Kylan

These blackened skies wrought by blackened hearts... The cloud of debris hangs over like a spirit Warning Hinting At the evil of the world How could they do it? Celestial ...

A/N: Old! Turn back! [spoiler]Jaws of steel: Serrated teeth, razor sharp and crunching, Grinding up the earth As a giant grinds man's bones. Long handled mouths, Orifices of black, ever ...

(This was really experimental on my part. Tell me if it's any good.) The Mirror Juan Gonzales held the magnum up to the man's face, clenching and unclenching his hands ...

[pre]spin the wheel, notched and loaded. A twisted statistical quandary with a marble which could land on alternating pockets of red and black but mostly red. Where sixlines and corners ...

You treat me like crap – neck jutting out, jackknifing forward with all the subtly of a pair of latex hands belonging to a colonoscopy surgeon – Just shut up ...

This was written for NaPoWriMo, and I rather liked it. So I'm posting it here for all the world to see. Tell me how you like it. *** Creased Japanese ...

A/N: Old! Turn back! I am Iron Man. With fingers like sheet-metal silos, I grope for your radiance, which only shatters around me like prismatic fireflies. Uncoordinated andawkward. You must ...

All the acid trips in the world couldn't compare to the monkish throat music rising from his diaphragm like vibrations dancing high wire Charlestons between tin can phones. He said, ...

Recently, I've been writing a lot of poetry that I would define as the equivalent of a doodle or a sketch in the art world. Not much of it makes ...

1. lying in this sand we are smudged out cigarettes in ash trays sunbathing in the heat of Allah's frown and swatting flies like big gorillas hanging from the Empire ...

[002. Red] [Picture # 4] --- My bones, you see, are in far worse condition than even the most brittle woman of sixty-five who, if she fell down the stairs ...

[22. Kiss] She got these groove fingers and this burlap dress dat scratches up against me when she move like daddy's stubble face when he blow raspberries into my stomach. ...

[hillcrest orchard] he thinks that he is a man, even now but he doesn't even have hair on his upper lip yet there is only cactus stubble and wishes. he ...

[three fountains retirement center] Their skin. It is like butcherpaper. Crinkled and rough, it folds and droops over old driftwood bones that grind together. They sit in their evening chairs. ...

A/N: This my first attempt at lyrics, for BBB's contest. Tea party smiles and cold, polite hands. Driftwood hollowness and castle sands. A kiss on the cheek, pure and virgin. ...

Hold it in, a lecherous, sickly bulb with little white hairs growing from it, twining into the dirt, sucking, hot and black and lazy inside like texas oil. Weed it ...

(A/N: The real title wouldn't fit on the subject line...) “You Talkin' to Me?”: De Niro's Interrogative Fidelity and Subversion of Masculine Norms bodies shaped forward, shoulders rolled, their fe

for jordan it is here, exploding outwards a tired, foppish consumption, lazy and spreading, like oil leaking from an engine block. a dead star – compressed and blooming out, breaking ...

fuzzyhead – it looks like you just woke up, griping, stripping up through the layered slumber, exiting like a baby. you nod, bend, spine of grace, the lipless smile, the ...

song: Monsters (Matchbox Romance) 003. anagnorisis A/N: I think this needs some help. I'm not so hot about narrative poetry. -- it is raining tin roof chattering, gnawing, plague of ...

stairsteps up, each labeled like specimens each promising a new plateau where a name sits, in company of a date of birth, of death, of christening – your life before ...

A/N: So I've decided to make a poetry thread for the poems I write, seeing as I write far too many to be posted individually. You can check up here ...

and the lamplighters come, one by one, putting theiriron nightcaps over the dawdling gaslights, as the morningpeels the stars from its back. weathervanes pointing their black, accusatory fingers like

 This will be the first in a series of poems based on, but not directly chronicaling, the slaying of Dr. George Tiller, one of the few public abortionists. I don't ...

 huffing linens, hung on the clothesline and struggling – mother'sold nightgown frantic on its pins and stray hair in my mouth. late august flowers peer around, unsure and cringing like ...

 and you can see the thunderheads across the valley,tall and white, like approaching chess pieces, and the air smellsof electrocution, and three generations of men struck by lightning. gray sweeps ...

A/N: an experimental project -- a story written in poetry and prose. will most likely be an extended short story/novella. And yes, I know that the dialogue doesn't have quote ...

(AN: I think writing good short poetry is one of the most difficult aspects of writing poetry in general. This is an attempt of mine.)-- fluting tongue,crepe wings -- wrinkled, ...

