Poetry of a Conlanger

Friday, December 23, 2005

Brand New CD

I’ve decided not to let it slow me down.
So you don’t care?
Hey, your loss.

I’m cranking the volume
On a brand new cd.
I dare you to watch me dance
To my own tune;
I dare you to meet me on my terms,
Not yours.
I’m cooler than you’d ever imagine-
You would’ve found out if
I’d had a chance.

But now you’re the porter.
It’s not my emotional baggage anymore.

Tonight I’m smiling,
Confident and übersexy.

I just have one thing to say:
Sucks to be you.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005


Things never turn out the way you dream.
Even when they’re not busy
Exploding you,
They’ll imitate
Your most cherished hopes;
Only dustier,
For imitations are just that.

Let now the starry celestial photograph
Pan downward, and transfix an earthy scene.

Let now the star-dusted, dreamy walls
Crash down into rubble.

Let now any last negative of that first photograph
Burn into ashy oblivion.

It’s just acid on my memories.


I run away and run away and r u n a w a y . . .
And there it is,
My existence.
There it stands, waiting for me.
The familiarity of it all brings
Bitter tears
To my eyes.
If I could only find the words, I’d thank you.
Still struggling with how to express my gratitude,
I hardly notice how they lift me
And slam me against the
On its high platform.
And oh, the beautiful irony,
You yourself knot the coarse rope that binds me to my fate,
You yourself take the torch up, and
Slowly, deliberately,
Set alight the straw at my feet.
How can I thank you?
Fire, beautiful fire!
How was I alive without it?
The flames rush up,
Faster, sweet fire, faster!
Consuming the straw,
Now they lick them hem of my loose gown.
The flames reach to me and inspire me- now I know how to thank you.l
I meet your eyes with my ash-cold glare,
But only for a second,
For now the bright fire engulfs me.
I open my mouth,
And with my
Painful, tearing, rending screams echoing,
I burn
With thanks.

Blood Leaves

The world is ablaze with color-
Crimson, pomegranate, bright gold.
Even the water is aflame-
Still as any mirror, it reflects the seeming blaze.
A wind ripples a branch,
And I dance in a rain of crimson leaves.

I’ve spun too fast, it seems.
Nature becomes my nightmare.
Trees no longer seem afire-
They are.
Too late, too late,
Fire erupts
Across the lake-but I thought it was

Ripples of icy heat
Move the branches above my head.
No longer do maple leaves fall-
I’ve been spinning in
A rain of blood drops.

(whoops, I wrote this one in October and never got around to posting it.)

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

Broken Games

If I had a closed box earlier,
Now I fear the puzzle pieces are spilled.
Watch me,
And feel free to laugh
As I scrabble to pick them up
Off the cold hardwood floor,
Knowing it’s a lost cause.

Watch it all,
As my card house tumbles down
And away in a tornado,
Never to be regained.
The last card to go is my ace of spades.

And last, there the pick-up sticks
Clatter to the floor,
A mockery of color.
Did they slip from my hand,
Or did I drop them?

*poet's note: and the irony of this poem is that it made more sense two days after I wrote it than it did while writing.