"The desert bears only a scathing sun, and nothing more."
"What about mirages?"

Sunday, January 30, 2011


Eyelids are still
heavy with sleep.
I feel them
I feel like
I'm drifting--
and yet,
I'm still
standing up.

Friday, January 28, 2011

- - -

I absolutely had to post this video after I watched it a few times. The main reason being that young girls need more role models such as Pink. I know that some of you are probably thinking I'm a little crazy, a little tired right now. But I'm being totally serious.

My friend and I were discussing how a majority of music videos produced and made are of the artist or band singing the song, acting badass or whatever, and how you don't see a lot of videos that elaborate on the song or add to it. She brought up Pink, and we sat down to watch a few of her own music videos.

All the videos we watched had a strong message and a story that related back to the song, and all the while Pink is really doing her own thing. This is pop music (which normally I am not a fan of) that is substantial and influential. I think we need more of that; we need more people who are considered idols or role models to put out there that it's okay to be you, to not always listen to what main stream tells us to do, and the list goes on.

Anyways, I'll stop before this becomes an impassioned rant. The video just hit really hard on an intellectual and emotional level, and I thought it was worth showing.

Edit: The video is actually reversed on Blogger...weird.

Thursday, January 27, 2011


Skittering feet,
funny dooks,
a slinky body
hard to catch.
Shiny objects
and panties

- - -

I have two ferrets (Jo Jo and Boxer), and I love them to death. But they really are a hassle sometimes.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Cold Water.

Up to your neck
it lies still
like soft glass.
Ripples trail
behind a hand,
brisk chill
your shoulders.

- - -

Well, my exams are now all finished, so now I've got a week full of long sweet empty in front of me. This is something I just dashed off to get back in to the routine of writing regularily.

I got this neat little word of the day calendar for Christmas; Today's word of the day is 'mirth'. I think it would be very cool to write a poem everyday, that was based around that particular word. I think I'll try starting tomorrow. Usually when I write poetry, I start with a phrase and then just build off it. I guess when it comes to writing, there's not a lot of planning or prep for me. Words are words, and I feel like it's enough to put them down on the paper. To plan it out would just obliterate the fun of being a wordsmith.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Exam Week.

So these past two weeks have been filled with cramming, stress, eating terribly and more cramming. I'm so not ready for my exams.

But whatever happens, happens. And wherever I end up, I guess that's where I end up! :)

Anyways, I realize posting has been skimpy. It will probably remain that way until about mid week.

Monday, January 17, 2011

No Mercy For The Child.

The slamming of a hard, brittle door. Pounding footsteps that drew nearer with every breath—they sent tremors up and down my spine. I dashed into my closet, slid the door shut behind me and stood there, hoping he wouldn’t sniff me out.

He always did though. I thought when I was younger that he could smell the fear, smell how it stained the air. Our house always smelt like fear. It was sickly sweet, like roses wilting on a humid day.

I wasn’t in the closet even a second before he burst into the room. The smell of alcohol and something I could not identify lingered behind him, clung to his clothing like strands of cobweb. Through the crack in my closet door I could see his musty face, small pricks of greying beard lining his powerful jaw.

I saw him turn and start towards the closet, and I scrunched my eyes shut so I didn’t have to see the savage lurching motions he made as he moved towards me.

The next thing I knew, I was dragged out by my long tendrils of hair. I remember shrieking for my mother, who I knew was in the next room. She wouldn’t come. She always was such a coward.

He beat me then, as he had many times before. His fists rained down on my face, and when I turned away, my back.

“You don’t fuckin’ dump the milk out!” He roared at me. “You useless fuckin’ brat, I’ll take yer head off!”

“It smelled bad!” I screeched in terror. I tried to hold my arms up in a futile attempt to shield myself. “It smelled bad! It smelled bad!” I cried it again and again. I cried it for what felt like impossibly long currents of time; there was no end to the sound of knuckle cracking upon my body.

A few days later, I was outside in the backyard. It was spring time, and despite the chaos and terror that invaded our home each evening, the yard was green and peaceful. When I breathed in, I could taste the rain on the air. I could smell something sweet—I thought it might’ve been all the flowers budding.

The smell of flowers is nothing like the smell of fear.