AN: I know not a whole lot is accomplished in this chapter -- it's meant to advance the plot/characters. Please don't talk about whether it leaves you wanting more or ...

A/N: For Hannah's contest. I will be using three impressionist paintings for the poems I write for this contest -- one from Monet, one from Renoir, and one from Degas. ...

A/N: For Hannah's Contest. Painting by Pierre Auguste Renoirshe would only bring her hair down in the morning,when it was to be combed with a whalebone-handled brush, whiteand small like ...

glistening, skinned fruit – they lie on the dissecting traysstill and unmoving, like disciplined children. fluking tubes,arteries stopped mid-squirm beneath the slicker of flesh, and unreleased thum

The vineyard near our house is the first indicator of winter. The vines are stripling, leafless transmissions, clinging to the supportive wires and rows, whatever fruit they had leftover now ...

late summer in saltillo valley and the cotton fields spoof andsprawl, and all you can see for miles are the clean, unpicked boles – white and purse-lipped as newly declared ...

For Hannah's Contest. Painting by Paul Cezanne.the sky is that coldest shade of blue – a cloudless washbasinand the river has broken up into continents and gulfs of ice. the ...

the windmill in the pasture tilts its head sideways, as if tosee the plain floor from a different angle – it is the tallest structurefor miles and above it, the ...

the bees hover in the garden like fermatas, and the peablossoms cup and clench, like the tiniest newborn fists. it is all peas, it has always beenpeas. they are lined ...

the untouched flowers huddle in their shantytowns, priedaway from each other, like claustrophobes, as you root through the shattered lumber, the old, fluted piping, the prehistoric remains of a blue ...

Gagging bedside flowers, turning on her, turning on her as she lies there with her hands on her stomach. Gagging and red, with puckered, sidestreet lips, red and snapping, they ...

chapped stars, and a sickle-celled moon over the wide prairieof his boyhood, where the cows are longhorned and led across the southwestby side-spitting, bow-legged men who smell of saddle-grease anddu

i. [come what may]and in the fields of st. petersburg in the spring, the poppiesclot like let blood and the fieldworker's wives sow seeds in the worried furrowsof the field, ...

chimes of ice hang from the saplings like bells attached togypsy ankles, cold, and clear-voiced as they lip from the limbsand you and I trudge through the snow, our boots ...

A/N: This is part one in a series of vignettes I'll be posting under the same title of "Aliens". They have nothing in common but a theme, which hopefully will ...

mane of flares and split atoms –whips of nuclear fission punching inadvertently,like newborn baby fists – the sun quiet and bright as a nun-soul. i wonder how longit would take ...

August 25th, 2009pt 1green, unripe peaches bobbing like Adam's applesabove him as he leads us to his front porch, smilinga crooked, sloping smile that cups over his false teeth,his skin ...

and the new day moths flutter like gracenotes, taxidermiedby the little pins of evening light, and we still flinch inadvertentlyat the leftover church sermon, the prayers still chapping our lips. ...

the little blue flowers have appeared again, taste-testing, unrollingthemselves, like pillbugs in the palm of a very still hand and you cansee them through the window in the kitchen with ...

(A/N: I was thinking of spliting this into two parts so it's a bit easier on the eyes, but it's really not the kind of story that can be split ...

it is the first summer rain – the kindof rain that you can smell in the air, on the tipof the tongues of the clouds that turn gray, mumblingwith mouthfuls ...

I can't figure out Anthologies. So I'll just keep this thread up here. Have some poetry!carnivalthe water at the foot of the pierwarps cold and desperate as depression glass,and we ...

opie's strip mallsfrom the freeway,i can see pumpjacks swing down like railroad hammers -- shadows of john henry, who would probably be old and stooped by now, his lower lip ...

energy equals mass multiplied by light's speedin a vacuum squared.--Now there's a science poem.

A/N: Here's just a little serial of thoughts I have. Little commentaries. I'll continue it in this thread. -- The universe is routine. We have shrunk eternity, popularized galaxies, named ...

He didn't know what to make of it at first. The crickets slipped. It was nearly sunset, and the sun on the neighbor's strangled clutch of poppies made them look ...

For David A. JohnstonLooking up at the mountain, he thought about weathermen, and the hot summers of his childhood. How they would predict rain in early August, and he would ...

When I was a kid, my dad would try to explain wind to me and the movement patterns of clouds. He would say that when a storm was approaching our ...

