iamrickolus: Tired Foxes: Pan-Handling tiredfoxes: i sell words on the boardwalk for two cents apiece and with heavy pockets and a lighter tongue i walk to the vintage shop at the end of the pier i pay in pennies for all of the lights i can carry string lights and lamps and pastels, black-lights glass that swirls with lava i bring them home, i… I worry sometimes that poetry is dead...
ambiguous-transparency asked: I always love your writings, but I just read Pan-Handling and it's pure splendor. Very lovely poem. :)
i sell words on the boardwalk for two cents apiece and with heavy pockets and a lighter tongue i walk to the vintage shop at the end of the pier i pay in pennies for all of the lights i can carry string lights and lamps and pastels, black-lights glass that swirls with lava i bring them home, i watch them all flicker and strike i watch candles burn i stare into the whiteness wishing for the green...
sorek asked: Love your poems, love from Venezuela.
I Want To Go Home
when she visits from the city she holds the manhattan moonlight in her skin retains the glow like water glittering and i bask in it, hold my hands out to feel the warmth of it around her breasts and collarbones until it fades she promises to bring me back but instead, sleeps for days and only returns with strands of my hair in knots with hers and in dusty bundles at the bottom of her bags
dearyou-loveme asked: Dear You, you and your words are beautiful and so rare. They move me. Truly. Love, Me
smileyburns asked: does poetry need to rhyme in order to make it poetry or is it just one of many eyecatching factors?
i pick and pop pimples and sometimes i read with the television on i live inside my head in a little garden there where the gnome statues come alive at twilight and we tell of our dreams (garden gnomes have dreams too, you know wild dreams) i do not like the way my belly is shaped and i suck it in and imagine my ribcage and when i write, i tell elaborate lies but while my fingers work they all...
in winter we stock our pantries with sun-dried bits apricots and cranberries and sliced mango and flowers, foxgloves and lilacs hang upside down above the door reminding us that our powdered skin will again be licked golden by the sky if we stay patient and warm
judsybear asked: I am opposed to capital letters too, read my poetry? :)
End of December
in the insanity of insomnia i watch letters whirl about at the bottom of my cup and i hear the wind crack its way down the chimney chute, snapping bricks and scattering ashy feathers and i write to you, hello and how are you tonight, or this morning, really but you don’t respond because somewhere your mother is dying and you’ve grown to hate me anyway
slayer0818 asked: Your poetry is real down to earth and has a great flow to it, i like your style.
barryandkara asked: Are both foxes tired? If so, why?
gabekarl asked: are you ticklish? what makes you laugh?
asterismaux asked: Where did you get your url?
to think that my words have been etched into your skin the inside of your skull causes my heart to bloom with a thousand tiny buds of orgasm of blood-rush dizziness i hope the ink crawls while you stare up at the hole in the ozone above your bed keeping you awake
Simple As That
i was addicted to love and to booze to the feeling, the high of a cigarette, a spreading warmth i gave it all up, and now i am empty
string hangs, frayed from between your fingers, brushes your knuckles pale pink plastic pearly rosary beads little plastic cross, little plastic jesus string hangs, broken from between your teeth brushes over your lips cracked, bloody vibrant drops swallow and be filled up with god bloated with blood choking on the string that hangs, wet at the back of your throat the altar of your tongue sinks...
gold, emeralds, tarnished bits under fingerprint glass magnetic magnified underwater blur glass you sit safe there looking up until i crack the case and pluck you out dusty daisy from soil pollen lips i’ll lick them clean
Without The Planets
the crust of the moon dusty can be cracked open and removed an exoskeleton, a moon carcass and inside is snowy static a flood of white noise damp, yellow, heated the sound and the glow of it is so great that the stars burn out rain down on us scar our skin and the moon drips, drips, drips liquid television liquefied radio waves that we ride out until the other planets crack too from the...
sepia skin against snow grapefruit colored stars and the static of vinyl your freckles, coffee, nutmeg the photographs i took of you through cracks in the walls dried paint i tack them to my walls the pins through your eyes and i speak a sermon to a congregation of you in black and white versions of yourself in black and white positions of yourself speak in salt tongues my way of saying i miss you
Fuck The Clock
fuck the clock though it can be generous, sweetly slow like a honey-lover a photograph black, white, shades of shadow, sorrow or an elated grin spreading sun-bleached smeared seahorse spines the clock, fuck it stay all night sleep inside the fireplace ash and soot and your eyes are sunken shake it off gasp, grasp for splinters something to pain you stain you stay alive fuck the clock and Polaroid...