I was standing on the porch, inspecting my face in the reflective surface of the sliding door. It was swollen and pink, one of my eyes adorned a ring of dark purple, and there was a little cut on my lower lip. When my teachers asked me about all the damage, I could see the concern rippling from their faces. For some reason, concern made nervous. So I pulled my chin up and with a triumphant smile I said, “I got it wrestling with my older brother.”

A downright lie.

As I watched myself, my chin quivered a bit. Tears were welling up and spilling down the contours of my face. I licked my lips and tasted the warm salt in them.

When I looked at my tiny dejected face, I felt ugly. And I felt like I could do nothing right. Something inside me, something that now I cannot decipher, told me that everything was all my fault. My face had crumbled, and in a fit of anger I stomped off the porch in search of something heavy.

Even blinded by anger and frustration at every injustice that had ever befallen me, my hands still managed to locate a fist sized rock, rough and sparkling in the sun.

I hurled it at the porch door. It shattered. And then I ran.

Sunday, January 16, 2011


I see his
crinkling face
eyes caved in
with a smile
and warmth
saturates my bones
from the inside out
until he's gone--
then I feel
the ailment
of empty corners
empty hearts.

Friday, January 14, 2011


Her voice is
like wind
that sing
careless jingles
on my
front porch.

- - -

His voice is
a pounding hammer
punching a nail
dry wall.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

Secrets - Prose.

A letter from one lover to another:

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something about me for a long time now. It’s just every time I work myself up enough to put it on the paper, my walls start caving in around me and my fingers needlessly hit the backspace key until all that I’ve written is erased. It hurts to erase it all, because I know I can’t keep it a secret from everyone forever—someone will find out, and why can’t it be you?

Why can’t it be you?

But I’m torn, lover. We’ve got such a wonderful thing going; it would be a shame to watch you walk away now. I would store my heart away, leftovers in a plastic Tupperware container. I wonder if you’d take a plate of it with you, shove it in your own fridge. Maybe you’ll pull it out once in a while, consider it might be as savory tasting as the first time, and push it to the back again.

But in the same stroke of breath, I also know the only way for this to last is to bare everything, teeth and all. I must relinquish not only the poised, cultured side of myself, but also the raw unhealed structure that keeps all that eloquence standing.

Even now I feel my whole body revolting, lurching for that ever present backspace key. I don’t know why I’m still writing this—maybe I feel like the more I write, the less chance I have to block all this away again.

All this stupid baggage I come with. You must be getting tired of it by now. My bones ache from carrying it around on my shoulders. My brain pounds from creating the exaggerated swirls to cover it all up.

It’s a shame. I was so close this time.”

Your lover.

- - -

Secrets. Whoever invented them must've been an elaborate thinker. They're strange little objects of our brains, aren't they?

I though it might be an interesting excercise to write out what might go through someone's head if they had a big secret to tell. In this case, something hidden from a significant other.

Monday, January 10, 2011

Dusty Guitar.

There's a dusty guitar
in a dark corner--
it once had a home
in my arms.

I pick it up now,
pluck tired strings
with tired fingers
and formulate chords
with tired eyes.

But my fingers
and the strings
unpleasant grinds.

And I place
it back down.
There's no room here
in my full,
tired arms.

- - -

This is just a little something I wrote because I'm dissappointed I don't play as much guitar as I used to. There's just not enough time in the day to get everything done that needs to be done. And the sad part is that sometimes the things I love to do the most have to be dropped for the rest of it.

I used to be quite good. Now my fingers slur and the sound isn't quite so crisp.

Sunday, January 9, 2011

The Web Brings People Together.

This band is interesting. The music was all created by musicians from all over the place. Just goes to show you the power of networking and also the power of the internet:


It's amazing to think that even in the last, I don't know, maybe five years the web has become such a broad kaleidescope of things. You can find almost anything if you know what it is exactly you're looking for. Even if you don't, you might find something even better (I discovered blogging by accident.).

I'm also impressed with the innovation of this EP. The fact that it's so many different people, from different backgrounds, walks of life, whatever. They're coming together to create a work of art. I think in the near future we'll be seeing more and more things like this.

Friday, January 7, 2011

Stories in The Dark.

in dim light
gives my words
an edge
of surrealism--
that which
melting clocks
and endless
are built upon.

Thursday, January 6, 2011


Traffic lights,
An unceasing line
of white, white
the hum of
a million and one

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Country Bumpkins - Prose.

