I wonder if creativity
is just one more mutation; a misfiring
of neurons that chances
and makes something
Quadratics and late nightsQuadratics and late nightsQuadratics and late nights by Tyrison
If I am x
then you are y, because
every time I derive
you, I find
[you are the sum
You were born to be a king"You were born to be a king."You were born to be a king by Tyrison
You were born
to be a flame, a burning
that only intensified
as time went by
[they doused you
because they were afraid
but you gifted them
with the glass
Here and then goneHere and then goneHere and then gone by Tyrison
i fight as one
who beats the air
for lack of retaliation
that warms my blood
[apathy is too cold, too
reptilian to live on; i
will take my chances
i fight as one
who beats the air
because you are all
around me, and by chance
i might finally touch you
[and know you
are with me]
you needn't worry
about me for long -
i am altogether too
like the late summer's grass
Take me as I could beTake me as I could beTake me as I could be by Tyrison
My mind has a revolving frequency
cast out to me - to remind me
that I am a background
child. I am the sepia of long-
forgotten tradition, an old soul
trapped in contemporary blues
and steel guitars and,
is my hometown
[i am a shade
of it, a passing cloud's
misery, for only
[i have become
the street, filthy
Don't worry. I
long - just
until you might miss me
when I leave.
[then you can realize
that my heart's always been
where i left it -
Tips on Getting Me Through a CrisisLove me.
Remember I am still
the woman you know.
I am still found
in every part
of this body's rhythm--
I am in the ka-thump, ka-thump
of my heartbeat,
the steady flow
of blood that courses rivers
on its way to these limbs.
Remember that. Even when I seem gone,
I am still here.
Do not promise to never leave.
People leave. Hearts grow old
and heavy; I do not want
to be a burden you carry--
I do not want to be an obligation
to a promise.
If you need to leave,
leave, but be honest
if you tell me
you're coming back.
Ignore the voice in your head
lying to you. I am tired. I am weary,
but my heart has not gone
and I still appreciate you.
Forgive me for not singing
my usual songs. I have not forgotten
or moved on without you,
but the plover nestled behind my tonsils
swoops, swoops. She believes
she protects me, even as her beak
splits my throat.
Remember and remind me.
I may be hiding
beneath the covers,
tucking myself into a cupboard
like a skeleton,
or scratching through walls
Splinteryou sift over my palms
like ice, splintering
as i frantically try
to tetris you back whole -
but your smile is too crooked,
and your ribcage is stilted, and
your laugh is glazed and unfocused;
you will do your best
to please me. i am
clinging your fragments to my skin,
longing for warmth.
shattered glass and a million other things i amyou should be home by now.
echoes of the sea,
pocket full of sky
another ode to silence
these are the empty desires of hollow girls.
her name was death, she rode a pale horse
under the moon, and so
i'd like to thank you for ritual suicide because
am not a winter flower,
i can't keep walking on these dry rot bones.
a note from an angry feminist:
somewhere in a dream, nowhere in reality,
there is a goddess in the rain
breathing flames with icicle lungs
(a little water with her wine.)
lies are beautiful, the truth is not.
ReubenHe wakes up reaching for the keyboard and mouse before his glasses,
Taking his warmth and sticky skin with him.
The music plays.
He drinks his water, always too much water, and devours it's tasteless washing
Focusing on his work and play, his fingertips pound and dance.
The music blossoms,
I mistake the grin as one for me, and I turn beaming,
Only to find him face to face with a monitor
Announcing another button pressed perfectly in time
with the drums that pound his blood
And the patterns of thought nestled in his skull
That shoot around my heart, never hitting, but never stopping,
So at least I know he tries.
The music stops,
And silence is sweet.
The numbers finally match and he takes me in,
In all my squandering searches for meaning in empty boxes
And one letter texts that come seconds too late.
I count his eyelashes in search of "the spark" and pixie dust.
He counts mine for even numbers.
I smile at the definitions I can't find,
At how he perplexes me with by lacking an
I'm not much of a poet.I'm not much of a poet when I talk about
how the sun rises and sets and
sends tendrils of fire across the sky, or
how flower petals lift their faces toward morning
with a beauty uncapturable, unfolding eager petals
into the waiting feet of frost-laden bees, or
even how your smile curves so carefully
across the distance between us that it reminds me
how unfair it is to hate you for things you cannot change -
I'm not much of a poet. I will never find the words
to properly describe the feelings you bubble within
my blood vessels, the taste of your devotion as it
sweetens my tongue, the smell of your disgrace
as it sours my thoughts of you.
