Amor En Inglés

Published March 7, 2014 by B. Rabbit

Note below in italics not an actual part of the poem, just FYI.

Amor En Inglés

You are a broken little thing,
bastard child of ancient royalty,
though you share in none of their gentility.

You are neither clever
nor beautiful;
you are illogical, vexing, nonsensical.

You are not at all Romantic,
and though still young,
you are covered in scars.

And yet, I have loved you–
fiercely, passionately–
for longer than I can remember.

I fear how fragile you are,
certain each time I hold you
that my inept hands will destroy you.

You are damaged but
enthralling when I touch you;
you taste like hope in my mouth.

But you’ve had many other lovers in your young life,
lovers with fingers less clumsy
and tongues far more skillful than mine.

Still, you tolerate my oafishness,
and I cling to you,
desperately and unashamed.

You are flawed, incomprehensible, and utterly insane,
just like me–
so I cannot help but love you madly.

Some nights, you come to me,
frenzied and violent, demanding my touch,
artless though it may be.

And in those small and frantic midnight moments,
I allow myself to think that maybe, maybe…
you love me, too.

(Spoiler alert: Literal love letter to the English language)

The Rabbit Farmer

Published February 24, 2014 by B. Rabbit

This idea came to me last night. I took a couple of notes before I fell asleep and finished with it today.

The Rabbit Farmer

What detachment
it must require
to raise your own meat.
What cold and clinical
mental sterility.

The rabbit in the cage thinks
you a god.
Food, water, clean straw,
a kind word if you allow–
all delivered by your calloused hand.

There never was a god who didn’t
require sacrifice.
As above, so below.
Be capricious, so long as you call it love.
(And make sure the knife is sharp.)

It takes but one quick motion
to slice a life
right out of a quivering throat.
Do it right, and
your hands don’t even get dirty.

Crimson blood stains white fur
never before sullied.
The gentle hand on the back
does nothing to kill
the terror.

A beast, however stupid, still knows a Judas kiss.
And some part of it,
some collective unconsciousness,
surely remembers the gods’ needs
for betrayal and burnt offerings.

And so, god of treachery,
what would you do
if you knew
that bunny’s
last despairing thought?

There’s no such thing as love.
There’s no
such thing
as love.







Celestial Bodies

Published January 25, 2014 by B. Rabbit

I don’t have anything terribly profound to say about this one. It’s not a work of art, and I didn’t mean for it to be. I wrote it because it amused me, in a wry sort of way.

Celestial Bodies

As I was going through one of my old hard drives the other day,
I happened across
an old poem.

A bad one, of course–
mine always are.

It was about you,
as they always were
in those days.

Some prattle that painted
you the Sun and
me the Earth,
gravitationally chained to you,
whether I liked it or not,
until your girth and your heat eventually swallowed me whole
some 5 or 6 billion years later.

The metaphor was all right, I suppose,
but the execution atrocious.

But even after I had a giggle or two at
my own propensity for melodrama,
I didn’t forget the image.

If I had been more insightful
(though I never was back then; they say it’s a hallmark),
I’d have called you the Earth
and me the Moon–
unable to turn away, and
forced to stare at your stupid face for all eternity.

Oh, how you would’ve loved that.
(Though Uranus and one of its moons would’ve probably fit better:
I have the Shakespearean name for it,
and you’re no doubt an asshole.)

But it occurred to me today,
on my way to McDonald’s for a chicken sandwich
(and coffee, naturally),
that I am neither Earth, nor Moon, nor any other celestial body.

What I am, instead,
is a Space Shuttle….

And I have achieved escape velocity, motherfucker.

An Early Easter

Published January 22, 2014 by B. Rabbit

So I got all ambitious and shit today and decided I’d try to write a sonnet. Yes, a fucking sonnet. And, yes, it rapidly turned into “a FUCKING sonnet” when I remembered that I can’t count syllables or identify where stresses are on a word.

But, by that point, I’d already gotten halfway through the damned thing, and it seemed a waste not to finish it. You can probably tell the exact point where I lost control of it because it gets labored there in the middle. I’m sorry. My only defense is that this is my very first attempt at writing in iambic pentameter. I probably should’ve at least just gone for blank verse to start with, rather than trying to do the iambic pentameter AND the end-rhymes. But what is a woman without ambition, yes?

