Monday, December 29, 2014

The Mad Ones Use Poetry

“Don't use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.” 

            ― Jack Kerouac

"I realized these were all the snapshots which our children would look at someday with wonder, thinking their parents had lived smooth, well-ordered lives and got up in the morning to walk proudly on the sidewalks of life, never dreaming the raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, our actual night, the hell of it, the senseless emptiness."

Friday, December 26, 2014

The Words Between Them

He writes them on her heart.
Imprinting himself there. 
So she won't forget.

He writes them.
Until the words cover her.
Until she is covered with him.
The words, slick on her body.
She is marked, for all the world to see.

The letters move
sliding over her skin, snaking and rearranging, 
by magic
freeform prose, runs together, bleeds apart
forming small bridges to his soul.

Electrons fall to their band,
particles scramble themselves into chaos, 
flowers arch towards the bright sunbeams
Everything bends
towards its natural state

He bends towards her. 
He arches his back; reaches to touch her lips. 
He scrambles - he is her - and she is he - and they are one - into chaos; her wild hair everywhere
He falls into her bed.

When he thinks of her,
she knows.
The words burst from his soul but out of her heart,
And tumble across her, 
She is covered 
in smudges of lust.

And she won't forget,
Because he has imprinted himself, etched their story on her body and soul.
On her heart.