Wednesday, May 11, 2011


by mykl
(c) 2003-2011

There is no record
of many segments,
no true proof of one
woman or man

in the line of conversion
from them to myself;

no hint of blood,
red Nordic,
once thick strong
now dissolved
among these amalgamated cells
of Bohemia and Britain.

Yet a mooring lurks--
magnetic pull
of ice-flocked
oceans’ tides,
of callous grey,
and otherwise
foreboding wintry shores
whose draw I cannot

and deaths anonymous
recorded not but in
the lines of my thumb
and fingerprints or
some stray flaxen hair
upon my scalp or toe.

I must be the product
of their romances and rapes,
loves and loneliness,

yet indecipherable from
these rare lines
they have left-

evident only
in a strange residue-

this love of
bleak and wintry
shores I cannot

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

New poem: The Waiting

The Waiting

In the movies,
when someone

into the bathroom
to "freshen up"
before sex,

they're washing
their buttholes,
aren't they?

(c)2011 mykl g sivak