Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category


Space, occupied.

July 16, 2018

Twisted and tied up,
a pretzel person flexible and fluid
Set free to swing in these ropes,
With a desire to push further than once thought possible.
We stretch and strain muscles,
expanding elasticity –
body and mind aligned in a mission of how to find ways
to occupy space and
make sensible use of time,
finite though it may seem
there’s still so much of it in a day.

Ample opportunities to play,
to have a say in the ways
we inhabit the hours,
even when giving over that schedule to someone else’s dream.
We can scheme to get away,
to escape
but perhaps the place to start,
an opening of heart
and seeing that this isn’t such a bad way
to spend the day.
And if it is so,
then go,
get out and find somewhere else to be,
keep digging at the foundations
of who you would like to see yourself as
until sanity reigns
and sense finds itself at home on the daily.

Because anything else just seems crazy.


The commodification of art, aka I made a thing you can buy!

May 25, 2018

Hello. It’s been a while since I posted here and the reason for that is because I’ve been writing a book. To be fair, the book was mostly already written, and it was just a matter of putting it together. But so I have, it has a cover and everything (THANK YOU AUTUMN!!!!) and there are just a few incidental details to take care of before it gets printed.

One of those details is, how many copies should I print? I was just going to pick an arbitrary number and print that many and if I sold them all, yay! And if not….. not as yay? And I’ll be honest, I was thinking it would be a very low number, because self-doubt and my ability to whisper from the back, ‘anyone wanna buy a book? No? Okay, cool. That’s what I thought.’ in an attempt to perpetuate the narrative my voice of unreason would have me believe is truth is a thing.

I sincerely believe that my voice of unreason played one of the false alarms in labyrinth and acted as an extra on some scooby doo episodes (you’ll never make it, turn back, certain doom awaits you, I’m sure you’d be much happier hiding under a blanket for the rest of your life wouldn’t you?) and obviously spends far too much time reliving those glory days within the confines of my head. Are your feet sore, voice of unreason? Because you’re stomping on my dreams.

But mum suggested I ask people, in advance of printing, if they want to buy one.

So. Here it is plainly.

I wrote a book.
It’s due to be released on or about the summer solstice. No later than that, but potentially sooner.
It’s a book of poetry called the Mechanics of Dreaming.
It has cover art designed and crafted most beautifully by my most talented friend Autumn Marie Toennis, for which I could not be more ecstatic.

If you want to order it, let me know so I can determine how many copies are reasonable.
It costs $15 if you get it from me in person.
It costs $20 if I mail it to you.
Email transfer works best.



Logophilic rumination

March 9, 2018

What is it to be wordsmith?
To use symbols to try and make sense?
Or dwell in the absurd, if one can find the right word
The task can sometimes seem immense.

And writing in rhyme can sometimes consume
Leaving oneself without much space or room
To explore beyond parameters set in their way
Though I could do couplets all goddamn day

But it’s more about expansion, growth and the new
Learning things daily is important too
Stuck in the same ruts
Can make one a bit nuts
It’s a good thing to eschew

Okay, enough of that for now. Here’s the thing about words. They are universal as math and music, though the language, the dialect shifts from place to place. Sometimes they take the form of pictures, gestures, body language, scent, a gaze, but these are all symbols used to communicate.

I read someone say once that they don’t believe in synonyms, which is a notion that appeals greatly to me. I love the idea of each word having its own perfect application. It’s the reason why I have my clock device set to 24 hour time, I like the idea that every hour gets its own number, rather than having to share. I know that not everyone shares my love of the written word (more than spoken, though a well spoken word can certainly have an affect…) and that’s okay. I don’t share an affection for some stuff other people might like. But the thing that words do, the place that they occupy in my world is so intrinsic. I love being in bookstores, in libraries, because I am surrounded by them. I feel sane, and safe.

The best way to get me is with words.
To find a word and present it, as a gift for my consumption.
You can be the best looking dude on the beach, but if you can’t speak like Shakespeare, it’s only going to get you so far. And I’m not talking thine and forsooth, it’s not about the era, the age of the language, even the poetry of it. It’s how they’re used, their depth and breadth. Their girth, if you will.

I want to be filled up by the words,
to feel stretched as my body,
my being,
my mind expands,
reconfigures itself to encompass the meaning,
the weight those words bring to me.

I want to feel the characters, those black etched indicators of intent.
I want to feel the loops and swirls
of words like loops and swirls
curl around my shoulders like a cape,
to feel twine wind itself around strands of hair
and braid itself there.
To know that anchor is keeping my feet steady
While feather is keeping them light.
That fire finds home in my smile
And laughter makes my eyes bright.
I want to encompass language
and become good friends with truth,
feel consternation in the furrow of brows
And yea, occasionally use even forsooth.

