What Lingers…

My soul licks your words and swallows. The heart of your ink cloaks my tongue, bleeds into my bones, spreads through me, and I feel osmosis be-coming teleportation’s kissing cousin.

Your storm spells trails through my eyeballs and makes home of my skull. I see my teeth dance in mirrors made of your moon-shards howling stories about how darkness is raw energy just waiting to be turned into stars.

Your poetry lingers… and grows.


bits on writing and living

This week, I spent quite a bit of time talking with individuals who wish to turn their journey into a book. When someone asked me, “What’s the best way to start writing?”, I considered parachuting out of the closest window. But I was lacking on the parachute department… and my swollen feet and I were standing on the 9th floor, and all the windows were sealed… so, my brain, Muse, and I surrendered our truth: “Write, read, write some more.”

Nope, I shan’t defile your eyeballs with descriptions of some of the looks my answer sprouted. But I will say that I started hoping for the parachute again—just so I could whip the lookers with a braided length of 550 cord until their brain-housing group understood that writing something (other people want to read) involves work, commitment, belief, and an uncanny love for words that it’s almost impossible to explain to people who don’t already love words. And yes, in order to write one must also read… a lot.

I’m not suggesting that a writer must read 131+ books a year, like certain psychos I know. I’m just saying that delighting in words birthed by other writers can be a real education (in writing and living and more).


– linked to Poets United Midweek Motif: Darkness Is…, to Blogging around with Rommy, and to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (where Kerry asks us “to share a quote from a contemporary poet’s work and write a poem as a tribute to his/her style, voice, themes, wisdom.”)

These are the quotes that inspired the prose poem (I hope the poets don’t sue me… since I’m broke… unless they want ellipses… or parentheses):

I carved a hole in my chest

I saw the cavity was filled with seeds
tiny as distant stars –
and multiple universes
~ Kerry O’Connor

You always come
with summer
on the frayed brown velvet
of your eyes.
~ Hedgewitch

there is no point in crawling
into pre-dug graves
when there are signs on our skins
telling us we can survive.
~ Rommy Driks


… (.) /…


Ink’s Favorite Stiletto Heels Look Different to Everyone

Ink is Art’s wild child
dressed in words
for feels. She is the one
all kinds of people point at, and say,
“Such perfection” and “What a skank”
and “I could eat her up”.

– when her wilds are deepest, Ink chooses stilettos made of poetry –

While on heels to kill (or caress, if you want),
Ink reaches for different heads, hips, beliefs…
using the same words. She can stab you in the face
or carve me a world to delight in, really—
Ink touches you and me, through our own knowing,
without ever having to change shoes.


the wee notes…
– a Wicked Luv told me that she felt a bit lost after reading the comments others left on “The Ghosts of Amontillado Fumes”. Her interpretation matched no one else’s. She asked if I wouldn’t mind explaining the story to her. I told her I could explain what the tale meant to me, but only she could know what it meant to her. Then, I wrote this poem.
– linked it to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads and to Poets United.


Love Magic, by Natalie Shau