Oh, also, this was supposed to be a rather happy poem, but it got away from me and took a turn for the depressing at the end. That was also not intentional. Lo siento. For the record, knowing that there is an early Easter coming does, in fact, make me very happy. But, alas, this year’s isn’t until the end of April. Oh, the irony.

Also-also, all the usual disclaimers about rough drafts and maybe one day going back and fixing this thing. Try not to laugh yourself into an asthma attack if you continue past this point.

Early Easter

When poor Persephone’s descent begins
and takes with her the light of afternoon
even before just 6 o’clock, again
I find the madness that once more consumes
me. It sacrifices my sanity
upon the altar of the Autumn night,
and seems quite endless–least it does to me.
But one small thing gives hope, a single white
and black wee square upon the calendar.
Oh, God, yes–Easter comes in March this year!
The pain of Winter starts to ease, to blur,
replaced by hope and light–uncertain cheer.

But why is it the Lamb must die in vain
that I may breathe and laugh and live again?

Hurricane Gustav

Published January 11, 2014 by B. Rabbit

This poem began as an ode to a walk on the beach with my former best friend before a hurricane. It rapidly morphed into something else. I may break the references to Lucifer off into its own poem, but the muse is oddly silent on that matter at the moment. We shall see.

Hurricane Gustav

There were no gulls
that night.
They knew what was blowing in
from off the Gulf
and stayed at home

But not us,
It was our last night,
and we weren’t about to miss
that one last walk on the beach,
tempest be damned.

The only thing
more magnificent than the beach
at night
is the beach
the night before the storm
makes landfall.

Anticipation and salt thick on the wind,
like angels’ tears.
Wrath of Lucifer, blowing ever-closer to the shore.
But even Lucifer was an angel once,
and experience says his fall
did not affect his tear-ducts.

The surge lapped at the doors
of the beach-level hotel rooms.
We went out, anyway,
courageous, youthful,
whipped to a glorious frenzy
by the prevailing winds.

Water swallowed us up to our knees,
shorts soaked from hip-high swells on the berm,
each retreating wave
playing succubi on our exposed calves
and ripping the sand from beneath
our red Yellow Box flip-flops.

I felt a Goddess,
brought to a Life above life–
caught in its power,
held close,
somehow made a friend.

Did you feel intoxicated? I did.
I reveled in the cataclysm.
Perhaps Lucifer knew of
my secret sympathy for him.
The poor bastard hoped to share with a kindred,
his sound and and his fury…signifying what?

Did we speak much? I can’t remember.
All that matters was that I was there,
vivified and deified, with you.
Lucifer reached out to touch mad Persephone,
in affection, in pity,
knowing what came next.

The Devil, you see, knows love, too.
Love and betrayal, giving and receiving.
He gave me what he could–
a brief and shining moment before my own Fall,
knowing I’d rather spend it with you
than anyone.

And after that,
it was never the same again,
for you climbed the mountain
while I remained,
as always,
at sea level.

Power Station 296

Published January 10, 2014 by B. Rabbit

This poem has been brewing for over a year. It ended up going somewhat differently than I’d expected, but I’m ok with that. I feel like I’ve been completely wrung out, though, now that it’s finally on paper. Total exhaustion.

Again, it’s a rough draft. It’s overly wordy, I think, especially toward the end, but it’s easier to cut than it is to add, so it’ll stand in this form for now. One day, I’ll go through and edit all these things I’ve posted here. That day is not today.

Feel free to listen to the song below as you read. I find that it adds a little something to it if you do. There is a further note in italics at the end as well; it’s not part of the poem.

Power Station 296


It is a hell of a thing
to have a nuclear reactor in your head.

Most people have a dam instead,
always cool
and only running at half- or quarter-capacity
except in times of greater need.
Able to be shut completely down,
its turbines stilled,
its flood gates locked,

Safe, for all intents and purposes.
Only once every hundred years
do dams fail,
and then only in times of great emergency.


I asked my Daddy once
why he thought humans were so obsessed with atomic energy,
the ability to power the world
or burn it to the ground,
depending on which way the dice fell.