The sky was dark and I sat on the front porch smoking a cigarette. The steps creaked under my heavy feet, and when I leaned forward to rest my elbows on my knees, they groaned in protest. I coughed. The sound of my hack echoed down the empty street; orange gleams from the street lamps created square patched on slick cement. The street was long and old, cracking in places. In the day, it was dusty and you could watch empty beer cans tumble through the gutter and broken glass shimmer in the evanescent rays of the sun.

All the houses in this part of town were tired, crippled things and the one moaning behind me was no exception. The place came with a whole list of repairs—things that needed fixing, needed building, needed something to run. I grimaced when I thought of the backyard. Really there was no backyard at all: it was just a patch of dirt that melded with the gravel alleyway behind the place. All scattered behind there were hungry eyes and smoked doobies. More glass. There was glass everywhere in this part of town.

This was not the place I’d imagined for my children. This wasn’t the place I’d imagined being happy, or growing old with my lovely wife. When I came from the country, from my home place, my head created exaggerated swirls of suburbia. My wallet didn’t have that kind of cash.

I wished for a big house, nice rich neighbors, a beautiful backyard with an oak tree and a swing rope like the one I had on the acreage. In my dreams, when I looked out onto the street I saw children laughing and playing kick ball in the cul-de-sac, kites flying freely and lazily on some far off breeze. I never expected to smell the thick oil of train tracks as they rattled just a few blocks away. I never expected to look out my window and see shady young adults slumping through the shadows of each sickly tree.

But it was a compromise I made for a better life.

When I was still farming, still turning to gold in the autumn sun as I brought in the harvest, I was happy. Most certainly I was happy. But there’s not much cash out there for small independent farmers any more. So I sold my home place to a big cash crop corporation and started dreaming something new.

I heard the front door swing noisily open behind me, delicate steps, and felt a slender body slink down beside me. Even under her petite frame, the steps cried out again in anguish. She had long, golden lengths of straw for hair. Currently it was all pulled into a messy bun.

“It’s awfully late; won’t you come to bed?” She asked me, her hand touched my arm gently, earnestly. “You have to wake up so early.”

All the factory workers did.

I took another long, deep drag on my smoke and then flicked it away. I smiled at her, tried to make it look easy, lazy.

“I will soon, honey.” I said. “I was jus’ thinkin’, that’s all.”

And I was. I was thinking of endless fields of golden wheat that swayed back and forth with the kiss of the wind. I was thinking of the smell of clean, deep earth. I was thinking about how nice it would be to plow the land one more time. And I was thinking about how there was no money in all that anymore.

“What you thinkin’ of?” She asked. Her voice still had that sweet southern drawl, so well hidden with the sprawl of urban life. Sometimes she could shut it off completely, become a complete and utter city slicker.

“Jus’…” I struggled to find the right words. How could I tell her, make her understand that this was not the life I’d planned for her? This was not what I wanted for Danny, and certainly not for my little angel Sally.

I wanted them to grow up strong and healthy, their backs and faces brown from long days in the sun. I wanted them to smell clean country air and I wanted them to love it as much as I did. I wanted to go back to our home place, where the roads and the fields went on for miles, where the only sounds you ever heard was the chatter of chickadees in the day and the chirp and croak of crickets and frogs in the evening.

“We should ‘a never left.” I said finally, leaning back to view a blurry, starless sky. I wondered if there were ever stars in the city. I closed my eyes and strained to hear the sounds of night I missed so ravenously. I heard the dull rush of cars on a busy highway. Far away a siren roared. City sounds.

She put her hand on my back comfortingly, rubbing in sleepy but understanding swirls. I think sometimes she missed it too, though she never out on airs of it. She took everything with a bright smile, made the best of what we had and made plans for what we would have. She was a strong soldier—I wished I was stronger.

“Come to bed soon.” She said softly—she left a delicate imprint of her lips on my cheek. And just like that, she had disappeared into the creaking house.

My eyebrows furrowed with frustration at our situation and also at my own guilt for leaving her in an empty bed.

I took another look at the street laid out before me, hoping by some act of God, we would be back there. We would be back home.

“I should never have left.” I repeated.

I stood up and followed my wife into the house, shutting the door behind me.

Monday, January 3, 2011

The Influence of a Single Word.

A single word
is lost
in a canvas
of blank ocean.
Many words
will steal
the canvas
while still wet
and change
the way
it's all