The Attraction of Titles

Solidify
Blade slashes bag.
Charcoal clouds billow out.
Filling lungs and pockets.
Hose sprays water.
Winding in minuscule rivulets.
Forming muddy clumps.
Shovel mixes.
Liquid and powder unite.
Smooth like an iced chai.
Wheelbarrow pours.
Secret disappears.
Cement hardens.
Fingerprints and all.

Melt
Spring is the best time of year
I trade mud brown Sorels
for indigo leather Airwalks
as the snow becomes slush and then
memory
Men melt
Carrots and coal
remain to testify they were there
The Mississippi swells
It is a dangerous serpent
The hockey rink transforms into a soccer field
A delicate icicle clings
to the white birch tree in the front yard
fiercely determined to endure
the summer

Short Lines and Long Lines

Victim of Survival
I am crushed beneath the weight of the
World collapsing on me--the sky is falling
Like London Bridge or ashes, ashes, and the
Rubble is my burial mound. I lie beneath it,
Calm. When I'm trapped, no one can expect me
To do anything more than survive.
I could struggle against gravity
But maybe I lack conviction
Or maybe apathy has gotten the best of me.
The loss is an earthquake; it leaves me
Trembling, but breathing. For a moment,
I think I am dead--so I
Write myself back to life, digging with
Words that are shovels, face turned up,
Looking for the light--I can see it, it's
Blinding. The promise of freedom. I can
Taste the air again. I will survive
Despite pressure, loss, and gravity.


Ideas
Ideas drive
Through my mind
Like traffic.
Some race,
Gone before
I can see them;
Others putter along,
Meandering,
Requiring pause,
Drawing attention
With brake light red.
And some ideas
Break down
On the brain
Superhighway--
Stuck, and causing
The entire world
To stop.

Free Verse Lineation

I Make Ragnarok Look Like a Tea Party.

And the cataclysm nears,
Catalyzed by fears and stress,
And oh yes, you my dear.
Internal pressure reaches levels so
High my skin bevels out to
Compensate for you pressing in.
I am a caricature of caring,
Wearing that tired smile you tried to
Disprove, remove with your assault.
Decipher this, you'll open the door,
But what was inside won't be there anymore
(Weapons of mass self-destruction are hard to uncover).
Sooner or later I'll go down in flames--
Cliche', I know, and a little lame--but
Being consumed like a wick has always been my thing.
Is picking at scabs your hobby? I'd lobby
For you to stop if I thought you'd listen--
Hell, maybe I'd talk if I thought you'd listen.
Even now, in my medium of choice, the words evade me
And my voice; all the while they pervade me, pervert me
Into what I was back when I purpled my own skin.
It's something in me, been there as long as I can remember
(Dormant sometimes, but when it's conscious I feel
Like a doormat at times).
I wouldn't expect you to understand, and if you say you do,
I know you don't, and that's OK, I'm OK with that--
Did you hear me? I'M OK.
Really.
But I'd be more OK
If I could stop thinking.
Because the blast--it's defused for now
But the bomb will blow
When it's catalyzed again.

I Make Ragnarok Look Like a Tea Party.

And the cataclysm nears, catalyzed by fears and stress, and oh yes, you my dear.
Internal pressure reaches levels so high my skin bevels out to compensate for you pressing in.
I am a caricature of caring, wearing that tired smile you tried to disprove, remove with your assault.
Decipher this, you'll open the door, but what was inside won't be there anymore
(weapons of mass self-destruction are hard to uncover).
Sooner or later I'll go down in flames--cliche', I know, and a little lame--
but being consumed like a wick has always been my thing.
Is picking at scabs your hobby?
I'd lobby for you to stop if I thought you'd listen--
Hell, maybe I'd talk if I thought you'd listen.
Even now, in my medium of choice, the words evade me and my voice;
all the while they pervade me, pervert me into what I was back when I purpled my own skin.
It's something in me, been there as long as I can remember
(dormant sometimes, but when it's conscious I feel like a doormat at times).
I wouldn't expect you to understand, and if you say you do, I know you don't, and that's OK,
I'm OK with that--did you hear me? I'M OK. Really.
But I'd be more OK if I could stop thinking.
Because the blast--it's defused for now but the bomb will blow when it's catalyzed again.



The different lineations of the poem feel so different that they are actually two very different poems. The first feels disjointed, chaotic, and urgent. The line breaks are harsh and discordant and juxtapose words and rhymes in ways that I find interesting. The second version is a much smoother read, with more predictable line breaks. It emphasizes the wordplay and internalizes the rhyme. I prefer the first poem as a whole because the short lines create a sharp, violent tone that mirrors the concept my anger makes the end of the world seem comparatively tame.

Definition Poem

A Computer

It turns on,
Loads,
Takes its time.
It connects
To the world,
Collects
Information,
Viruses,
Cookies.
It updates automatically,
Just before you save.
It saves time
And lowers blood pressure
But gives carpal tunnel.
It is your social life--
How many of your friends
Like you?
It glows in the dark,
Keeps you up late,
Until you shut it down
Or it shuts you down.
The computer was designed
To be a tool for us
To use, but we
Are the ones
Being used.