Tag Archives: writing on writing

Writer Beware 

Bing! Says my brain, and my fingers strain.  But here’s the thing: It seems there’s nothing left to gain from all this click and clack.  I think I want my money back.  ::Not-so-Quickly, day 6.

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(a sonnet variation called a “duplex”)  :: I am a swirling alphabet storm. Nobody knows the order of this chaos.                         The order of chaos is unknown, even to me.                        The key is making sense of all the spaces in between.  The … Continue reading

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purple tigers in curious snow 

it’s only once (maybe twice) in a blue moon that we know what we’re doing. we of the viole(n)t fingers. we of the ivory page. we scrape our inky stripes and cage our own roared voices into petaled phrase in hopes of taming heart. we start withthorn and scratch our … Continue reading

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The Dread Pirate Mermaid Princess Poopypants 

I shall not dance for you today, not on fins nor on siren’s sails. Not on confused muse mirrored lake, nor these damned pages.  These quills hold porcupine stingand no lasting high,and I am tired.  Even the syllables of my own name taste like dust. I’ve … Continue reading

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this poem is unpunctual, at best 

And I couldn’t tell, if anyone here was feeling the way I doBut I’m lonely now, and I don’t know howTo get it back to good– Matchbox Twenty  she is approximately 751 days behind the eight ball the last call the deadline that fine line between … Continue reading

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most definitely probably for certain the very last one.

this poem is its own special kind of hell. you can’t tell because it just keeps un-raveling, but it’s rapidly traveling too far south. it’s opened its inky mouth and now it can’t stop spewing phrase. you’d  be amazed by how many days she can ramble on and … Continue reading

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still waiting for the right moment to present itself in Optima Bold 

she’s cold,sitting here with all these (unlocked) keys, and could someone please turn down the music in the hall? she’s all thumbs (and frankly they can’t type) and she’ll never live up to the hype of her own design.  fine, she’ll clack a black line or two. see? there’s … Continue reading

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ungracious ghosts

they haunt without love or forethought, caught only in the un-clacked black of their white-sheet skins. 

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stage: left

we outta here with our pens and our plans and our cramped-up hands and our scrib-bled dreams. these syllables are our last gasps and death-rattle rasps of lyric, lung and ripped-at-stanza seams. this means  our scribbles are all scrabbled out, and there’s no doubt … Continue reading

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one poem

and we find ourselves falling into its pages tucking ourselves between stanzas as silk  pillowcases. two days later we’re still here three sheets to the (whirl)wind drunk  on phrase for another four days. gimme fiveminutes and i’ll tell you each rhyme-and -rhythm’d tale, … Continue reading

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