Tag Archives: poetry

Words from back in the olden days….

6 Feb

This weekend, I will have work in EarthSoul’s one year anniversary show, and if you live in the middle TN area you should definitely check it out. I’ll write up a few words about the reception come early next week. Here is the FB event page: https://www.facebook.com/events/464949500232819/?ref=ts&fref=ts

On another note, I found an old journal of mine the other day, which is the type of thing that can be wonderful or painful. But there were actually a few poems that took me by surprise, and I have decided to share them with you. If you don’t like poetry, read no further. If you do, you might not want to read either because I don’t know that they’re any good. But if you’re somewhere in between and you know nothing about poetry but don’t mind it….these are for you….


Today is my epic deathblow.

It’s a marathon run,

For the people to blame.

Because it’s dark
and the “stars” are flaking.
My throat has swollen up
from the dust.
The dead skin cuts

deeper than you’d think.
Yet the smoke still
seeps through to sink.
And its my own
suffering marrow.
Now I’m the snide one
who is closest.
The privileged one.
My feet are blessed
to creep around aching,
And make my guesses
just the same.
He could fight away the sting,
cushion a bloated organ.
Filled with biting little white cells,
shedding themselves of outflow.
They said I had too many to function.
So that’s why they can’t be trusted.
Three by three, and two by seven,
All before August.
Eight passed by in this game.
And surely the time
is almost up.
This flawed appendage
will shrink.
It’s not bleeding to regrow.
Rather its sore,
like those roasting deep scratches.
Hurt, inches away and aging
from the red skin rusting.
Instead, this unkind tide
can be heard in tempo.
Right around the corner,
with perfect aim,
taunting me to rethink.
Its slowly rolling in
under disguise,
but a weapon all the same.
With all of its lifeless,
dull, aching pain in motion.
Full of things to get tangled in,
for crushing, like jellyfish tentacles.
So many poisonous cells
to drink down the deepest.
They’re heartless,
mindless with blame.
They can’t hear you
scream into your pillow,
But you’re used to that type.
Better to keep your black tongue
bit and broken,
as you choke on the salt,
and throw up the water.
The arguments are
peeling off the weakest.
Going to live
with all those cells, I think.
This acerbic sacrifice,
this mordant bump,
with all of its stretching sorrow.
My coat of rapture
and logical things.
Poking out of the coffin,
gone off for coddling,
for his bar stools and fame.
His futile stories to tell and proclaim,
after all, if someone should
get what they’re wanting,
it should be the one
who dreams with ego.
Toothless beer guts and bourbon,
green-toothed drive-thru binges.
Acid drips saying, “did not care”
onto skin dissolving in and out,
screeching, “does not care”
And now, here, see,
this pink egg bubbles,
wrapped in the skin
of your sleeping tongue.
It was warm and safe,
it rested like a promise….
Your stomach told in a joke,
the punch line to name.
But, still, once below….
must have hurried back to Eden.
No one to start over again,
even for faking.
Barbed flashbacks of hell,
over and over,
Without warning,
without disclaimer.
The pattern of swallowing.


Someone will come along and see
me here, so lost in this.
These fish scales, peach and green
nets of tiny planets
turning white, four by four,
as the light leaves its fingerprint.
Seaweed sneaking
away under the bed, inch by inch.
It’s only a tangent,
although a valid one.
Because that’s what Universes
are made of.
Those are the grapes just floating,
bobbing in the air.
The ones we could use,
though they’re just tiny parts.
Dancing together at the ball,
in bubbling dresses,
soon all to leave.
Going home to their
less magnificent
corners of the room.
But at this moment,
it’s monumental.


Maybe it’s Mania,
maybe it’s sickness,
This tick,
that loses the winters.
Who needs it anyways?
Spring was what mattered,
carrying that January stream,
carrying a blessing
to blocked and infected tubes.
No one could blame me,
so you’d think,
and yet they do.
Death and murder,
justice and valor.
Oh, God,
wherever have you gone….


These bones may be strong and these muscles tough,
but be rest-assured, they are breaking.
All these twisting blood roots, they raise like warnings,
and, just like that, the heart becomes the enemy.
Like the joke he told as all hands were held,
with a web resting on that heart.
And know for certain that it is a sickness
with a perfected fit.
And it will, oh it will, Tighten.


God-sent kind of day

14 Nov

ImageI returned to my studio this morning to find that my paintings are a lot better off than I remember leaving them, which I think has given me the last push of motivation I needed to FINALLY finish this series. Today, hopefully.

I won’t spend much time writing so I can get to work, but I will leave you with a poem I found while transferring into a new journal. 


Fucking the world in a cold sweet hot exhale on some sudden winter night
Christmas Eve wrapped around your soul with a devil studded bow.
Cherries on top, up above the universe through your heart’s own carnival.
Your tongue bleeds sugar.
You’re seeping out salt water and standing as strong as a wave crashing over a fiery moon.
Sweat leaks out into the air. 
Syrup that’s as pink as my organs, black as my lungs, bitter as whiskey.
Fingers dragging with passion across milk that moves with jello heaves of pleasure,
and pain and hate and shame and orgasm.
This breeds every organism that is the composite of death and love and art and any other enigma that is the point, the purpose of breathing in and out every day,
over and over again as if you never dreamed of stopping long enough to feel relief,
only to realize the price was everything.