This blog is a dedicated space for poets of all kinds. Our aim is to share the work of those hidden in the writing community and of course some from our favourites. We try to find new talent, as all of the staff members have different, diverse taste. Thank you for visiting -- Let the inspiration flow.
We track the "poetry" "prose" "spilled ink" and "creative writing" tags.
The funny thing is I was never afraid
of drowning. I was only
fearful of remembering all the times
I almost drowned.How the clown face
runs an ugly orange-brown
rust and leaves
oil stains on convertible red noses.Poses directed at EMT’s.
Mental avoidance of emergencies.
Last time I saw the doctor,
I pissed in the busheson the side of the hospital.
But that was just becauseI was drunk.
31 
I beginning to believe we’re all
a little crazy. You see, I’ve been taking
mental notes on the imaginary post-its
I’ve been meaning to buy but haven’t
during those intimate late night
barroom interrogations of my friends’
crimes of passion. Mostly,
we fashion them like Groucho Marx
novelty glasses, faces not really hidden
but skewed in hilarity. They take the ticks
off the dog, but don’t fog the room, and
in an effort to let out the blood, shells
get smashed and glued back together
to make mosaics depicting the people
we thought we should have been. We turned
guilt into sin but never internalized it
deep enough to become wild white-haired,
red-eyed revivalist street-corner preachers,but maybe we should have been. Maybe
we should have gotten lost in our fears
till there was nothing left to do but
scream out at strangers for an end
to come. Maybe we should have taken
up picket signs and marched on Washington
while wearing black sheep suits, one hundred
percent cotton for one million lunatics
bah, bah, bahing for three more bags
full of any drug that will make us feel better.
Scripts are written like coded letters by
doctors with poor penmanship. We buy
candy for our children at the same pharmacy
that manages our dependencies.A cooperative effort was established
through intelligence to make confidentiality
agreements with our employees to never
tell a soul about our internal experiments.
Fire-hydrant red ink stamps moistened
and then dried on manilla folders
while our shoulders were covered
in pads. Those protections from slaps
on the back. From jobs well done like
overcooked fish. Not even horseradish can
mask the taste of an oyster out of season.
Reasons to go on are sold at any Costco on
aisles one through ten, and they’re even
cheaper when the soothing generic female
voice speaks through the loudspeaker
reminding us of our own mothers telling us
about life in our memories. Trying foran ultimate sublimation, one that matches
the tone of the voicesinside our own heads.
22 I don’t know necessarily what
Constitutes good poetry.
Some capitalize the first letter of every line
And like to rhyme
Even if it’s sort of slanted.and some prefer it more like a breath panted
so they leave everything
lower case
and sometimes
use short lines.Some like images
like old black and white photographs
lining a hallway,and some look for metaphors,
the spelunkers
with flashlight helmets
digging through caves,but I think all the rave
for verses comes
sort of organically
when the words together
constitute a message
or emotion
or ideathat hits you in that place
where you were sure you were
the only one who thought that way,and then you glance at a page,
and words seem to save you
from yourself,and you don’t put that book
back on your shelf,you highlight it
and dog-ear it
and leave it on the table
and show it to all your friends,and in the end
you just know good poetry
when you read it,and the arrangement
seems less importanteXcepT iF yoU Do sHit
liKe ThiS,then I’m sure to hate it.
137 I told the old man
I was going to burn
every piece of identification
I had ever been tethered to
and move somewhere out
to the middle of nowhere,
and I really didn’t care
to have my share of
the family
inheritance.I’d be too busy
growing food and
building a commune and
eating lots of psychedelic mushrooms and
flying on brooms with witches
before orgy parties with astronautsto write
or call.Besides, you can’t very well move
off the grid
if you continue to keep within
the linesof communication.
My perfect permanent vacation
would start as soon as
he finished sizing me upthrough the bifocal frames
of elderly ethics and
missed opportunity
and said,the world doesn’t work that way.
