|I'm a writer. Also a nerd.|
Flash floodthere is a storm, for meFlash flood by dull-glitter
whirlwind in my lungs
monsoon brewing in my gut
creaking my bones in morning
there is a storm
toppling prideful spires
flushing out deceptions
blowing over confidences
is it me again
or is it you
or is it the inevitability of everything
don’t wait up for me
dashing across the field
trailing you and seeking shelter
clinging to scraps of feeling as dust rumbles off the highway overpass
I can't catch my breath in the turbulence
can't catch a break
can't tie you down as the sky sucks us in
I whisper to the storm clouds, still gathering
break me so you don't have to
Celestial BodiesIf space could speak it would sound like usCelestial Bodies by dull-glitter
Groaning pleasures as the universe unravels
Whispers as the stars collide
Deep rumblings that built the ground on which we lay:
Mountains, valleys, seas
(God, draw me into your endless seas)
You trace the rise and dip of muscles in slow ellipticals
Freckles, constellations spread out beneath your fingers
Glide over the plane of my chest
Kiss each galaxy, one by one
These celestial bodies
Remember the time they were only stardust
Particles gathering and mixing and becoming planets ourselves
Coming together easily
Like Newton’s law predicted we would
Centrifugal force draws me near to you (and you, and you)
Our pattern is barely choice: Did mercury ask to orbit the sun?
We are opposing forces, opposing natures
You are gravity and strength and earth
I am space and atmosphere and nothing special
You ground me, a lone astronaut drifting across alien vastness
We forget we cannot breathe
In the vacuum between us
You are equinox to my sol
Umbilicalstrain on the chainUmbilical by dull-glitter
umbilical kite string grounds me
(barely) stops the slip of sanity
my mind returns to its domain
(sleep, paralysis, lethe)
easy like sand
spilled between fingers
I am Atlas hefting the crushing breathlessness of living
(hook me up to ECG
check for breath
feel for pulse)
I follow Ariadne’s string
but I may chase it the wrong direction
my minotaur mind running circles
I’m far past reeling in
lost track of street names, faces, feeling
somewhere between uncaring and unresponsive
(I can’t quite manage a flat line yet
but this is good practice)
guide my train of mind offtrack
toe the petal down, edge it faster
feed the hungry maw of space
(what if I were to cut
Gutter Grown Kids"You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."Gutter Grown Kids by dull-glitter
--The Little Prince, Chapter 21
we're the gutter grown kids
grit in our smiles freckled
with loose change collections
tracing circles in newspaper ashes
like we knew what we made
we're the oil slick sisters
memorizing scripture: stay down
and don't look up
steal our shoes two sizes big
trip wires, cut the change, grab the bags
we're the moon milked children
suckling off street corners
sweepers since sin spooned out our eyes
strung bells on our ankles
we're the well water witches
soot faced, engine oiled
gasoline currency and
coal a black magic all its own
we’re the railroad track babes
nomadic, boxcar bound
the whistle pulls us in
tracks clack, hack black smoke
tunnel vision for the western sun
BoyMany women will write poetryBoy by LiliWrites
from you. They will translate
your nose into an apostrophe
your smile to the front side
of a parentheses, the back
to tears only once admitted.
They will filter your father's ashes
into adverbs that define your fingers
quaking along skin and sin
toward fibrous paper.
They will dismiss your flaws
as improperly placed commas
or periods born before their time.
They will inspect, perfect
& infect you with emotions
you never learned to muster.
But none of them will know
you as I did: a boy, bent
beneath the waves of love
and glad for it.
What I know (to the strangers I can't ignore)What I know about you fits into a restaurant sugar packet.What I know (to the strangers I can't ignore) by Braxton-T-Rutledge
So when you fall, or hold your sign up on the street corner
I get to believe it isn't my problem. Those moments get tossed,
in a bucket in a fume hood in the back of my mind.
Where the solution of wine and worry and seven to seven shifts
dissolve them, so I kep standing on the soapbox I pulled
myself out of the mud onto.
Those moments I am alive like the mudcats down in the delta.
I'm one of the fish that squirm back into the Mississippi after a flood,
unconcerned about the thousands left behind in some Yazoo county
Sometimes, when you hurt, I pour out the grains of what I know
count them. Sift through the collection of facts and try to find
the chemistry to make the dust bond sensibly again.
Tonight I know we are all connected, that my neighbors misfortune is mine.
You are oxygen and carbon and nitrogen like me. Our elements are the same,
arranged differently. That's why I collect this sand,
Someday I'll get it a
Father's Day 2013The night in Corvallis is cool,Father's Day 2013 by Braxton-T-Rutledge
a north wind blew all the pollen
down to Eugene, under halogen lights
the river banks sprout fathers, a gaggle
of bemused men wearing just-off-the-rack
Oregon state sweaters.
I'm in a bar talking to Jon-
getting-a-phd, I shake hands
with his dad.
The old man's name is Brad or Tim.
Maybe Sean, or Marty or Mitch but
it's not worth remembering which,
because fathers die.
Jon wears Goodwill tweed
and sorts his father into a seat.
In Goodwill last Thursday I found
the crank handle to a stove top
popcorn kettle, like my dad's
he had his hands on mine
and I'm nine, he shows me
the secret of popcorn, the smell of
kernels in butter, his cigarette and
Leaving the bar I pass Jon
and his mom and his friends,
I hold my hand out to Tom, or
whoever. I don't say
'good to meet you'
or 'Jon's a great guy there Stan'
"happy father's day dad."
just to have someone to say it to.
freshwounddone in a blood tonefreshwound by gliitchlord
not sweet, stuck
and running. luck
spanning the length of
a knife. one night
and two inches toward
styx. cruxes fixed
fast on violet eye
slits. suck out the wrists
all poisons and toxic
fits. truth knows no proof
like bruises and
vomit. can't calm it,
some punches won't
be rolled. some ankles
are gold and brittle.
coal in holding cells
we call lungs, fuming.
were all my scorch marks
worth burns? or
are my ashes bright
am i discerned or
pursued, forfeit or won?
unfurling or merely