Publishing

Aight folk, so I’ma start submitting my poetry, as singles and chapbooks, to publishers, try to do something with this writing ya know? Generally, most publishers don’t accept work that has been posted elsewhere, so you might notice a number of writings disappearing. Provided they get rejected, they’ll be put back up, if on the chance they get accepted, you’ll potentially see them somewhere else.

Thank you

Three Masses From Afar

Ember rest
Again
Reset when

Twilight falls upon this vermillion-
Washed lakeland feel at home feel
At home here laughter like
Landscapes puncturing aqueous mirrors;

Islands unexplored in true measure

Incendiaries seen incendiaries
Felt beating
Away at tree trunks add
Another ring another year tied to finger left of center

Aluminum cans popped
Open fizzling, silently we roar,

Silently we all roar

Tamping gravel to dirt,
Memory to stone

Which of us will bear
The brightest constellation?
Carry the boulder-blasted torch songs
Towards empyreal horizon?

All dancing
All dancing
Trances set
To still-life in motion,

Cricket orchestras illuminated as if
Actually fireflies

Smoke,
A burn
Smoldering supple
And endearing

Superior’s Frisco

Hogsback Mountain- a love story:

Staircases of roots tangled together
Crawling deeper into earth
And down into my heart,

Nests perched above
Gold glows abundant with eagle eggs
With wings and raptor beaks
These children are my own,

Barefoot it’s been awhile,
Hasn’t it? A cologne of spring-
Fed trickling streams tickle my senses,
Flames flick up towards stained glass windows,
Birch pine cedar
Depicting scenes of solemn reverie,
Eager to portray our history,
Present these quiet kisses of ours
In vague images to the world are you
Bragging? Almost,

Made it to peak shirtless
Saw again the naked prosperity of our relationship,
Distance can’t impede what is meant to be-

The consummation of one’s soul
Through great granite skyscrapers
Soft water city nestled in-between fractures interlocking,
To grow is to erode
Break down skin to dirt
Sprout ferns and somehow,

I’ve never felt more human

Do you remember two summers ago-
The first time we met?
I ran straight to summit
Smoking Nightcap in a Prebem Holm freehand,
Not once letting ember rest
I read Kerouac to you
Aloud so all surrounding above and below
Could hear,

Oh,
How far we have come,
How far we have come

Migratory Patterns

You do not know, so I suppose
In some aspect every flock of terns that fly
South when my mouth opens to speak
Is a lie;

A murder of crows crowding
Serene ocean skies with cimmerian concrete impressions,
I am buried in what I know

In what you believe to be honesty
Is absolutely otherwise and I am unsure
If an apology is needed or if a confession is necessary
Because you’ve always recognized pink
As being my favorite colour

Receding Coastlines

Fair opportunity presented in such a fashion
Making introduction,
The first word “Hello” impossible to say,
Your interest is in photography,
Mines in fucking up first impressions,
If we’re being honest and it’s not clear by now
Approaching people isn’t my strong suit
And I know of a coastline littered with skeletons in small clothes,
Imprint these visions of bad weather into still frames
In mourning dew drops
Wind gusts,
Breathless repentance
Broke tension with the body of the girl
Who jumped where we were standing,
Took a picture of the lake shore
Riddled with fissures
Bodies for holding
Letters written poorly got caught in the negatives
Revealing a trace of humanity
On an Isle of stone eleven thousand years old,
If you look closely you can see her bones have become small pebbles

Upon Worn Spirits

Sheep’s wool woven crystal grey
Cascading braids of thunder and lightless theatre marquees

I came covered in caramel vapors
Rode around town on a pair of
Restless rubber legs
Started north and ended up
Along homecoming’s lakefront

Sidewalks and wave whispers
Decorated with the fermented remnants of kisses
Meant with good intention, concrete chipped
Intricate designs embossed on finger nails-
What a rainbow,
Colourful contrast created from sleep exhaustion
Hunger pangs staved off with nicotine

I got lost a little bit
Encompassed by the passively pungent smells
Of love’s sweet battlefield, I took my time
Knocked on your door
Opened revealing you standing there,
Entered and we talked as if one
Upon mentioning an interest in stitching
A hat was produced from an inconspicuous kitchen cabinet,
Handed it over graciously-crystal grey threading,
Braids of cascading thunder and lightless theatre marquees

What a beautiful gravestone it would become

Not Far From Maplewood

There were those trees in your backyard
Wild cedar growing in the gully
Near your woodshed basking in decrepit beauty
Situated above as if being the river’s shepherd

After we discovered that tea
Was literally just plants and hot water

Those cedar trees glowed silky
Smooth a hypnotic amber- such honey slipped
So efficiently down our throats coated
Our intestines and every breath
We spoke

The colour of those years
Between ten and seventeen
Was cedar’s milk

Crafting bows from broken boughs,
Using those freshest of buds as crow’s
Nest, survey flood basin’s reign
Blueprints written in sand script
Loamy soil serving as scroll,
We would attack at noon
And be back before dinner,

Then football season came
And those trees illuminated
In Autumn’s adolescent snow
Caught more passes than your father did

And every Spring
When those rusty red braids of hair
Caught fire releasing forth a flurry
Of gold we’d stand in awe,
Wondering where their children would land
And if we’d ever
Get the chance to meet them