The Blog

departure

at the night parade

forever making poems in the lap of death

Rwanda Genocide Remembrance 1024x682 forever making poems in the lap of death

Humanity i love you
because you would rather grieve and rage
than enquire whose hands these are which
would be embarrassing for all

sightseeing

To know prison is to know a world too small to hold love’s absence. // Kelly Rose Pflug-Back, For T

prison is a stillborn
two small grey hands, fists
that’ll never move nor open

i have known many hands
too small to hold love’s absence
 
 
and there is a difference
between the absence that makes
the child reach out and cry

and the absence that is
long accepted
 
 
wail and be moved all you want
i know a great many places filled
with a great many men still

and some walk the halls
taking pride in this

thirty-four men per box built for two

all of them efficiently quiet
as the sounds of your rages and of your open hands
coming together in prayer walk the halls loudly, loved

the jungle does not know i am here and i am beatific

my temple, my temple

how filled you are, how holy
and uncaring you are of me

as it should be

if as i slept you were ever to stop
and wait for me
i would not forgive you

the moment you realize me you will shrink and
when these bugs stop biting i will hate you
please do everything while i’m not looking

as it should be

as it is
i am not here

rejoice, rejoice

the air cannot tell
what form it has, that nor this
mirror the colour

frankenstein notes

I:

for a thing to be consider alive it must meet two conditions…

  1. It must be hurtling towards death, but not so fast
  2. It must be ignorant of its path, but not so much

 
 
II:

as it sat up it looked around
then at me, then asked
“how do you deal with the smell of your own rotting flesh?”
 
 
III:

how does it know the human tongue?
monster
Monster
MONSTER!
it is not alive
It is NOT alive
if it Is i don’t know
 
 
IV:

“what does it mean to be human?”
“what does it mean to be human?”
“what does it mean to be human?”
It babbles

ready to die (all I want is bitches, big-booty bitches)

I skunk fly through pussy heavily
nights and cities I don’t care to remember
looking for trouble I can grasp but barely handle

all I want is trouble, I’m knee-deep in

something Hispanic, Mediterranean, ebony
French— Pepé Le Pew, je vis pour le funk
hardcore, je mourrai pour le funk

dog days

You wake early, but today she wakes earlier and makes you coffee, wow— you let it go cold as you’re both unapologetically late for work. Like Texas, every room feels like Texas.

How Can One Judge The Quality And Worth Of Poetry?

In his essay The Poet and These TimesHugo von Hofmannsthal said about the poet: “It is as if his eyes had no lids.”

This is the only means by which I judge the quality of a poem, the only constant—if I am made to feel that way about the poet (all other qualifiers seem to be fickle and superfluous). However numerous and creative the patterns, the qualities of the materials, or the opinions of the times, Art will forever be a see-through dress.

tourists

Rwanda Genocide 1024x706 tourists

The strangers in the woods must mimic squirrels and crackle with the undergrowth. They must not flinch at the cruelty of breaking golden leaves with their feet, or of interring stones. // Rigoberto Gonzáles, The Strangers Who Find Me in the Woods

we follow Moirai down as she points
at the homes of the unturned stones

                                               there
                            and there
and once there

we are as graceless as sinking pigs
but a sight less cruel somehow
breaking leaves
                             spouse and spouse
child and child
                            (there and there
and once there)

archeologists will discover a paradise
in the place no touch died of neglect