what some call insanity

For anyone interested. 5 poems - 4 are some variation of a sonnet, and one is a syllabic.


Great ropes of weed climb limply up this tree,
curl like ivy around planks of rotting wood
and hang limp over branches, a mockery
of proudly draped turrets. Sweet-smelling mold
smears a summer’s worth of art; new strips of bark
grow over our pine-canvas, white and soft.
The old stump-seats, where we’d watch the world grow dark
around us as we talked, are all that’s left.

Once, there were flowers, yanked from a black pot
in your mother’s garden and arranged
in plastic cups to brighten this retreat;
once, this was more than a dead and ravaged lot
littered with cigarettes and dreams. Through the rain,
I look for carvings on this tree – A. F. E. V.

As I was saying, I've been rocking the whole nostalgic thing lately!


It’s in these moments – muggy air, gray
with the mist of clouds hovering low
and wind pushing puddles that have nowhere
to go, that churn and strain like a bicycle
wheel in a crack – these moments when windows
are guarded with wood, the only sound
the soft swish of leaves dizzily drifting
from branches and trees as the sun
slips through the sky like drops of lemon
through hot tea – it’s in these quiet
moments after a storm that snakes come forth.
They rise from damp soil, soft bellies skimming
the limp, littered grass, and swarm to swim
down slick streets; unhindered, unseen.

Written right after Gustav.


Everyone wants the pregnant shark.
Her skin, thick and tender, hangs from her
body like a faded sheet drying
on a clothesline. Limp, her belly sags,
draped loosely around the still, stiff lump
of the dead, half-formed life inside her.

The rats, once handed out and unwrapped
(wet tape peeling away like band-aids
in the shower and newspapers, runny
with brown juice, thrown out), are neatly sliced
and split down the middle to reveal
small, wet coils of rubbery red.

The mink smells like formaldehyde, sour
and stronger than urine. The wrinkled
skin is nearly white, stripped of the thick
fur that’s probably a coat by now.
A scalpel bites into the chewy,
red muscle, and nicks the bone beneath.

Each organ, once explored thoroughly
with unpracticed hands and instruments
lined along low black tables, is dropped
into a small silver bowl. They land
in a pile of pulp with a splat, like
something that’s been squeezed too hard and burst.


They peek through gaps in porous rock – windblown
weeds, resilient shrubs, thick gray layers of moss
and lichen. Lava lizards, scuttling
along thin crevices, dart out of sight
and under jutting clay-stone. Bending down,
I close my fist around the loose surface
of Mt. Vesuvius; the dusty grit
embeds itself beneath my fingernails.

The hazy wisps of steam that issue from
across the crater spin through breezes,
drift like clouds above Earth’s yawning mouth.
Invisible, they spread, become the air and wind
that make dust of crumbling rock, sweep
through the ashes of all that was once here.

We visited Mt. Vesuvius and Pompeii in 2007 (I talk about it a bit here - scroll down to June 11), so that inspired this.


A needle bites the inside of my wrist;
third time today, and the hunger in your eyes
turns hazy as the sweat that’s barely dried
on my skin boils up again. I twitch,
clench my teeth, and don’t bother to resist
a scream as my veins become snakes and writhe,
hissing, black with fire – no – you love my cries -
but now, as the fire dies, I still want to live,

your face is close enough to mine to see
the tearstains on my cheek – it’s time to break.
You don’t want names or dates; the simple sound
of my weary voice lets you believe
you’ve reached the limit of what I can take.
It’s been six weeks – you should know me now.

*cuddles Nina* This is a sequal of sorts to Interrogator, which I wrote last year. I'm not happy with this one yet.

This is due tomorrow, so suggestions/feedback are always welcome, but especially for the next few hours!

Public entry, so real life friends can see it.