I was glad we finally got to see
eye to eye
on somethingbefore I left.
27 Sam wiped the cum he just sprayed into the back of Stephanie’s ass until it was nothing more than a clammy patch of skin and then collapsed on top of her back. She told him he had to pull out. She wasn’t on birth control anymore since she’d started having issues with drops in her blood pressure. Sam kept thinking he should really wear a condom, but it’s so hard to go back once you’ve fucked without one. He couldn’t imagine being attached to Stephanie for the rest of his life should they make a mistake. He’d already came inside her once while they were drunk, and she hit him with this gem of a line when she was late on her period later that month, “You know, I feel like I’m at the point in my life where I could really have a child. Don’t worry. You don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”
Sam couldn’t fathom not helping out if he did get her pregnant. He knew he could be a good dad, but he certainly wasn’t ready. He spent most nights drinking till sunrise with or without the help of a few twenties of cocaine. Not to mention the thousands of dollars of debt. And even if he wasn’t completely immature and irresponsible, he didn’t want to have a kid with Stephanie.
It was funny. There was a time when he couldn’t imagine not spending the rest of his life with her. Now, he spent most of his days fretting over how to get away from her. He knew this wasn’t healthy. Fucking his ex-girlfriend. And not just any ex-girlfriend, the one who broke his heart the first time. The one who fucked Sergio, his best friend at that point since grade school. The one who sent him on this whole downward spiral of drug and alcohol abuse in the first place.
Despite all the guilt and shame over letting Stephanie back into his life, Sam still felt like he needed her right now. She took care of him in a motherly sort of way that no real girlfriend would ever put up with. She drove him home when he got too drunk, took his shoes off before she put him to bed, poured him a glass of water if he wasn’t unconscious already, and a lot of times she’d even blow his flaccid whiskey dick even when she knew there was no way he’d be able to hop on top of her in that condition. And he was still so lonely from losing Beth, he just, well, he needed Stephanie even if most of the time they spent together aside from the sex felt like his brain was being scrubbed with a piece of steel wool.
He knew the routine though. He wrapped his arms underneath her and cradled her as he kissed her cheek. She turned her neck towards him and between heaves of breath said, “I love you.”
She’d said it every time they’d fucked since they’d ran into each other again on the patio at Lola’s. It had been a couple of years since he’d last seen her, and he was drunk, and this time for whatever reason, he didn’t get up and walk away when she sat down. She gave him what he felt was a fairly heartfelt apology, and then offered him a no strings attached session of fucking for after the bar. It had been six months since Sam had gotten laid, since Beth and he had fucked the last time on a drunken night a couple months after they broke up. The loneliness was killing Sam. He didn’t even have a stupid crush to fantasize about, and he was so desperate for a woman. He went back home with Stephanie, and he didn’t remember much of that night after the bar, but he remembered her saying, “I love you.”
He said it back the first time. He’d said it back a few times actually, but she said it every time. It had been two months since they had hooked up again. They’d spent almost every night together even though this was supposed to be a strictly fuckbuddies type of arrangement, and every fucking time, except for the one’s on drunken blackout nights Sam couldn’t remember, he was sure she said it at least once. Most of the time, he just smiled or pretended not to hear her. When it was really great sex, he’d get caught off-guard and reciprocate. For whatever reason, this time he asked about it, “Why do you have to say that?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I do.”
“It’s weird is all.”
“I think I’m still in love with everyone I’ve ever been in love with. I don’t think it goes away.”
Sam gritted his teeth a little bit when he heard her. Because getting back together with her had stirred some of these same emotions in him. It had been years since she’d broken his heart, and staring at her when she said that made him feel that time when he thought she was the most perfect specimen of human female he’d ever laid eyes upon. He decided to say it back again, “I love you too, I guess. It’s just weird, you know?”
“Why?”
“Well, I don’t know, well, I mean…”
“Because of Sergio?”
