My Poems
I am a writer of poetry. I take this identity of Poet very seriously. I am always writing poetry, whether pen is to paper or not. My mind is always on, I am always thinking, I am always connecting. My poetry is about witnessing my truth, whether it is truth about my life or about life in general. Though I don't ever consider my poems "finished" enough to be spared a thoughtful re-write, I do like to share them. Enjoy.
DVT
My veins have become a luge track.
Blood courses through bumping the corners,
stretching walls and valves.
It lopes around this body, gathering.
Gathering.
My blood gathers in the nooks and crannies
of my luge-track veins, skulking in the shadows
of aorta, stalking bronchial tubes until I finally
give up and put on the nasal cannula.
Superficial Thrombosis. I read this like I'm some
twelve year old anorexic in a dark library corner
scoffing at the World Book Encyclopedia.
Superficial!
This is deep, man.
Blood courses through bumping the corners,
stretching walls and valves.
It lopes around this body, gathering.
Gathering.
My blood gathers in the nooks and crannies
of my luge-track veins, skulking in the shadows
of aorta, stalking bronchial tubes until I finally
give up and put on the nasal cannula.
Superficial Thrombosis. I read this like I'm some
twelve year old anorexic in a dark library corner
scoffing at the World Book Encyclopedia.
Superficial!
This is deep, man.
Stone (#8273)
I used to fuck with my boots
on; ball cap jeans and at least
two shirts. I was ready to leave,
hell I was already at the door.
I wasn't even there.
I called it stone. Butch. I was
hard as rocks. I was no girly.
I'd prove it with my fist inside
some femme the way I was
taught to prove my worth.
My self.
I was home when I learned my
mother needed me to be butch
and strong. My hands were there
for her, my back was strong for
her, she was girly and that meant
she needed me to be butch.
on; ball cap jeans and at least
two shirts. I was ready to leave,
hell I was already at the door.
I wasn't even there.
I called it stone. Butch. I was
hard as rocks. I was no girly.
I'd prove it with my fist inside
some femme the way I was
taught to prove my worth.
My self.
I was home when I learned my
mother needed me to be butch
and strong. My hands were there
for her, my back was strong for
her, she was girly and that meant
she needed me to be butch.
