Slam Poetry


it was memoirs hung by wings,
by the man’s madness; dither now
or die in memory. The moon shall forever watch
as reprieved temporarily, the misremembrance
of the egg we asunder, pierced by the vagary
in empty spaces; I was always a worm on those days


you can never hear my voice,

but you will see my eyes shift to the ground

spending reflection—who are you,

you, you are little known,

and that’s okay, as a faceless shore,

we do not need to be known.

Thank You.

I hear the rattling, the ticking, and my Grandfather’s tinnitus (perhaps not),
All the unheard aspects now, so therefore make a wish,
Just one, and only one. For the evening had already set,
As I waited for you—(and I near turned) all the timbre from your state, I sat down,
Drank a cup of water, and I fluttered all over to make that very call.
That tone, the sight of perception, not dozing on Winter’s fracture,
That slung branch gone and lost, dying in a day