spoken word
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Memories
Nostalgia’s a nauseating sickness like four little girls still trying to tear down the brick painted on the sides of their heads Pocketbook scriptures still dangling from underneath their tongues like a scorched covenant under burned fingernails still trying to get me to remember Truth be queasy like first trimesters be painful like birth pains… Continue reading
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No Punctuation
Dear Love, your voice is the sound of pages I’ve been waiting to read my entire life like run on sentences in a book too perfect to end tell me how do you shackle power to punctuation If I could I would end this poem with a period or place a comma in the places… Continue reading
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Voice for Radio
They said she had a voice for radio. That her voice had been blessed. And that angels played on the strings of her vocal chords. That her mind had the ability to cough up words from other dimensions that she, danced on the streets of clouds. Somewhere in the storage rooms they said she danced… Continue reading
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Convicted
His beauty was biblical. Much more than a body, he was diary. He was journal. A standing column of poetry. From the top of his head to the bottom of his feet, this was prophecy. Thought the teacher was a waitress asked her if I could have another round of him. Let’s be realistic, this… Continue reading
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Poetry Contest: Emily Dickinson First Book Award, $10,000
Originally posted on Kristen Twardowski: The Poetry Foundation recently announced that it will once again be holding its Emily Dickinson First Book Award. Though the contest is held infrequently, it is a wonderful opportunity for poets. It also has several unusual restrictions. The award seeks to recognize an American poet who is at least 40… Continue reading
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These Good People
I will tell you of these good people A scroll of courtesy on their tongues Neatly wrapped in rainbows And angel’s wings The finest hello And thank you And good morning, please We are telecommunicators In front of computer screens With scripts And sayings And clichés That ring sunshine Like a glass of sweet summer… Continue reading
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Why I Write Truth
Because the world is a violent one and screaming death a song so routine is its lyrics crooked notes twisted and then dropped like lifeless bodies a glass vase shattering crackling like fire on the mountain and no one seems to be on the run I write truth because its better to spill ink than blood… Continue reading
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