As she said his name, Sam felt something vile enter his stomach through his esophagus. It was the hatred. She was one of only two people Sam could ever say he truly hated. Apparently, the hatred didn’t go away either. He wanted to forgive her. He’d guessed he had, but this whole situation just didn’t feel appropriate. He felt like it was the perfect opportunity to tell her he didn’t want to do this anymore, but then again, where else would he be able to find someone he was so sexually compatible with who would put up with his drinking? He decided to just say, “Yeah.”
“Look, what we did to you was awful, and a part of me will always feel like a terrible human being, but it doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. Even when I was doing it.”
“I know. I know. And I’m over it. Mostly. It’s just, well, it’s just weird. I don’t know what else to say.”
“Sam, let’s not talk about this right now. Will you just hold me?”
They rolled over and Stephanie pressed her back into Sam’s stomach as he put his right arm around her stomach and cupped her right breast with his left arm. He thought again about the whole pregnancy scare they’d just gone through last month and wondered if maybe he wished she had gotten pregnant. Maybe it would be time to get his shit together. He wondered if he’d try to get back with her for real if it happened. Maybe she was the best he could do. Maybe a mistake that she made had altered the course of their destiny together. Maybe this was a second chance. After a few minutes of silence, Sam whispered into Stephanie’s ear, “What are we doing here?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, this, us, what are we doing?”
“We’re just fucking and hanging out.”
“We’ve spent every day together.”
“Yeah, I wonder about that too, but I’m having fun and I don’t know. I don’t really want to stop.”
“I know. I don’t either.”
“So let’s just leave it at that.”
“I just want to make sure you don’t want it to be more or anything.”
“Sam, I’ve already been your girlfriend. I’d really like someone new, but that isn’t seeming to happen for me, and you’re great for in the mean time.”
“So, I’m just some fucking replacement then?”
“Don’t get mad. That’s not what I’m saying. Look, you know we wouldn’t work together together.”
“And I don’t want to get back together.”
“So, why are you acting all offended?”
Sam breathed a sigh. He wasn’t sure why he was either. He felt the same way. Maybe that was why. Their connection at this stage in his life felt so strong. Like they were on the same page in so many ways, and yet, all the wrong ways. It seemed like the last two years of his life had been spent suffering all the shit that comes from loving the wrong people, and he just wanted someone new, but he didn’t want to be lonely more. Insert Stephanie. He looked back at her as her face stared inquisitively and intently at him waiting for a response. He just shrugged his shoulders before saying, “I don’t know.”
They just laid there for a few more minutes without talking again before Sam looked at the clock and noticed it was ten-thirty. His crew would be showing up to the bar soon. He heard Stephanie’s heavy breaths, and whispered, “You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Look, I gotta go.”
“Are you pissed off?”
“No, I gotta go meet Joey at the bar.”
“Can I come?”
“I thought you had to work in the morning.”
“Not that early. Besides, I won’t drink too much. Do you not want me there?”
He didn’t. Not really. Joey didn’t like Stephanie. He was Sam’s other best friend. He had been there for the whole Sergio/Stephanie debacle years before and had listened to Sam’s crying and cursing over the whole thing. Every time Sam brought Stephanie back around, he could feel Joey’s disapproval each time he caught his eyes while they spoke, but Stephanie would always drive his car if he got too fucked up, which happened most nights. The relief of the stress of not having to drive home especially when he already had a DWI on his record was worth the leers Joey gave them.
“No, it’s fine. Come on. Put some clothes on, and hurry up. I need a drink.”
47 It’s not hard to talk to God,
just drop down on your knees
and whisper your secrets
into the slow-moving oxygen.Now, getting him to respond
is a little trickier.It usually takes a lot of drugs.
