Other People’s Poetry

April 17, 2011

This is a collection of prose poems, extracted from newspaper clippings.

THE ART OF IS -bright cemetery flowers electrifies razor-sharp rails of color, means to live mercifully inspired by granny’s photographs

a quick death had little chance of passage. "But who cares about that? Do they have any idea what a colossal waste of time this is for their generation, second-guessing expertise. This is insulting to all of us

There is something innately fascinating about hidden worlds: a metaphor for the similar intangibles that lurk inside our own flesh casings. Something between the images bear a distinct resemblance to a similarly ghostly image. The result of the hidden graves. Inside, there are elaborate networks chilling for being so evocative of human injury, splayed out and seen from above, resembles a battlefield casualty. The hidden networks lurking inside bring to mind circulatory systems and spinal column but also suggest some abstracted brain or consciousness. images of jarred embryos of freak shows and medical labs. Their faces have an unformed but still recognizable appearance, with tiny gaping mouths open in some existential wail, black pits for eyes, their fat, amorphous heads floating in an amniotic universe of pitch black. I know what youre thinking. Havent we trod down this road before? But there are ripples of something uncannier in this compelling work. There is a reminder of mortality and the tribulations of our own experiences to give these ghostly creatures intellectual heft and something deeper than simple shock value.


A Fall(n.) Poem

December 7, 2010

A Fall(n.) Poem


An Analysis of Language Through the Whimsical Perspective of A Dying Poet With Certain Grudges Against the Controversial Yet Prophetic ‘LORE’d Cold Despite A Firm Grounding In All Matter of True-Science Taking a Derivative of Meaning on the Parabola of Poetics Only To Come to the Conclusion That Things Conclude.


Lip-sticked leaves fall breathless
wearing Winter naked –how indecent!
         -How dare they!-
Shed their secrets so freely?
Even with those ruby runes,
          A thousand lips,
         New found ground
They’ll never reach their heaven.
Who can read what Death has colored?
              (Silent language can’t be spoken)
Whether trees give leaves or throw:
A blessing or a curse: Unknown
But regardless of matters of perspective
The Anthem of Fall-In trees is always predicted:
              Prepare Ye the Way of the Coming of the Cold
              The Sun of God is Grey with Mould
         Trees weep blood to crucify
         Their silent
With such a Death the world should shake
Tremble terror’d. The buried awake.
          (Though ‘LORE’D Cold will always Take).
      But I’ll only pull my coat a little tighter
      Wrap my scarf a little higher
      I don’t know them so what does it matter?
And it is all just a
It is all just a
matter of Science
It is just            the absence
Of light
That kills
And resurrects
The               Visible          Spectrum
(But in the dark how can you see Them?)
That chlorophyll is done with food
Photonic repulsion thus starves the wood
The leaves are just decaying carbon
Poetics stem from Why-branched questions
And Why is just a messy-
              is clean with answers sound
Really it is just
        the changing of the seasons
And really I am just
        a collection of atoms
Who have called themselves
        into appropriate spectrums
And really I can only
        ever write symbols
And really these pages
        can never be more than
paralleled leaves
I’m just a tree.
A collection, a form, not meant to mean.
Essentially,         I can only
But I’ll root myself and wait winter-wearied
For someone to catch my scattered leaves
and understand




Window creaking. Cold outside, warm inside. I’m a body in this body. A glass window framed by metal. The difference of temperatures causes the creaking, the atoms’ talking. Only when both sides are the same, when both have reached equilibrium, does the noise stop, does the window become silent. However, until externality equals internality, the window will always struggle against its frame.


I’ll sit here in silence and talk with the soundwaves of my pen scratching the paper. The science of poetry doesn’t sound so sweet. Not when you think about the sines and cosines, waves on top of each other, sometimes canceling each other out. My pen does that too, just on a different more visible plane. Of course, you could say that poetry really lies in essence, but that involves interpretation and how can you interpret something that is so definitively there?_________________________________________________________________

The horizon is consequence of the curvature of the earth. It is not a thing, it is a perspective. Any point on this globe can be horizon if you only stand far enough away from it.


By a chance of angles and planetary rotation, along with the alignment of the spacial trajectories of time, at this very instant of  12:41 post-meridian eastern time on December 6, 2010 (a Monday) Current Era, and by a happening of climate the crystalized water in the stratosphere, more colloquially known as clouds, has opened a gap in the sky allowing photons to pierce the atmposphere, dividing it into spectrums, but we only ever see blue and somewhere a man is whistling because of this fact, though he only takes it as a sentimental feeling because over billions of year atoms have made elements have made molecules have made cells, organs, bodies, brains and chemicals like serotonin that in their atomic structure map out happiness (if happiness can have form) and that man is following that trajectory of Point A to Point B to meet a girl at Point C and should they go together to Point D, they’ll find that they’ve been traveling along Line AD this whole time and will continue to follow line AE, AF, AG until all possible methods of definition are used because it only takes two points to make forever (that bell can now never toll for death) but this, now, is only one point, finite yet open to all planes of possibility, everything contained yet nothing defined and at this precise moment, this Point, the sun has decided to cascade its light onto my paper, allowing me to draw distinction between words and silence.


All I can draw is a simple line, and dream of hearing a man and woman whistling.