Late OctoberOctober rain spills on top of fallen leaves; puddles of water over red, orange and yellow. Glassy pools of color raging in a last flourish of life. The drops are cool on the tongue and refreshing- sending a shiver down my spine as they drip down my neck.
Autumn's rushing wind
Little lakes of brilliant hues
Fields of thriving corn.
i breatheBreaths too shallow for deep lungs.
violetcan't we be skinny
and in love?
can't we eat of the fruit
and drink of the lips
and find in one another
the lion and lamb?
no, because if you are,
then i am not.
like the sun and the rain
and only through dramatic circumstance
can we coexist.
if your eyes were less red
and my eyes were less blue,
the world might be less . . .
well, you know, don't you love?
lunch over a table so small,
i paid for mine and you paid for yours,
and maybe next week
i'll starve myself instead.
humans are quite foolish, yeah?
my hands shake at you,
caffeine, fear, blood, sugar.
i live for you.
i live for you.
my hands shake
because i live through you.
changedi wish i could write
like i used to,
about stars and rain and hypothetical
but i'm not that
person anymore -
i can't write in
fixed forms with
out breaking the
i can't imagine myself
as a three year old with paper boats
and paperclip anchors.
i'm reusing old memories
and it's this cycle of
it's all the same now
and i can't go back,
but i can't go forward.
i'm locked in to writing about myself
or referring to the same person
The Different Ways To Say I Love You“Do you like my beard?”
“I like it shorter.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I like you.”
“But not my beard.”
“It’s so scratchy!” “But you don’t have to cut it short for me.”
“But you want me to.”
“I just want you.” “You could grow your beard to the floor and I’d still want you.”
“What would you do, if I grew it to the floor.”
“Well, braid it, obviously. With flowers and colored yarn. And then you could tuck it into your belt, like a dwarf.”
“Yeah, but you’d have to braid my hair, too. You’d have to learn to braid.”
“With flowers and colored yarn.”
“All the way to the floor. We’d have to live in the forest, then.”
“We’d be matted with twigs and leaves, then.”
“When it got to ratty, I w
our daughter, lost at sea*
it's the way the world looks on the other side, you know
how water would be sky, but for the ripples
so i see her in the smooth black pools of coffee cups
the creases of my bed-sheets
like fingerprints on glass
and you here, where my collarbone meets the shoulder
our lives, just as they are,
Fragment #5There are sea shells in my ears
and they are dripping with the sound of the
sea; it whispers, let me be,
let me be.
Today My Hands Reek of Doctor Office SoapBecause I frantically washed my hands in the back room
Because I’m one anxious little fuck when it comes to needles and
Crying children in the hallways and rooms where the walls are paper thin
Because I nearly pass out when needles are stuck into my arm several times
Because no one can ever find a goddamned vein the first time
Trying to calm myself as the doctor comes back in and the first words out of my mouth are
“So what are some good anxiety medications these days?”
The Land Where The Sun BleedsAmerica.
pierced egg yolk on the side of Route 66 in Missouri,
golden river flowing to Mrs Hippie's flowery vans
blasting psychedelia in The Factory, New York,
Sky Blue as Albuquerque
unlike the underground of Texas,
Texas spitting at the sight of Rhode's thighs kissed by her wife
in sex spiced like Connecticut's nutmeg,
nutmeg trees green as the Green Mountains
as seen by pilgrims when roasting turkey like witches in Salem
(they need Washing tons in the Salish Sea).
Robert Frost provides the New Hamper:
describing yellow trees, yellow like Wyoming's stone park,
but Montana wins with the Rockies,
not as rocky as Idaho's gemstones though,
yet emeralds can't be as green as Portland
or the coffers of bug-eyed Sigel.
Iowa the heart is safe, don't worry,
unlike the pincers of Maine
or the fracking in North Dakota,
or the Sioux's spears below that,
or the depth of the 10'000 lakes in Minnesota.
For something more nice there's Wisconsin's milk,
the mitten of lower Michigan?
Comedy in Ch
.i will not
love for fear
and if a
ivy, i'll cut it
GreenwareGod took a pottery class
and could have spun perfect
pots from the store-bought
clay the instructor found half
off with an expired coupon.
He could have thrown slender
vases on a rickety wheel
or molded leather-hard discards
into elegant tea cups.
The glaze on his biscuits
unblistered; His earthenware
free of crackle; no shivering
to be found on His mugs.
God took a pottery class
and made sure every piece was flawed,
and called them perfect.