded paws,
tempting you to
skim its sheets,
to pass harmlessly
high overhead.

Take care then to stare.
Delve your eyes into
the depth of open air.
Somewhere in there
you can find the butterflies.
Pry open the ( Read more... )

An African man in Africa lives in a tent ( Read more... )

Memory always fails
cloudy days.
When we look back
expecting a framed image
of that murky ceiling,
All that's there is
a square-shaped absence
neatly labeled, ANOTHER.

Lazy afternoons pour like ( Read more... )