“I think it’s because it’s the closest
we’ve ever come to
perpetual motion,” he said.
Wise words from an old truck driver.

Perpetual motion–
so strange.
I want only to be still.


It’s not a Three Mile Island reactor up there,
more or less safe, even when it’s not.

Nope, it’s a leaky old Soviet thing,
made of leftover test material,
pencil lead, tinfoil, and chewing gum,
and unstable even on its best days,
tended by demons with death wishes
and voices that sound eerily familiar.

Walking Chernobyl–
“The peaceful atom,” my ass.


It’s at its worst when
it’s running at low power.
The operators cackle
and poke at the controls.

A reactor’s not a bomb.
Any explosion that comes forth is
chemical, conventional,
not nuclear.
The real danger is in
failure of the containment structure.
The reactor burns;
the poison spews forth,
and Jesus wept.

Quick, quick!
Let the doctor insert the control rods,
Stop the chain reaction.
Shove in the demons’ pencil lead
and hope for the best.


Even when the reactor is
no longer critical,
the byproducts are always decaying:
Decay heat
melts all the fuel to lava,
which eventually hardens to
ceramic on the reactor floor.

But even that pales
in the face of contamination
that vomits forth from the ash of the reactor fire.
Did you know
the half-life of one plutonium isotope
is 24,100 years?

The reactor cools,
but the radioactivity remains,
invisible, infective, inescapable.


And so it goes,
locomotion and cognition powered by
internal uranium.
But the reactor can’t be decommissioned.
It’s needed.
We chloroform the operator demons
and try to keep the shelter together
with plenty of chewing gum and
maybe a prayer
or two,
if we think we need it.

Even when it’s running well, there’s always
the uncomfortable reminder
of the impending Apocalypse inside,
the Third Trumpet I carry,
waiting for its chance to sound the impending doom.
Try not to look at the surrounding wasteland
of the Exclusion Zone.
It is thoroughly depressing.

And so it goes–
pseudo-perpetual motion machine,
ever-envious of those bastards with their dams.


It is a hell of a thing
to have a nuclear reactor in your head.

And so it goes.

**NB: 296 is the DSM code for Bipolar disorder. The numbers after the decimal point refer to the patient’s most recent episode. Feel free to Google the specific codes separating each section if you give enough of a shit to.**

A Writer’s Prayer

Published January 4, 2014 by B. Rabbit

Yeah, so I’m really bad at updating. My New Year’s resolution is to write more, however, both on this blog and another one that I’ve set up for the same purpose. This one seems to have become a poetry blog, anyway, so I set up another that I’m devoting to one particular project. It’s The Adventures Of B. Rabbit, if anyone’s interested.

Anyway, here’s a hastily-written poem, inspired by the Tumblr blog Hot Men Reading Poetry–the audio of Tom Hiddleston reading “may i feel said he” by e.e. cummings on the last page in particular. It’s definitely a rough draft; I think I wrote it in 10 minutes. I’m tentatively calling it “A Writer’s Prayer,” but I’m not over the moon about the title, honestly.

A Writer’s Prayer

Oh, God, please
Give me a man who reads poetry.
Not pretentiously, of course,
Not like the hipsters do,
To impress everyone with their knowledge
And prove themselves the smartest people in the room.

No, God, please
Just let him read for his own quiet enjoyment.
Let him be tall and dark and charismatic,
And maybe a little careless, to boot.
Let him have reasonably straight teeth.
And I’d even be ok if he were
And dangerous to know–
A modern-day Byron, with a Toshiba instead of a pen.

But, God, whatever his flaws,
Let him read, in his spare time, Donne or Sidney or Arnold,
Keats or Rosetti–Dante or Christina–
Or either of the Brownings.

Dear God, let him fall asleep at night
With Parker or Plath or Hughes
(Langston or Ted)
Or Rossini or Tretheway
In his head.
Or, hell, even Shakespeare if he must.
I promise not to be too picky about it.

Oh, God, please
Give me a man who reads poetry,
And I swear I’ll put more drivel onto pages for him
Than he’ll ever be able to read,
In all his natural life.


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