39 So you want to join the military, eh?
Well, I don’t know how much advice
I could give you,
I mean,
I never joined,
I never even dreamed of joining,not even for a second,
not even for a nanosecond,
not even for the infinity in between
the smallest of calculations,not for me,
I told the recruiter
as I hung up the phone
for the ten-thousandth time,
it seemed like,but I did have a friend who joined once,
well, not exactly a friend,
but a close enough friend’s husband
so I’ll still refer to him
as friend,and well, when he came back,
I ran into him
at a bar one night,
and oh did he sound so happy
to be back
and seeing a familiar face,what a disgrace,
the war, not the man,
I thought,
as he proceeded to tell me
how he missed the feeling
of chopping a man in half
with an AK-47,and it sort of haunts me
that I was the last one
who saw him
before he went home
that night,
and chopped up
himself.
23 You could hold me for hours
and still not grasp
my vitality,which seems lost
but could also still be in there
somewhere
lodged in between
my rib and breast plate
or pooled in the bottom
of my big toe,and while it
probably escaped again
with that last flick
of the wrist,still, I beg you,
please don’t stop
because the gesture
while possibly empty
still makes me feel
like I matter.
33 The Rothko Chapel is considered one of the five hundred most peaceful places on Earth according to National Geographic. A place of contemplation, and certainly no different on February 13th, 2009, but it was anything but peaceful. It was the amalgamation of a lifetime of regret coupled with the mourning of two close friends whose deaths happened too close together.
It was hard not to compare. Mourning Jacob had become my biggest priority and now I had to make room for two, just four months later. When I walked into the Rothko chapel in mid-February, I felt guilty. Guilty because when I got the call four months earlier telling me Jacob had died on your floor from an overdose, I somehow knew you were next. Guilty because I had gotten that cryptic phone call from you two nights before you died asking me for a favor before you said never mind. I would never get a chance to find out what it was. Guilty because I couldn’t express to you that I had grown tired of living the way we had built our friendships around. Guilty because no matter how much I tried to love you, and let you know Jacob wasn’t your fault, you still wouldn’t slow down. But mostly, I was guilty because I couldn’t mourn just you at your own memorial service.
Then there was the program. It didn’t even have your picture. Just a shot of a collection of mixed drinks and liquor bottles and on the back page an invitation, After the ceremony we will all be convening at the West Alabama Ice House so that we can all do what Tony and all of us do best. I kept thinking how it was admirable for your family to not try and hide the way we lived our lives like Jacob’s kind of did at his service, but I still think I preferred the former. Because while we were all masters in the art of getting fucked up and fucking up our lives, I always felt that what you did best was care about your friends. And write, you could fucking write.
They read some of it. My favorite moment of your service was when Woodie read your piece, Hennessy is my Kryptonite, and everyone in the crowd donned a liquor bottle from a hidden pocket to do a toast to your favorite beverage while the staff of the chapel started a ruckus. They had expensive artwork to protect, and the crowd of your service contained segments of some of Houston’s most gritty patronage. I found it amusing how the staff hung black drapes over solid black paintings.
Your service went by a lot quicker than Jacob’s, and I almost didn’t cry. Despite the fact that I’d known you longer and that I actually met Jacob through you. I cried from the beginning of his service. And after the eulogy at Jacob’s, everyone got a chance to speak about him. It carried on for a long time. But yours was just a few readings, and then it was over as they played some music selected by your family.
Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven is what finally brought it out of me. A song I don’t even particularly care for. It was just that numb feeling. The being too familiar with losing a close friend by this point. The having to do it all over again. The fact that I didn’t believe in a heaven where I’d even get the chance to see you again or even have a chance to have you not recognize me. I was glad they played it before Phyillis Dillon’s rendition of Perfidia. When I heard that song, it was just a reminder of jamming reggae music in my youth while smoking weed. I was happy to hear it. It reminded me of your apartment on Hazard Street.
