Saturday, December 19, 2015

Medical Sonnet #3

art by verismaya

Shall I compare thee to a cloggèd lane?               
The king’s road should but flowe with ease,           
But here the horses lurch and strain.                     
Or to a danse, if yt you please?                             
Thou duck in darkened corners, meek,                   
And shirk the beat in stagnant pain.                       
Or to a drunkèn captain’s fleet                               
with no North Star in night’s terrain?                      
And too few knots to stay the course.                       
Or to the gnarled oxen’s knees                             
That lumber through the blooming gorse?            
Whose remedie the swell doth ease.                       
Or to a world together held by modesty in vain       
while you stand out as painfully as an Americain.    

Friday, December 18, 2015

gallopy draft

art by Rachael Shankman

I arc, cemented to the prow
of this great ship, the wind it howls
the night is cold and fire burns, 
the wind does rage, the sea, it turns 
the silver surface from our grasp,
can’t hold what’s close, can’t hold the past,
these remnants glimmer
real as rain, when gathered, gray
can’t separate the single drops
collect in buckets, then we mop
the present with the murky past
besmirching windows to our hollows
dark and vast, and bright and neat,
the sun it bleaches
dirty sheets to our relief
the stern does steep in tides that reek
above the water, proudly pleated
lurching sail, a choppy meter
lightning reigns in peals of wonder
blights a skein, alights our pain
and so we venture ‘neath the deck
closer to the very waters
of the one who’s haunting us,
but rocks and coddles nonetheless
there’s no escaping endless water
tide recedes with time, then gathers
us to its moon-swollen breast
drink it in, there is no rest
swallow now before you’re swallowed
by the sea, we’re being followed
naturally, by time it leads us
to the shore that no one’s seen
it’s only lore, an open door,
an endless light, or endless night
as brightly and dark as sleep
provides our refuge and relief

Tuesday, May 5, 2015

You burned me, a forbidden book, an old & wordless tome you took to pyre: just a scrying flame, portending me another name.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Come dip a quill into my bones
and draw with blood upon the stones
a liquid song, each note bequeathed
by mother tongues (and lips and teeth),
held hostage by a primal urge,
creating wakes that sound the dirge.
I swell and swoon, and rise and break--
a tide of titles, tales, and ranks.
A wartime trumpet of the swan
must take a shape to carry on.
Oh, who still peddles Grecian urns?
Whose marrow boils till it burns,
whose watermark upon the flock
is still just water on a rock.

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Medical Sonnet #2

Oblite thee! You're no egg of mine, nor will ever be
beastily cascading down, slime-covered from mine Fauverie.
Though you do bestow a fuller forme with ingenuity,
You are no kinge, no son of mine; vacate my ovarie!

Faker, quayside crawler docked in heaving waves: avast!
Spewing hurling ralph-and-earling, leaving me aghast.
Booming thunder pummeling in laparoscopic blasts,
Shrewd marauding therapie / corporeal lambaste.

Hungry doctors do associate your countenance with food. 
To an apple or a grapefruit or a pea they do allude.  
Perhaps they plate and instagramme you while I am subdued.
It matters naught, in afterthought; I've nothing more to brood.

Friday, October 3, 2014


alex stoddard
Love is a pack of cigarettes that you smoke all at once and now you are burned and sick. Love is unceremonious. Love is drunk and disorderly. Love is a ghost you can’t exorcize. Love is blind groping in the dark—terror, bliss. Love is acres of pain with a square inch of pleasure. Love is a vice. Love rebels. Love is a teenaged party at your parents’ house and by the end, everything is trashed, and everyone’s in trouble. Love thinks it is above rules. Love is above rules. Love is being gutted, gently. Love is wordless. Love is wordy. Love makes morons. Love is a vampire. Love doesn’t give a fuck about you. Love makes you a liar. Love ties you upside down to a tree and sacrifices you in the name of no one. Love is a starving person who can’t swallow. Love swallows. Love is unconsenting. Love uses force. Love is the friend who sucks all the life out of you and then doesn’t even ask how you are. Love is a dumb jock. Love is a poorly-run marathon where you start out so confident and by mile 9 you are sobbing in the back of an ambulance. Love is alone. Love is a big bang. Love is the single greatest purveyor of entropy. Love is a black hole that sucks out all the light. Love bites. Love is on the tip of my tongue. Love wanders aimlessly. Love wants you to quit your job. Love is your job. Love will fire you without notice. Love costs more than a house in San Francisco. Love is somewhere between heaven and hell, and either way, you’re dead. Love is a high-class whore and you pretend to have the resources. Love is defiant. Love is fear. Love is the roommate who steals your furniture and doesn’t pay the electric bill and leaves you lying on the cold floor. Love is a goddamn lesson. Love asks you to murder, and gives you no alibi. Love is the fool who occasionally spouts deep, unbidden truth. Love is choosing to go on hunger strike at the banquet. Love is a burning coal in your beak. Love is an obsidian blade made of winter. 

Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Medical Sonnet #1

Torrid as the blazing sonne, bejewelled in baubles brighte,
I burn and yearn to touch you neath the coverings at night.
You weep as though in penance for our consummated union.
You and I, two ships collide in fiery communion. 

Your visage, red as apples--lo!, and glazed with morning dew
inflames my smoothest vellum, dear, without a need to woo.
In envy, Lady Justice doth peruse your golden scales,
a clear and sweet elixir pouring out from holy grails. 

Hippocrates admonishes the dryness of your humour
(“Yellow bile fire” for the ancient Greek consumer),
Reminding me of when I laughed, unfettered in my glee. 
Now our claustrophobic closeness causes endless agony.

I knead this soothing salve at last to sate my misery.
Let us now be cleaved, in love; you must submit to me.