Tag Archives: prose poetry

Endoscopy

One night, my roommate walked in on me,
Knife in hand, cutting away
(I had a sliver of glass in my skin,
And it was easier to cut to the bone
Than to live with the sting)

The other day, I dropped a lead weight
On my foot, and as soon as I convinced myself
It wasn’t broken, I went back to work
(At four in the morning, when the ache
Had grown too great, I drilled through
A toe to relieve the pressure from the bruise)

(Which is all to say,
There is so much I have excised
From my life,
So much I have cut away for making me weak,
So little I hold onto after the first time it hurts me)

(Which is all to say,
For me to keep you so close to my heart,
I must want you more than I want my own blood)


Another Ghost Story

This is how I haunt myself: with creaking floorboards and rustling curtains in a house gone silent; with lights flickering in broken windows against a moonless sky; with laughter and sobbing and anger and joy in a space that has not known the warmth of life in years.

This is how I haunt myself: with superstition and ritual, asking cold entrails in an empty room if a ghost still loves me.


Confessions

I love you as a child, for though I have grown as large as the world, I remain a pup nestled in the crook of your arm.

I love you as the man you saw when you set your hands to clay and baked me in the kiln of your vision.

I love you for the future I could see in your skin, the shadows of your eyes, the shape of your lips, the warmth of your body.

I love you for the memories you hold, the folds and curves of your brain that make facts from the rumors of my existence.

I love you for the way you love another, and so doing, glow with a guiding green light for the lost souls of the Earth.

I love you because I can imagine the kisses I would lay upon your cheek, and though I would never dare, I can see so clearly the home they would find there.

I love you.


Premonitions of a Coffee Shop Conversation

If it even happens, we’ll sit in silence, my tongue numb in my mouth, and yours locked away in the same place you keep your heart secret and safe, and in the end we’ll just get up and leave.

Or maybe we’ll confess our sins, and there will be tears but we’ll feel better about things. Everything will be different, nothing will be the same, but at least we’ll feel better.

Or unlikeliest of all, we’ll talk and see eye-to-eye, and we’ll smile and laugh, and our hands will touch, and in time so will our lips.

But I doubt it.

I’ve spent my life torturing myself with imagined words. Why stop now?


2 AM, Eternally, Part Two

How holy these parking lot kisses. How much holier still for their impermanence. Such sweet samsara, these moments. Kiss, part, remember, repeat.


Camera Obscura

Thank God you take so many pictures. If you didn’t, where else would I exist? I am a phantom of memory, an afterimage in family photos and vacation shots, in lovers’ portraits.


Who Says It Can’t Buy You Happiness?

How’d I get rich?

I found something. A book. And in it was a spell to alter reality. Use a big enough sacrifice, get whatever you want. So long as the sacrifice has “value.”

But the caster doesn’t have to be one that values it.

So, please. By all means. Keep wishing you were me.


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