Mother's

Mother’s grueling incisors

Crueling ‘cross my bones

Bearing crosses beside our homes

Leaving gouges in their wake.

A thousand, thousand tears

Make up a single laugh:

My cross to bear, my dear.

As they calcify my fear, my dear,

I am left bereft with no one left,

And I can only cry,

“What humor have I left

in here with no one left to hear?”

As whispers whisper

Inside of here

In sight of her, my dear,

Looking on and loping ‘long

A ways away from wayward sons

As far and away from here

As she would dare, my fear.

Their whispers glister

Ever after, after ever

Never closer than this, my seer,

Always louder than a hiss, my dear

Just a touch, a breath

Without much else, and nothing less

But just a kiss beside my ear.

And all I hear

Are honeyed words

Licked and cleaned

By her love’s death

And all that’s left

Is no one’s best

Within this padded room, I bear.

Patreon Pals!

So thanks to a bunch of people and some new life choices, I am seriously amping up my artistry and all that jazz.
So join my pals on Patreon!

Here is my Patreon.

If you like my work here or elsewhere, consider clicking on the link above and supporting me there.

For those who don't know, Patreon is a community funded artistic community.
Think a lot like Kickstarter, but where artists can actually make a living as opposed to going from project to project.
There are all sorts of reward tiers including:

• $1/month where you get access to all of my artistic work and patreon only blog posts
• novels
• short stories
• plays
• scripts
• $2/month: early access to my poetry and artistic blogs
• Artistic (W)Hole
• Princess Wishes
• The Wayward Alchemist
• $3/month: access to all of my scripts and novel drafts 

There are higher ones than that, but seriously anything that you can afford is greatly appreciated.

I am posting this here today because this is the first day of my new campaign, which means...that's right...
PATRONS GET EARLY ACCESS
So no new posts today.
I know.
SO sad.

But, today is just as good a day as any to get started and support me on Patreon!

Thank you and have the best day!

A Prose Poem Written in a Fugue State on November the Ninth Two Thousand Sixteen

Today, Donald Trump is the forty fifth President of the United States.

Last night, I slept. Restlessly, but I slept. I slept because I couldn’t watch. I slept because there was nothing left to do.

I woke this morning and Donald Trump is the forty fifth President of the United States.

I already knew. I knew because last night, I awoke at 3am to the sound of sobs. My partner was crying and I knew. See, she is not like me. I am not afraid. Why is that? I am a wealthy, white, straight, cis-gendered male. I do not think in those terms because I do not have to. My partner and people like her can’t afford not to.

My interests are not all interests, but they will be seen to. They will be seen to no matter what. I know this because I did not vote. Let me say that again: I do not vote. I am not a registered voter. Because I can afford not to be. In my lifetime there will not be a need for my voice. My voice, my concerns will be seen to.

I am not afraid. But, my partner is. She is very afraid, as are the people I live with, as are the people I am friends with. The reason being, I am in the minority. In my household, we have more latin voters than black, more black voters than white, and we have no white voters. We have our problems, but we make it work because we see such a wide variety of views. I see such a wide variety of views. They are afraid and I am not.

When the life of a person, not their deeds, nor speech,  but their very existence is a political act, then they have done enough. They are surviving and that is enough. When that is the case it is the responsibility of those who are unafraid to act, to speak, to be a voice, a call to reason and fairness and equality. Because we can afford to be offended; we can afford to be made uncomfortable.

Mint & Juleps

Experimenting--minting--Experiminting--

--Can it be a verb?--

--Mint & juleps--summer tea--

Flowers arranged in soft light, twinkling fireflies are captured in masonic jars, they are used to light the entire night--

--only trees to cover love making--

--love making--making love--

--love is a creative act, something built--does that mean you can contract the work out?--

--Love Architects: designing their dream loves, but always committed to other people’s--

What if there were love poets greater than Shakespeare, Keats, Shelly, Byron, but they were too busy having sex?--

--sex--text--love poems were the original sexting--

--People prised Byron because he burned metaphorical--

--Egyptians were writing on papyrus about how good a girl looked in those silky, silky robes--don’t believe me?--look it up--check out poetry pre-circa 1850 and tell me that humans haven’t always been animals--

--Do animals write poetry?--what would that even look like?--would it be in another language?--

What language do animals tell poetry?--Is it vocal, physical, mental, emotional?--Is it some beautiful combination of all of them?--

--Is that the dirty secret?--Love poems written by animals are written with their bodies--

--They produce young and no one is ashamed by it--

A boy masturbates because he is told it is normal, masturbation stays with him his whole life, unlike his love poems--

Love poems aren’t normal--

--love poems are normal--

--this isn’t a love poem--this is an experiment

The vines are digging

The vines are digging

In brickwork skulls;

Invading portents

Of cities come and gone.

The shattered rims

Of wary eyes

Proliferate:

Nuclear families are undone.

The fractured masses

Are huddled close together now,

Constricting round

The skulls civility has bought,

While seizures wrack

The naked mass

Who wait for news

That neither god nor man hath wrought.

And years of work,

It lies undone

In happy ashes

That cradle children

The kitchen heart,

The bedroom privates,

The foyer tongue,

And basement ruin.

The maw is stopped

By vacancy;

There is no feast

Of furniture,

Not since before

The vermin scurry

Around the hollow

Devoid of visitors.

Where it falls, the tree does grow

Where it falls, the tree does grow,

Though it travels many miles

Seeing wonders on its way

Roots itself one day

Planting flags

In the womb of earth

Cracking open her.

Up it comes,

Who is to say when she will end?

But, the seed is not the tree.

Where is the tree?

I cannot find it still.

I’ll seek no more.

Instead--

Rest under its boughs.

This is never what I wanted

This is never what I wanted

And I keep punishing the both of you

In ways none of us ever imagined

But, things keep vanishing

Between the cracks in communication

And I'm tired of it

I don't want to do badly anymore

But, I don't know other ways to be

I'm trying to learn and I keep failing

Over and over

All I ask is a space to call my own

And every day I am reminded I am not alone

But, I keep hurting

And I keep hurting others

I'm so tired of it

I don't want to do it anymore

So do whatever you think is best

I'll be in the ruins