Then there was the service after the service. Cold beer at the West Alabama Ice House. I remembered the time my friend Spanky and I met you there to purchase some weed the first night I had ever tried doing a gargantuan rail of cocaine. Sure, I’d done coke numerous times, but Spanky and I split a teenager into two rails and did the whole thing in one sitting. I was flying, and you were looking at me like I had lost my mind as I spoke every non sequitur which popped into my skull. You always had an affinity for the ice house, and I couldn’t help but wonder why the hard living had caught up with you and why I was able to enjoy booze with your friends and family in the afternoon that day.
I didn’t exactly enjoy it though. And I didn’t stay long either. My girlfriend seemed irritated the whole time, partly because Eva was there—who I made out with one night while drunk and fessed up to the old lady afterwards—and partly because she seemed frustrated that we had to do it all over again. I wanted to stay and get wasted with old friends, but she kept bitching so we left. At Jacob’s after party, we stayed till night’s end. She drove the car home when I couldn’t stand anymore. I remembered how I felt funny wearing tennis shoes and white socks to Jacob’s service with my dress clothes because I couldn’t find any nice shoes in my closet. And then you were there in some tattered khakis and you didn’t have a belt so you had to hold them up with your hands to keep them from falling down.
It wasn’t until a couple years later that I would find some peace at the Rothko Chapel. I was tripping mushrooms with some friends, and we went to the reflection pond outside the chapel to watch the sunrise. I remember it being funny that on a Monday morning, people were walking their dogs and leaving for work while we laid in the grass smoking marijuana and sweating profusely while hyperactively laughing. And then a bird landed on the statue that sticks out of the water with the array of colors reflecting off his wings, and it felt like it was your spirit coming back to say goodbye.
But my peace with you and with Jacob always waxes and wanes even three and a half years later. I still freak out momentarily every time I get a phone call at a weird hour. I still worry constantly about the friends I have who still take their mortality to the hoop hard in the paint every time. I read through your blog on MySpace occasionally and Jacob’s published collection of poetry and wonder what we might have been able to accomplish had we not been so consumed by our needs for self-destruction. But mostly, I still feel guilty because I can’t help but feeling sometimes that it was a good thing to lose you. I needed a kick in the ass on some level, and without some of my faster living friends around, I’ve been able to settle down my own life. And I still wonder whether these thoughts make me a bad friend or just another griever. And all that being said, I still can’t help but feeling that I wish I could think of you separately, but your deaths are forever combined as a singular moment from two funerals equaling one regret.
Sonja’s note: this is so beautiful and heartbreaking.
30 My wanderlust
saturates your skin
in salivation
as my tongue
roams up and down
your thighs,
and teases,
as it hits creases,
and moves up to the
hip bone,as it searches
for a place
to breathe my soul
into, you begin to
moan and shake
when it finds
a hole,but it’s not in there,
or underneath
the hood
which houses
your sexual
enginebecause you’re
just another
destination.
40 Melodrama is Passion’s
dirty little whore,
his bottom-bitch
slanging pussy
on highly traveled
street corners
to sweaty desperate
men looking for
a way out
from their relatively
otherwise comfortable
but unfulfilled
lives.Melodrama will get wet
and provide a place
for a temporary
expulsion,
but at the end
of the night,
Passion will drive
a smooth caddy
up the road
and collect all
the cash.
19 I wish I could tell you
it was the way your lips
lofted red hot rhapsodies
like hot air balloons
towards the follicles
creating a conflagration
of luminosity radiating
and reflecting the shine
in your malachite eyes,
or perhaps I could tell you
it was your unique view
like the top floor of a
downtown high-rise with
panoramic perspective
studying life from
heavenly heights,
and then again, it should have
been the way your arms
like extra-absorbent
paper towels soaked up
the pools of my pain
and the way your hands
like harbingers on the hilltop
of my head stroked away
my regrets with promises of
renewal,
but it wasn’t.Quite simply,
you were there,
and I was desperate,
and horny,
and couldn’t take beingalone.
jazzy’s note: i just really love this!
83 