Non-Fiction-Poetry

Drip. Drip. Drip. You kayak in the moonlight Black sparkling water Smooth and easy I dream of you as the liquid in my IV slowly drips My fevered imagination speaks to the moon And is answered in a strange language Drip. Drip. Drip. Waves of silence turn slowly I see you from the shore Reach out to you But you're too far away The swarming stars are friendly And tell me there'll be another time For moonlight kayaking Sing. Sing. Sing. Love overcomes. Dream.

Redemption Does God rage in my bones or is it the flu? I see a bed of nails, a dog of stones. If I could press my spine flat against the nails, curl like a badger between the paws of my cold dog, perhaps I could read my visions as a blind hand reads braille. Is it my death or the world's that trails me, a hound with a collar and dented tags. I envy the saints, their sores, boils and bloody palms. Adornments. Our pain is simply pain. When I was four, they sliced me open, fixed my heart with knives. There is no rapture in this, only that I lived and they saved, hating my pain and feasting death. "Jesus saves," I read

I've lived my life here in this room This room that is most moist and mushy I don't mind; it's warm in here My room is shaped oddly Like a potato with tendrils twisting upwards I feel safe here There is this odd earthquake The entire room throbs and rattles I feel imprisoned I have to get out; have to find a way To get out, out of this room I am locked away; only there is no door I cry and pound on the throbbing walls Screaming my throat hoarse But there is no answer–just that dreadful throbbing No one can hear me; I doubt My yells echo throughout the emptied room No ears or eyes just numb skin–and that terrible thumping I f

Wedding "It's my wife and it my life." -- Lou Reed I wore your white shirt, the tails brushing my knees. I fed you pastries stiff with sugar, flacks of icing like rice on our sheets. I twined lilies in my hair, my legs around your back. I tasted almond, rum, myself on your tongue. "Till death do us part." I still wear the ring. How could your death an OD statistic in some LA coroner's file change that vow? You were already dead when you said those words, brown sugar in your veins, the pupils of your eyes shriveling into closed points.