One of my favorite forms of literature. It can be as small or limited as basic haiku and still produce a verbal or visual impact much larger than it seems. In that way, poetry can be subtle and deceptive, sneaking past our eyes and striking our minds with explosive accuracy. It's as boundless as we want it to be and oftentimes we can't contain it, like thought.
On Mother's Day
Every mother deserves...
Orchids of orchids
and chorus and choirs
of angel and children are
thankful and painful...
Strangers strangely share sincerity
“hate has a sincere bond with the unacquainted”
but after enemies introduce themselves
you never know what you’re gonna get.
Grandma’s first child
is old now. She still laughs
cries, nags me, I nag her. She’s such
Things We Don’t
Friction filled words
like sand, dirt
create a mud that
sticks to you.
Sometimes between your toes
staining your face after you wash
like fate, coincidence
or a bad decision.
making your body
dependent on the page.
Now you have to write.
Canaries give flight
hang up their hats and wing work
while the browns go green.
Waking to planet pelvis
her moist moon satellites
are stilts to inner space.
Sharing the broken chaos of indecipherable clocks
a cliché line about silence
and the carnal instincts of my oni,
says I should probably call my wife,
maybe she’ll join us.
But heaven forbids dark legs
to walk their native land.
In her bed Do something for someone else, anonymously.
If I could reason with Time
or destroy it, I would
team up with sand
overflow the hourglass
and burst the restraint because
preserving wishes while living in fantasy means
reality lacks the warmth of your touch.
An Hour Back (preview)
Existence is a synecdoche
written in destinys’ flimsy language.
Knowledge brings more questions
silence says I’m trying to understand.
I spoke of death as the cure to life
while most try to treat the symptoms,
begging for an hour back.