Death without a corpse
Funeral no one attends
Spirit without rest
Haiku in search of
Metered peace and closure
No
-me
Photo by Marta Orlowska
Divorce
•January 16, 2019 • Leave a CommentBeauty
•January 13, 2019 • 4 CommentsThere sits a bench
Beyond my bathroom glass
Which bears the building weight
Of time
I’ve witnessed years
And harried animals
Use it for rest and pass
Right by
What once was sure
And sturdy sanded smooth
Has faltered splintered with
Me now
Its fair recline
Beneath that tree reminds
That we remain both
Burial bound
-me
Photo through my bathroom glass, by me.
Tempest
•October 21, 2018 • Leave a CommentAnd still
My unmade bed
For days
Means
An unkempt storm
Is gathering
Truth like sheets
And rain that screams
Must spill
-me
Painting: Unmade Bed by jillianngrace on deviantart.com
Proof On Demand (repost)
•October 5, 2018 • Leave a CommentMust there be video evidence
Record
Save
Share
In order for my rape to be made real
Must my inner most flesh be damaged on display
Snap
Chat
Laugh
In order for you to have the guts to say it was wrong
Must only my unconscious body be invaded
Silent
Limp
Passive
In order for you to hear my soul scream NOOOOOOOO!
Is your amoral screen the only standard for conviction
Unfeeling
Friend
Unfriend
In order for justice to be served
Is it only in the absence of my actual humanity
Just
Shut
Down
That you allow yourself to feel the ripples in our world
Will you ever believe our voices
Alone
Without
Media
Or is proof on demand the only way that any of us matter?
-survivor
Grafitti by Banksy
Paper Target (repost)
•October 5, 2018 • Leave a CommentI am marked
But there is no notice
Yet
The slightest pressure
Triggers an explosion
And a hollow point projectile
Slices the atmosphere
Slamming into me
Shredding upon entry
I NEVER EVER see it coming
I am hit in my blind spot
So hard I swivel
My brain sloshing
In my fracturing skull
I am disoriented
What the hell was that?
My vision narrows to tunnel
I am suddenly sweating
From all pores
Profusely frightened
Blood is pulled from my limbs
I am numb
Shaking and cooling
My resources pumped and pooling
Inside my middle, vital
Organs filling for survival
And then
I am angry
WHAT THE FUCK!
I am sick of this
Trigger-happy tyrannical culture
And the concentric circles
Of my paper-thin psyche
Available for target practice
Whenever and without warning
Until I am left riddled with holes
Shreds of me swaying
In this stale social wind
I cannot patch me
Fast enough
Before another flash
BANG
And I am thrown back
Again
Entirely
To the exact moment when
I said no
But he
Didn’t listen
And neither did anyone else
-a.r.
Painted Lady by Jennifer Davis
Immunity
•September 12, 2018 • 1 CommentThe one
Being I believed in
Most betrayed me
The one
Being I did not believe in
Enough I betrayed
Never again
Will I
Waive off whispers
Hissing inside me
Never again
Will I
Run from rumblings
Wrapping around me
I finished
Your bottle of snake oil
By guzzling
And filled it with venom
For sipping
-me
Photography by Brad MIller @ Monkey Haus
Remnants
•August 16, 2018 • 1 CommentClean
That scent
Late summer crisp
So I reached out
With wrinkled finger tips
To touch and trace
Sweet form and face of
Four
Perfect
White
Petals
But the flower…felt like…nothing
Much beneath my longing
Just matted rough
Grime-coated tuft
Like manmade shag
It might as well have been
Burnt orange or drab
Olive green
And should have
Reeked of
Nicotine
-me
Now
•July 9, 2018 • Leave a CommentI think
Not enough
Parchment
To pen and parse
My past
Years perhaps
I’ll peel
Flay and dry
Stretch flat
My flesh
And use these
Oozing tips
Of sizzling nerves
As living ink
Enough at last
To feel
-me
Painting: 1961 by Sophie Derrick
Cold
•June 26, 2018 • Leave a CommentIt’s true each leaving
Is a little death
With grieving acrid
On my breath
The shock of empty
In the air
As worms of numbness
Twine my hair
Inside this shrouding
I suspend
‘Till mourning’s lifted
Warmth again
-me
Sculpture by Livio Scapella
Selfish Air
•June 14, 2018 • Leave a Comment
There is a disturbing stillness
To this easy-doing day
Not the pleasant pause
Of springtime sleep and dreaming
But that eerie summer stop
That settles thick the ether
Like the look of a dead thing
Mistaken for slumbering
Until a curious view reveals
Too many angles all gone wrong
Too few flinches at flies
And that same disturbing stillness
Hanging selfish in the air
-me
Painting: The Dead Bird by Frederic Belaubre
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