Archive for open


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 17, 2015 by beautifulimposter

In, out, simple
Toes dug in sand
White foam
Wash, cold
Blood rush
Push pull
No resistance
Open, clouds pour through
Arms outstretched
Holding in all skies
Raw nerve trembling
Shoreline reed
Cries of gulls
Echoes, presence of
Far off thunder
Green power
Deep roots
Black earth
Chlorophyll respiration
Sunlight food for
Deep thought
Lungs swallow
Beautiful destruction
Sound and fury
Yawning forked lightning
Fire and sky
Earth and sea
Flesh and bone
All the love
All the hate
All the pain
All the everything
Washing through
Washing bright new clear
Take, hold, release


Voices of October, Lust, Heaven, and Disrepute

Posted in Poetry, Spoken Word with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 2, 2014 by beautifulimposter

The Definition of Insanity

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 2, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Hello once more, O loyal followers of the imposter. I have been at it again, I just couldn’t help myself, I keep scribbling my madness out onto pages to inevitably infect the world. This latest piece is one that has been long brewing, and one that is very personal to me in an odd way. It’s about beauty, more specifically the beauty of women and an attempt, however misguided or feeble to try and encompass how I at least perceive that beauty. I have been blessed with many wonderful women in my life, friends, lovers, family and to me, in my eyes they have all been beautiful. The thing is, many of them don’t seem to think so, just will not see it, refuse to even acknowledge the possibility for one second that they are beautiful. This has been a particular source of both frustration and pain for me, particularly when it has involved the few women I have been fortunate enough to be involved with on an intimate level. I have tried for years to make them believe me, but they never seem to, the most common reply to my awed commentary on just how wondrous I have found each and every one of them is a rather bitter “I’m glad you think so” followed by a rather rueful little laugh. I have kind of resigned myself that there is nothing I can do to truly convince those women, or any of the others out there who just can’t see what is plain as day to me and I am sure many others. This poem, however is a kind of supreme attempt to convey what I have always seen and felt, for those women in my life and all of the other truly beautiful women out there who deserve to be told, every day, how much they bring into the world just by gracing it with their presence and just how soulless and drab this world would be without them. I have tried to express myself with both reverence and respect and I can only hope I have achieved either. This last bit I don’t usually do, but for this I feel it is important. To Kym, Anne, Beth, and Jodie this is for you, maybe now you will believe me. Enjoy all, cheers until next time.

This is for all the women in the world, from all of the men who have always thought just this. Maybe now you will believe us, I really hope you do.

You are beautiful, you always have been and will always be
Even when both you and I and even the memory of us
Is less than dust, you will always be
Radiant, perfect in your imperfection,
An emblem crudely scratched in charcoal on cave walls
Painted into soft plaster, supple, leaping over bulls
Enameled into icons and worshipped, sweated, wept and dreamt over,
Pawed by desperate fingers white with marble dust
Smeared with vibrant colors of oil, water, acrylic
Futile attempts to capture the fullness of you will waste mile upon mile of celluloid,
You live in cathedrals, you smile bold and unattainable
From towering billboards for the only fitting background for your beauty
Is light and sky.

Your curves define the universe
Or at least the universe that I inhabit
Your lips are my undoing, one word unravelling me
Would send me on righteous quests, have me starting wars
Or trudging out into thirty below nights to obtain the means to your comfort
Your skin is an ocean to be drowned happily in,
Your fingertips on my brow or resting lightly upon my chest
Riches beyond price of rubies, all that I want can be found
In the least of your sweet smiles bent upon me
Your hair is a falling rain, a banner flaring
Silks meant for something so much more than being crudely fondled by my beggar hands.

There are not enough words in all of the languages man has ever or will
ever conceive, not from the first articulate grunt unto the last
That will ever encompass, will never even touch the hem of your beauty,
All vistas, marvels, wonders of man or nature
Pale at your feet, wither, burn to cinders
Dissolve under the lamp of your beauty
If I speak no more, no other words but only a voice
To all of the power, grace, sublimity you embody in every thought or movement or stillness,
Every utterance my broken throat can cry a hymn to you
It would still be not enough.