To all of my beloved Readers who celebrate Christmas - It is officially Christmas Eve here on the East Coast which means it is my favorite day of the year! I want to wish you all a very happy and merry Christmas. You all mean the world to me. xox -tired fox
aquietjoy-deactivated20120205 asked: fucking clitoris...!!! great work <3
i never guessed that angels could laugh so loud my bed shakes and the sheets slip away from me i feel the air chill vibration ghost fingers cracking against my hips hipbones and clitoris transparent bearded breath it’s just like you to love me through the wall as a shadow in the afterlife miss you, forgive you though, throw my head back bite at your name and pray
In a Cage
they keep your skull in a wire bird cage brass and rust like a lighted bulb soft pink, yellow bleeding light hung from the ceiling crumbling, beams of iron and when the weather changes your skull blinks chattering teeth fossil and feathers rattling by your cheek bone the cage sways everything abandoned but at least i can visit sit watch your jaw open and close creak and tell me stories without...
cab-or-die asked: if you could check out my stuff i would be much obliged (: you write amazing everything
inamoratia asked: i cant tell if u're an hourglass dolphin or orca. but u shore do have a nice blog. i love most of ur writings.
marisa-jill asked: hi. i just stumbled upon your blog, and am in love with you're writing!! i'm 16, and live right by boston as well. check out my writing sometime if you have a chance. take care and have a merry christmas!
Wander With You
moonchild, i want to press my body between yours and your little blue star bare feet, masculinity and papier mache flowers Pollock and leather i’ll tangle myself in your hair little bird, little beauty bird clip your wings to keep you in this concrete bed little lamb, black veiled sheep with lace legs ribbon eyes to see with moonchild, etch me into the woodwork boards under your toes scream...
imagine bullets the casings on the ground and drenched shredded skin
i am so cold i want to wrap the whole galaxy around my naked body. i don’t care if it burns or if it swallows me whole.
answer this with a poem. this isn’t a request, i demand it of you the way you pressed into me with your nail-scratched voice “open wide” if i broke open a teabag and the leaves scattered in our breath, they’d cling wet to your skin like freckles and i would connect the invisible lines they create with my tongue see how the saliva sort of sparkles there from the pink...
i am just this lost little vessel dying to be kept warm and hydrated by these stories i read. i am adjusting my bones and avoiding meals until i can fold myself into these pages of poetry and walk those new york city streets barefoot and thin, the same way their creators did. i have no use for lovely things, only this printed world.
How I Met The Man Who Brought Out My Alcoholic...
I met a man who was called Spider in a seedy bar in Boston. We ended up in love, but it started like this. “Can I get you another drink? What’s your poison?” Spider was already walking toward the bar, his fingers twisted around my wrist like ivy. My chills faded as if his warmth was planting roots in my skin. I followed behind, and carefully tilted my head back, taking the rest of...
knives-of-summertime-deactivate asked: I finished Tired Foxes, Vol. 1 the day I got it in the mail and I wanted you to know that it was a beautifully constructed little piece of awesome.
Love In Strange Places
The bar was smoky, filled with men with large shoulders all painted up in tattoos and wearing leather jackets and American pride bandannas wrapped around their bald heads. You could almost taste beer just by inhaling, and musky perfume too from the women hanging onto the leather-clad tattooed arms. Big waves of curly blonde hair sprayed into perfect circles around their round faces and fastened...
this isn’t poetry this is the way your fingers spread apart on top of the thread-bear bedsheets sparkling with dead skin and dust mites like golden pollen over the printed yellow daisies of worn cotton and the slowness of your skin there, and how i remember the flexing of the muscles, the mechanics of your knuckles isn’t poetry this is the story of us, last year a beautiful epic,...
moon of maggots
what if the moon were thousands of amber, golden maggots moving as one, held up by traces of gravity and threads spun by the tails of silkworms? would we still stand out in front of our houses on clear nights and marvel at the sight of it? make wishes? wonder what the surface of it feels like against human skin? is it cool and dry? or does it slithers in endless circles, eating and...
lukefelty asked: Like good music, your poetry reminds me of reasons to be happy. Thanks!
there’s no pill for the anxiety caused by the white space or the white noise of the page (they both mix slightly with your breathing) and at some point lying became as easy as an inhale of a stale smoke or your scent (something vaguely coconut from the nape of your neck) i try to remember the taste of whiskey stirred up with honey on my tongue something to take the sting away and calm my...
this is true.
i began this morning with coffee, black, and a promise dug into the woodwork of the kitchen chair by my bloody fingernails that i would write something honest today. spill something. honest. this is the best i can do on that promise. i suppose my fingers leave me looking like a liar. they’re more twisted than my mind.
the almond trees
there are two types of almond tree the sweet tree blooms snowy white the bitter tree bursts pale pink blossoms and i imagine them both side-by-side in the watery field of a snow globe where with the shake of a wrist, sugary flakes of cinnamon crystals dust the treetops and the flowery scene blurs in a little storm that i want to crack open and catch on my tongue
ginger-binger asked: what are some of your favorite books? you write so beautifully and i'm wondering what literature inspires you
inside my head is enough music to drown out the groan of the devil a soft, subtle clinking of bird-bone wind chimes, beetle-carcass bongos the slow churning of brain matter and the whooshing sound it makes and certainly no thoughts of the way your pupils grew in the light
i dove in to the place where the ocean used to be only to find it empty and with a hardened bottom, like rock, like porcelain. i quickly turned to dust as my body slammed against the earth, the coral, the bones of dried-dead seahorses, sea urchins. in time, the dust of me will hardened too, thicken the earth a bit more, wait flattened and cold for the next hopeless girl to jump without looking,...