Sliver of the Sky

An untouched sliver of the sky
hung still over the open door of the Honda,
pressing cold bursts of air through
a cracked window.

I watched this jagged bit of heaven,
cut and styled by the sharp points of pine,
throw tiny dark shadows down
across the traffic before he and I -

Amazed,
I watched the little ashen bodies turn pearl,
ghostly, white,
and fall into clumps along the sides of the road.

Less Realistic End Times

A rift in the ocean floor
yawned and opened itself,
thin and red hot,
to the cool embrace of salty sea.

Sharp and focused like a cat's eye,
the light of the rift tore
through murky blue and caught in its glance,
 the quiet stirring of the beast.



Cthulu?!?! WAHHHHHH!!!!!!
     Sorry everyone, getting caught up in Christmas shopping and such makes for not much time to write poems.  I promise you the next one will be much better :)  Merry Christmas, and a happy new year!  Weekly poems will continue January 6th.

Demons of the Westboro Cult

http://www.examiner.com/article/westboro-baptist-church-to-protest-newtown-when-obama-visits-on-sunday

*This poem was written to commit to memory the abject stupidity and blatant apathy shown by the cult known as the Westboro Baptist Church towards the victims of the shooter, Adam Lanza, in the Connecticut Elementary school shooting.  Westboro Baptist Church... I mean honestly.

A resounding "What the fuck?!"
 Passed through my mind
upon realizing this
was attributed to divine

intervention.  God's will
sacrificed little lambs
to undeserved eternity.

God, their god, their demons, 
their lunacy, spewing forth acid
and hurt and sorrow
in the name of judgement,
crooked justice. 

The self-deceived sons of bitches
and their bitches,
blind to the purpose of the cracked mirror 
they hold to the world.

To be expected.  Cults come and go,
but their insanity and trail of filth
mar history forever.

Strength and the Eternal Dream

My hand brushed slowly across the glassy surface
of the still water,
longing to suck up its movement
and become transparent and everflowing.

Tender ripples traced over the silvery liquid,
glimmering and shaking off
rainbows and jagged bits of light;
     I watched the little daggers
bound against the wall
     once, twice, thrice,
before imbedding themselves in
optic nerves.

I yearn for that fluidity
which surrounds my skin
and penetrates,
painfully, my thoughts.

The immortal gift
came in slow-melting snow
hidden in the folds of
Aphrodite's hair.

Existential Crisis

The eyes looked up vacantly, expectantly,
toward the darkening sky.
Silent and wide and drinking in
the dim light of the waking stars.

We were far away tonight,
watching our dreams narrow and shatter
against the sharp horizon like fiery glass arrows

(the remains of which glowed as they fell into place,
leading us slowly into the billowy blackness).

Procrastination and a Skewed Sense of Time

Why do I do this to myself?

I know the time is coming
quick and hollow
like Christmas songs
before holiday cheer:
sickening and I don't realize
how disorienting it is
until it's too late and

Someone's already been trampled in Walmart
for presents they can't afford to buy.

That's where I am.
Stuck, between a hard place
and several worn soles.

I just can't force myself
to get this all finished.
I just can't force myself to begin.

I don't really know where to begin.

Tongue Forgot the Way Back

*NOTE: Sorry this one was late again, but I am working on something new for the blog: Video Poems!  Above is the first of what I hope will be a long line of them.  Let me know what you think!  As always, the actual poem will be listed below.  Enjoy! :3

I woke up yesterday realizing that I am not Africa.

I have not been Africa for a while.
My hair and skin my speak African,
but my lips and tongue forgot the movements.

My lips and tongue forgot the way back.

I am and have been American, only,
for over a century, if not more.
I was lifted away from that distant home
some time ago, forever ago,
and became separate from its history.
   I thought it might be hiding in here
   somewhere,

But, my lips and tongue forgot the way back.
And they were my road map.

So now I'm following forest green street signs
waiting for one to point me in the direction of my history
and my future.

Not having a history, and having no history
truly, leaves one disjointed and slippery
like colored paint.
    Easy to wash away.