superfluous sincerity

My heart drowns in its own superfluous sincerity.

iamananggryyoungman said: Your poems have this wonderful sound quality to them- alliteration, etc.- and I like to read them aloud. Beautiful imagery. Thank you for that.

I honestly can’t explain to you how meaningful this message is to me; the idea that anyone would take the time and use their breath to read my poem aloud absolutely blows my mind in the best possible way. Thank you infinitely. You are so wonderful and I am so fortunate to have crossed your virtual path in even this tiny way. I appreciate your immense kindness; and I appreciate the person you are to have read my poems and writing this benevolent compliment. May your day be infused with all the positive feelings I have now. 


Refusing my role
of endangered elephant
in a room full of concerned
-looking conservationists,
choking back their research
on my impending extinction,
I jailbreak custom.

My fleeing feet
slip shadowless through the sea
of still, obsidian satin,
too dark to see through,
and unbreathing cotton
to cross the threshold
in his not-yet-emptied closet.

Things are stiller there.
Swimming head sandwiched
tight between double-breasted
suits perfumed in thick
assertive Lagavulin,
I can almost smell his
heart on the sleeves;
but the drum of the beat
is eerily absent; as if

Instead, grief knocks in code.
I send my earlobes
under the door’s slit
in clean white envelopes,
tongue tied shut.
The inscription on the front
reads, in mascara inkblots,
“I can’t hear you”.

With fishing-pole-fingers,
I am a pickpocket,
the lines of my skin
passing over the wrinkles
of his pockets and flinching
at the chill exhaled by forgotten
pennies, all tail side up.

In his shoes,
there are film canisters
and Snapdragon seed pods-
he eclectically collected shells
of things that gave birth.
Mama’s maternity clothes
made his favorite quilt.

The satin of his hanging
ties brush against my cheeks
as I sway, like weeping willow
branches reaching down
to commiserate; like snakes
gone soft in the night.

There are bags of seeds tucked
inside miscellaneous socks.
We planted these through
chinks in winter’s armor
and had a garden in January
because he knew the words
to whisper to the dirt
to make it want to be alive again.

Hungry for heirlooms,
ready to reify his now-ghost
love into something hold-able,
a bible of made up of his
strong yet feathered breaths
and all his candied smiles,
my hands tremble at the

Mad Girl's Love Song


I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung…

Kris Knight's Secrets Are Things We Grow is the most beautiful series of portraits I’ve seen in the longest time. 

Selected by mariana

(Source: cross-connect, via poemsofthequiet)





(via suchgreatheightss)


I’m speechless.


I’m speechless.

(via poemsofthequiet)


Dandelion by Leif Landal