The Greatest Actor

I'm a poet. I'm a loner. I'm a social butterfly. I'm a beauty. I'm a reject. I'm anything you want me to be.

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Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,
And drink your rushing words with eager lips,
And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,
And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.
When you rehearse your list of loves to me,
Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.
And you laugh back, nor can you ever see
The thousand little deaths my heart has died.
And you believe, so well I know my part,
That I am gay as morning, light as snow,
And all the straining things within my heart
You’ll never know.

Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,
And you bring tales of fresh adventurings, —
Of ladies delicately indiscreet,
Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.
And you are pleased with me, and strive anew
To sing me sagas of your late delights.
Thus do you want me — marveling, gay, and true,
Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.
And when, in search of novelty, you stray,
Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go….
And what goes on, my love, while you’re away,
You’ll never know.

—   Dorothy Parker, A Certain Lady (via theflawinpaganism)


It’s true.


It’s true.

3:32 AM


and the silence

is as

the light
of the Moon—

just as


the cubist


I hang onto you like you’ll leave me if I blink

I secretly want you to touch me
in public, preferably—a bookstore, a museum
on the streets, in front of passersby
as if I could feel your love in sharp pieces
as if time were approaching death
as if I had a choice in our certain fate
I don’t want…

In Some Cases, the Moon Is You

Kerouac could sit at a bar

drink until his last drop hit
the bottom of his teeth

until bitters and Benzedrine
lapped up the bedrock of his jaw,
and his scroll tongue would gnaw
across a sodden wooden floor of
fucks given for San Francisco bud
and Charlie Parker’s croon.

Much like the
lonely old Moon

who would hum Her sexpot lips
with companionship found holy
in the shrine of a reflecting pool
though I
could not swim
and though I
should not swim.

“nobody believes that there’s
nothing to believe in”
and yet
even the piss on his trousers
would find meaning in you—

me, too.

“Much of poetry is an anguished waiting.”

—   Theodore Roethke, from “First Class: Selected Notebook Entries, 1950-1953,” On Poetry & Craft (Copper Canyon Press, 2001)

(Source: memoryslandscape, via mooneyedandglowing)


Thanks again to the editors for featuring two of my poems! xo

Prince Eric: