In The Silence

I always picture things
God can’t see
Framed the daydreams of
A frame I remember grabbing.
I’ve been practicing
Being a good sport at losing
Your mind games.
Always said that we’d be together
When the time came.
But, time doesn’t come this way
It is always fleeting.
And I’ve learned that shaking hands
Come from more than greetings.
My heart is teaching me how to maintain
Your life while giving a steady beating.
A rush of adrenaline while fans rush to your medicine.
Or your aid. Did you think I’d give you AIDS?
That your parents would be enraged?
Couldn’t handle page upon page
Of hate mail for being a gay athlete?
What exactly justifies keeping me under the rug
So, you can stay in the closet?
Look to the women that openly
Carry their crosses as they cross the street.
Learn from the way that they carry themselves.
They decide who they are meant to be.
Find my voice amongst your fans.
I’m the only one cheering for you
Instead of who you pretend to be.

take the parts you don’t
want to remember.
burn them until all you have left
are the memories.
burn them until all you have left
are the bones.

you say pass me an angel on ice
but i’m a mess-up so you get
a chandelier instead,
one that’s always falling
from the paris opera house ceiling,
your spine a breath along the crash,
my hands a search for feathers
amongst the shards of breaking glass.

these are the parts we burn:
the skeleton, and gold scattered
like bloodstains, soaking our limbs
to the marrow and the ash, this gold
so soft we curled it between our teeth
trying to make halos,
tasting only bones.

I miss people longer than normal. My mother looks 
down at me with pursed lips, says honey do you want 
to come out of bed today? I think soft things: a girl, 
mouth pressed against metal teeth. A boy, a wrecked 
car, highway streaked like light. A woman & a man 
in a floral hotel room, pink                 bruises. I miss you 
longer than normal. It’s hard to write a love poem that isn’t a lie. 

I’m not doing so well. A robber in a ski mask shot a man 
in a deli, headlines say. I know how that felt, soft thoughts: 
shoving Hershey bars and Bic lighters into a yellow pillow case, 
ears ringing, fingers                  bruised, dying noises 
coming from behind the counter. 

A man, a wrecked car, highway streaked like light. 
Lips like broken eggs, a kiss like yolk. Fawn throats, 
wet with blood, the sky littered with glass. I’m still looking
for my get away car. City lights like the mouth 
of a river. Something empty. 

You used to pluck flowers from my teeth.


Brock Clarke, An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England


Brock Clarke, An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England

I met my wife at a Star Trek convention. She was study abroad from France and spoke little English, and I didn’t know a lick of French. So, for the first few months of our relationship, we communicated by speaking Klingon.

Hear more tales of nerdery in this week’s Pwn Up! (via dorkly)

Okay I’m not even a Star Trek fan but that’s beautiful.

(via tchy)


There is no metaphor, there is no simile,
                                                                                and there is no rhetoric
To nudge us to their caress.
The trees remain the trees, God help us.
And memory, for all its warmth,
                                                 is merely the things we forgot to forget.

—Charles Wright, from “Dude,” in Caribou (Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2014)


Flow always flow but flow like water not like honey. Stick to nothing and let nothing stick to you.

๑ Samsaran ๑

The Greek word for “return” is nostos. Algos means “suffering.” So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return.
Milan Kundera, Ignorance (via quotablycatholic)
But like every kiss, this one is an answer, a clumsy but tender answer to a question that eludes the power of language.
Sandor Marai, from Embers (via the-final-sentence)

Our first date was at a haunted
house and when you screamed
at the chainsawed man, left me 
to have my head severed- 
that is when I knew.

Our second date, my friend’s drunk dating show 
at a dive bar. When you requested the men 
have a dance-off to determine who dates 
the lucky lady- 
that is when I knew.

Last night, I farted on you & 
woke myself up. When you 
responded I love you-
that is when I knew.

Love, it has taken me a parliament
of wrong lovers to know there is no skin 
I touch the way I touch yours.

It has taken me endless baptizing 
in the wrong bodies to know the salt 
of your mouth is the only river 
I ever want to drink.

I know the maneuvering some god 
had to do to bring you to me-

the unyielding winter, the red dirt- the death 
that begged you to kiss it on the mouth the way you kiss me.

Blessed be this bible.
The Bible of Finally, You’ve Arrived. 
The Bible of I Did Not Know I Was Waiting My Whole Life to Learn Your Name. 
The Bible of This Want is the Want that I Welcome.

This love is the gospel I hope to sing until 
our voices swell out into the night, until 
we are only a prayer, said softly into the dark.

Cut a chrysalis open, and you will find a rotting caterpillar. What you will never find is that mythical creature, half caterpillar, half butterfly, a fit emblem of the human soul, for those whose cast of mind leads them to seek such emblems. No, the process of transformation consists almost entirely of decay.
Pat Barker, Regeneration (via twelvestepped)
April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (via traumachu)
you were last seen walking through a field of pianos. no. a museum of mouths. in the kitchen of a bustling restaurant, cracking eggs and releasing doves. no. eating glow worms and waltzing past my bedroom. last seen riding the subway, literally, straddling its metal back, clutching electrical cables as reins. you were wearing a dress made out of envelopes and stamps, this was how you travelled. i was the mannequin in the storefront window you could have sworn moved. the library card in the book you were reading until that dog trotted up and licked your face. the cookie with two fortunes. the one jamming herself through the paper shredder, afraid to talk to you. the beggar, hat outstretched bumming for more minutes. the phone number in the bathroom stall with no agenda other than a good time. the good time is a picnic on water, or a movie theatre that only plays your childhood home videos and no one hushes when you talk through them. when they play my videos i throw milk duds at the screen during the scenes i watch myself letting you go - lost to the other side of an elevator - your face switching to someone else’s with the swish of a geisha’s fan. my father could have been a travelling salesman. i could have been born on any doorstep. there are 2,469,501 cities in this world, and a lot of doorsteps. meet me on the boardwalk. i’ll be sure to wear my eyes. do not forget your face. i could never.
Megan Falley, “new york craigslist > personals > missed connections>” (via words-in-lines)

All of your acrylics cracked in cryptic ways.
I can’t tell if it’s to say
That you’re changing or that you need a break.
Either way you’ve done it beautifully. 
I’m doing it again. Giving too much praise
When you want to be your own appraiser.
But, that’s me. Sitting in the gallery much later
Than the lights last.
Listening to the bedtime stories of the past
That the pastels have told.
I put pieces of my soul in the brushes you hold.
Colors that have the weight of cities like hueston.
Paint me home. 
When you’re ready.