Corium

Read a poem from "The Missing Town" here. It's a Very Short Fiction, there. There are other things to read, there. Which are good. Read it all, why don't you?

First Contest

Just submitted to Rattle's poetry contest. I hope my poems pull on each of their strings attached to each of their internal organs, leaving a huge feeling-mess all over the floor.

In other news, increasingly more journals won't accept poems that have already been published on blogs, so I'm not sure if I'll be posting my stuff anymore. I'll continue with publication updates and maybe some other writing related updates every now and then, instead. Sorry to those of you who have enjoyed reading my poems here.

Hello. Here is my first post-graduation post/poem. God, I hope someone still reads this shit.

Sprouts

I walk into the kitchen. Two little sprouts grow out of two new cracks in the tile. I make myself eggs but end up giving them to the sprouts. I give them glasses of water and they grow into plump little trees. I lie down on the kitchen floor to go to sleep. The trees grow fat fleshy bellies and patches of fur instead of leaves. They bounce up and down and they make sounds like pigs grunting. They bounce and jerk violently until their roots are completely out of the cracks. Free, they buck around the kitchen like small wild horses, their grey bark glistening with a layer of sweat, trampling and stomping on me with their muddy wads of root. And you know what? I let them. There’s so much life in these two, and look at me, lying on the floor, waiting to be trampled to death.

What is it about bears and poems? I'm going to go write some bears.

I Cannot Go To This Restaurant Anymore But I Cannot Wait To See You Again

I cannot go to this restaurant anymore but I cannot wait to see you again

My feet are wet as I watch the electrical outlets

The song finishes in four minutes and thirty seconds

It takes four minutes and thirty seconds to convert electrical signals into feelings

I open a door and place feet on top of a table

I sit in the chair and stare at the clock as it moves forward then moves forward again

and slowly go blind

I sit in a chair on the top floor of a tall building and feel ridiculous for feeling so tall

The feeling in my stomach is the feeling of children playing hide and go seek

The game where nobody hides and nobody seeks and there are no children and there is no

stomach

I find hair and eyelashes that aren’t mine all over my bed

I think of that time you told me that you couldn’t help tickling the backs of my eyes with

your spaghetti fingers

You can find some of my poems here.

You can find many other poems here.

New Newborn

When you are born, you slip out of the doctor's hands and out the window. Oh, gee, I'm all thumbs today, he says. You land in a pile of leftover bloody latex gloves, splotching strawberry handprints all over your tiny body. You put on a pair for your hands, a pair for your feet. You walk into the nearest saloon and order a shot of whiskey and a beer. I'm sorry, we don't serve minors, the bartender says. You slap his face, leaving a bloody handprint. You jump on the bar and gnaw on his neck with your gummy mouth. You’re the new type of newborn, and your first screams sound like metal scratching different metal.

Here is a poem not from that thesis I mentioned.

Nail Problem

In the beginning, everyone bites their nails and spits out the nail-bits. If you aren’t quick enough, somebody may come along and bite the white tip of your nails off for you.

Eventually, there is a layer of chewed nail that covers everything, like sharp snow. This is a problem, but it’s not like anybody can help it. Everyone knows this is a bad habit, and gets deeply embarrassed when they find their hands in their mouths.

People begin to mistake most of everything said for something about nails.

How are you?

My nails are just fine, thank you.

Nice weather, today.

Yeah, my nails are pretty sore, too.

The world slowly moves inside and huddles up in dark corners, alone, to feed their dirty habit. Most of the time, they are waiting for them to grow.

I knock on your door, and hear soft clicking, but you don’t answer. I float onward, marveling at how empty the world is, like a ghost after some great holocaust, repeating to myself nail, nail, nail, nail, but meaning something else entirely.

Sorry I haven't been posting at all ever. I have a thesis. I'm working like a wild beast on that thesis. You haven't missed much beyond that thesis. Here is a poem from that thesis I mentioned.

The Park

I come across a lone calf tied to a stake in the park. When I get close enough, it runs at me, as fast as its little underdeveloped legs can carry it, until it reaches the end of its rope. The jerk back is so violent that I think its neck must be broken. The calf gets up as if nothing has happened, and repeats the process. A group of mothers, all pushing strollers, walks by the calf and I, staring. The calf is jerked so suddenly that it flips and lands on its back. Oh, this is just a game we play I say. The mothers don’t say anything. One subtly shakes her head. I laugh nervously. It really is his favorite game, we play it every day, here, in this park I say. The women continue on their walk. I untie the calf from the stake and notice that its nose is bleeding. Its heart is broken. It doesn’t click in the right way anymore. I clutch at its rope as it runs and jerks me forward. I decide that I will keep it. It’s like I see a part of myself in the little calf, lost in the world, looking for some new heart in all the wrong ways.