A spring cold was basic biology. Annie had learned her freshman year in high school how viruses worked, what they looked like, how they attacked the body. She remembered being ...

two frontal lobes of a peachthat we share on a front porch in mississippi – dangling our legs through the banistersand listening to your mother knead doughlike a housecat kneading ...

a/n: flash fiction experiment (heh, 666 words). also, I've been reading a lot of Faulkner lately. --I would always play Colonel Mustard. I was a boy. You could tell from ...

A grouping of poems similar in themeundertowsa grapefuit on the counter,split in half, pink flesh like a wounded knee, the segmentspatterned and radial, spoken in the nautiluslanguage of such godfeari

a/n: I've been posting my work too much, I know. I was excited by this though. Flash fiction, comparable to Postmortem.--I watch her at night. She is very peaceful. The ...

a/n: another flash. this is a weird one--Bodies Her dress is torn. It was a dress with flowers on it. It is ripped down the middle so that I can ...

a/n: the assignment was to walk through the museum of art, find a piece of art that spoke to you, and then to write an ekphrastic poem about said artwork. ...

The ocean cycles like a butterfly. Children in the surf, stumbling. Green waves that lope over themselves, toppling like shot horses. Concussion of surf. You sit on the beach in ...

explicit.--late spring, streamsvulgar with snowmelt. he leanswith his shoulder up againstthe back of the barn betweenthe cedar wall of the barnand the wire fence hot with daywith his pants half ...

electric shears loose-metaled,tattling and stripped like hyena bones—tangledin the gray shallows of wool that i could choke myself throughlike a hoarse voice after an ankle broken in a muleless cany

i am eerie with lights—to raise a hand, turn awayfrom angels as visited boy-prophets;swarm-patterns, cramped abortionsof paper lanterns, or the dubiousfur-trap of northern lights,undulating like sil

We are proud of our indigenous populations. The Cayuse, Klamath, Chetco, Umpqua, Ahantchuyuk—all belonging to diverse linguistic stocks and defined by the sediment poetry of a salmon's cycle. We are

i pick jovian fruit in the santa anasbodies so seeped with gravityand tugged cells of sweetness that theygather an orbit of bees like a retinue of moons—oranges so big you ...

A/N: Draws heavily from the book Falling Into Theory: Conflicting Views on Reading Literature (which I highly recommend). Two Way MirrorsAn Essay Discussing Various Reading Models &Their ImplicationUn

Prompt: Your story is about an artist in 1984 forgetting names./I cannot, for the life of me, recall your name. The swan frightens the bear away by spreading its wings, ...

A/N: It's about that time of year again. I'll be posting poetry here throughout the summer. Feel free to comment on one or all, at random or recent. --SwahiliIn second ...

She wears pearl studs, lobes made softer by freshwater edgelessness. Her lips break open like a bottle christening when she laughs. She has two good haunches in blue jeans. They ...

i say to heri am being cirrus right nowshe turns the tea cup overlike an ear reversed for an inspection of softnessand looks above my headwhere what crowns me are ...

It was a summer knot. Or maybe she did her hair like that all the time, during a Michigan winter or in Spring's seediness. I don't know the name of ...

it has been too longsince i have known the night,all sun-sunk colors the flippant hawk featheryou found on the trailand placed in your hat-band,and all of you an angle out ...

5. over coming prejudiceThe Apple From The Tree It was the same path home, through blood. She was the old walk through wheat before him—the shortcut taken, down to the ...

____ ____ this fugue is as all oceansexcept with fewer stashed, nacre huts a conchology in which i press my ear lessto the tide's zonophone, the draggingof grand dresses across ...

the game is solved. the kings stack up like sherwood venison,i play red, you, black, and we skimtwo of the humors across quadrants, planes, gaps down which we all vanish.look, ...

Your blood is a ride home.I am polite for it. back to Georgia, where peaches beat backthe dark like an apron at flames. was it in the water? the sun? ...

no voyage—the lanterns all hung off until they are pink-touredpails of glass and tinsnow filtered fish budding up against the hullthis south salt sloopthat sailed once as far as Kodiakonce ...

... egan-radioRadio version of this essay.

the hand-made ropes of field work(to show one the ropes)to lose one's hand in the field, snuck off by a hiding blade,or the punchbowl i dropped on my five year ...

------for i have taken refuge in youWhat can be said in only three short walls.The soft harnesses of mother and the broadsideswhich read, ‘house of order, a house unto—’Under ‘occupation’ ...

Evil in the supplement of a shell, in an unfed dog, in inane thoughts of dance on unemphatic surfaces. All the demons lateral to kitchens! All the wholesome golems in ...