Tag Archives: Poetry

Language Games

Poetry is
Everywhere
Today except
In Poetry

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Breakup Song

Tell me everything is alright.
Tell me everything is all right.
Tell me everything is alt-right.
Tell me I don’t look fat in these jeans.
Tell me I’m the one that got away.

Tell me I was your thirst.
Tell me this world wasn’t meant for one as beautiful as me.
Tell me you think of me when you hum.
Tell me my hands are bigger than the president’s.
Tell me I donate enough to hurricane relief funds.

Tell me you bought my book and the shipping was free.
Tell me I’m a white boy from the suburbs what do I know about “suffering.”
Tell me everything will be OK.
Tell me everything will be okay.
Tell me size more or less matters.

Tell me God is binge-watching us.
Tell me you never faked the news.
Tell me I’m more than a hound dog.
Tell me my poem is lovelier than a tree.
Tell me no man is a peninsula.

Tell me the meaning of strife.
Tell me everybody dies in the end.
Tell me there’s someone for everyone to disappoint.
Tell me it’s “lie down” not “lay down.”
Tell me nice guys let the girl finish first.

Tell me what will be will be no more.
Tell me if I liked it then I should’ve put a finger on it.
Tell me he doesn’t taste the same as me.
Tell me your name.
Again.

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Negative Capability #2

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
—Keats

My face is a mirror
And I am its gaze

My finger is a prick
And I am its tip

My lust is a mistress
And I am its boob

My rear is a bum
And I am its couch

My beard is a garden
And I am its gnome

My faith is a habit
And I am its nun

My fear is a mountain
And I am its cliff

My will is a fortune
And I am its heir

My ego is a lion
And I am its pride

My voice is a note
And I am its tone

My wit is a parent
And I am its kid

My life is a ripple
And I am its wake

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Above A Whisper

A previous version of this poem was published in Nervous Lethargy.

I walk on blades
Of grass around
My father’s grave

Avoiding sunken
Markers careful not
To wake the dead

I want to share news
About a great job
My own place to live

The love of a woman
Who finds me
Worthy of affection

But none of this
Has happened
And it’s getting late

I tell him about
Another mild
Chicago winter

And Vegas picking
The Cubs to win
The World Series

My voice breaks
Like mist
Above a whisper

As birds fly in V-formation
Over headstones
Fixed in solemn rows

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Mental Wealth

The people I love
Are my destiny

helpinghand

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Filed under Life, Philosophy, Poetry

Prophet Margins

The Poet is wired
Subconsciously

artificial-synapse

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Filed under Philosophy, Poetry

Rhythm Method

Athena
Touches me
Appropriately

I’m inside her
When her baby cries
Just out of breech
In the other womb

My mania cycles
Sorrow despairs

I spill poems
In Athena’s lap
End a sentence with
A proposition

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

Athena measures
Romantic poets
By the girth
Of their verse

Sorrow draws
Short breaths
Mania spray-paints
Sixteen chapels
In a low-cut dress

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

I spill secrets
In Athena’s lap
Squeeze myself in
Big boy pants

Sorrow prints cursive
Mania face-paints
A traveling circus

Athena counts
Contractions
Backwards
In fractions

Sorrow grows in sighs
Mania builds
Soundproof nurseries
In the blink of an eye

Hips full of mischief
Pique my interest
Loose lips sink
My battleships

I’m beside Athena
When her baby
Throws momma
A bridal shower

My mania cycles
Sorrow despairs

I’m beneath Athena
When her baby
Throws mommy out
With the bathwater

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