I will cry your wonder from the rooftops
Ring all the bells till they crack in joyous cacophony
I will draw you with bloody fingers across the walls of the earth and heavens
Make myself a clear, bright mirror
Just so you can at last see
What would be evident to even those without means to sense, blind, deaf, dumb
That you in mind, in body, in soul and full brightness and grace
Insecure, vulnerable, strong beyond the simple definition of might, defiant, silly, wonderful, unattainable yet still stooping just to grace this poverty with your wealth of being and spirit
All of you, every last crumb and speck of you
Is beautiful in the fullest sense of so simple and poor a word
You are beautiful, you always have been and you always will be.


Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on April 11, 2013 by beautifulimposter

This is quite possibly the most personal, open poem I have ever written. That will probably strike some as unusual as poetry is usually perceived as a very personal medium, but usually I do not write about myself or my real experiences. I usually try to put myself into a situation and then just imagine how I might feel or act and write from some kind of resonating empathy rather than from some place inside myself. I guess that is one of the reasons why I am an impostor. I write from behind masks all if the time and perhaps that is one reason why my work isn’t as strong as it could be. Perhaps with this piece there will be some more meat on the bone. We shall see I suppose.

I just can’t get you out of my head
Years and distance should have left you like all the rest
Faded filtered through layers of time
A memory of an old photograph seen briefly
Yet you are fresh and clear and bright
Sometimes I think, if I turned around
That you’ll be standing right there under the same street lamp
While the snow falls behind my eyes.

Life hit me full in the face
Sucker punched, I threw in the towel before it landed
Didn’t last the round, retreating
Fleeing the scene having committed to nothing
With you always right on my heels
Faster than my own shadow
Getting there before me wherever I ran
Always thinking I made a clean getaway .

I don’t know why, I have no explanation
So many have been closer longer, deeper than you
Yet you stand out, a colorful blaze in a dusty grey crowd
A longing, an ache, a scar I keep tearing open
Fingers digging at raw, red flesh
Feasting on the rank carrion flavors
Of regret, or loss, or what ifs and maybes
Tasting all the myriad tones of my one bitter hatred.

I use the memory of your hair
Like a flagellant’s scourge, flaying myself ragged and bloody
Till the bones show, till I can suffer the way I need
Pain the only way I can really feel anymore
Just me, my self inflicted agony, a needle and a spoon
Constellations of psychic track marks
Spangling my soul like so many cold iron nails
That I hang the gallery paintings of my failures on.

I bet if you actually just appeared in front of me now
Doll like perfect porcelain
While I poured all this self pitying bullshit out
Staining your shoes with my tears and melodramatic emotional sewage
I bet it wouldn’t even warrant a blink of coal black lash over cool green eye
If all of the times you may have thought of me at all
Between then and now were gathered up
I might just have a small handful of withered leaves
Dropped long and long ago from the limbs of your thought,
Only preserved at all because they were caught
In the hem of your coat.

I have thought of saying I’m sorry
But I choke on the words know they will be faced with the worlds grandest indifference
So I keep silent, because the silences are where I hide, between the words that need to be spoken yet remain dead dumb entombed in fear and doubt
After all, what right have I to intrude myself in a life where I have no relevance
How presumptuous is it to even begin to think
You really remember me at all as anything more than an awkward mistake,
A childhood trial at being grown up before you did it for real
I have no place in your here and now
I barely have a place in the lonely, empty corners
Of your once upon a time
I am not even really writing to you
Just the memory of what you were when I was eighteen and thought I knew what things were all about.

So maybe, just maybe this is it
I will bleed you and all that you stand as the emblem of
Out into this page and the ghost of you
Will no longer sit perched on my shoulder
Red haired little raven
Yet I know, even as I write this that hope is vain
Your voice is already whispering, just like yesterday
And all the yesterdays before
“Never more”