Whether words inspire revelation
Or struggle to describe the banal,
they’re imprinted within me, every last syllable.
I’m madly in love with them all.




March 4, 2018

So, I did the thing I do,
With my tendency to get intoxicated,
I got so drunk on you.
Until my vision blurs and all those traits that should make me crosseyed
get a pass.
I overlook, and then I overstep,
having lost my ability to think critically
And intrinsically know where my feet should go.
I forget to breathe,
breath held in anticipation of anything you might need,
hopeful that at some point the thing you need
will be me.
As though I’d like to be a place your pendulum can come to rest
Some kind of happy medium
Away from the frantic swing
Of push and pull.
A middle distance,
somewhere you might stare into,
A spot on the horizon, a future you might end up in
Without the consideration that it’s a place many look at
But not everyone sees.

And so I rally, I rail
I expose myself readily.
I want you to see me,
really see me,
But is that really possible?

I appear to the world as fragments,
lines of poetry tied with ribbons of red hair
and laughter
looping long legs that love to dance,
though sometimes they trip.
There is plenty of stumble and grumble in these pieces of me.
Much furrowed brow and what the fuck is happening now,
Mixed with general confusion and malaise for days.

And so which of me, do I desire you see?
Brave face facsimile presented in snapshots and single line status updates?
Broken bits of metaphor wrapped in an evolutionary fabric of time that’s softened my sharp edges to a dull roar?

A dreamer,
A schemer of plans to be better
If not more,
Certainly not less.
A girl who finds a way to fit comfortably in all of her places,
her nooks and crannies,
tumultuous spaces,
With a summer storm smile sincere without guile
Poetry that spills
from the curve of her lips
From the light in her eyes,
In the sway of her hips.
A wordsmith who knows sometimes,
just what to say
But forgets to get out
of her own way.


Love affairs – a trifecta of drabbles

February 20, 2018

His eyes were sad and dreamed of a poetry he thought lost to him.
He told himself that he’d searched for it in the familiar curves of his wife’s body, that she hid from him, leaving him no choice but to look elsewhere.

He spotted it in the golden eyes of a girl with a whiskey smile that promised the kind of forgetting he craved. Her eyebrow arched very pointedly at his ring finger.

“Touch her the way you would me.”

He recalled the words she’d whispered under the music as he reached for his wife in their darkened bed.


“This isn’t forever.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Nothing lasts forever.”
“Do you think you’ll die?”
“Of course I’ll die, everyone dies.”
“I didn’t ask if you’ll die, I asked if you think you’ll die. There is a difference.”
“I see. Well, to be honest it’s easy to think of other people dying, they do it all the time. But I rarely do, so perhaps on some level I’m not convinced I will.
“So how can you say you know this isn’t forever if you don’t think you’ll die?”
“Because nothing lasts forever, and darlin, this is most certainly not nothing.”

He’d spent his lifetime meticulously pasting photographs into albums, labelling the heavy dark green paper with dates written in the special silver inked pen he kept in its own small drawer in the roll top desk.
Every page carried the weight of years, incrementally, giving the passage of time a tangible heft, as though it were something he could jingle in his pocket as he walked. He often wandered from past to present, his memory rich with timeless moments.

Though none of those came close to the way he felt, even now, when she smiled at him, in that way.


Day two. Write me one sentence to tell me who you really are.

February 4, 2018

Am I so very simple
to be encapsulated thus,
To be summed up in one sentence
Without any kind of fuss
And what should be the topic
The tone, the bent, the play
The most accurate direction
To most convincingly portray
The me who is the most me
Beyond the flesh and bone
To the soul that’s carried round
In the skin it calls a home
A symphony of stardust
Atom based anatomy
From the furthest inside out
Vibrating at a frequency
That is congruent with the warp
And weft of poetry
As at home on the land as a dreamer in the sea
But something more than parts of some
Star parts that might have drifted
There is a well of consciousness
In this body I’ve been gifted
That likes to think of things astounding
Things that could amuse
That makes decisions based upon the hope
I don’t need to put on shoes
And brain is sometimes silly
Filled with wit and calculation
Knowing that a sentence end
Requires punctuation
And so if I continue thus
Then I should win the day
Using rhyming couplets
To be clever, never say
The thing I know you’re waiting for
Though I deflect with rhyme
Now and then, I’m this or that
But a writer all the time.


Book jacket love affair – a drabble

August 26, 2017

His black and white lips look soft, but like they could be cruel when least expected. I’d like to trace the shadow of his hairline while his hands find me in the dark and pull me in, because there are stories I’ve yet to hear. I want to listen, but those lips that speak in far off worlds and close up kisses distract me.
His eyes are troubled, they harbour a fear of carelessness, there is caution in the set of his jaw. The way he smiles, in those rare moments he’s surprised, makes me fall madly in love. Everytime.

(For Sam Shepard)

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