| Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night. He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California. His poetry has appeared in Aoife's Kiss, Aphelion, Blue Collar Review, The Broome Review, Camroc Press Review, Censored Poets, Chronogram Magazine, Deuce Coupe, Fissure Magazine, Freefall, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review, Heroin Love Songs, Hungur, Is This Reality, Kalkion, Liquid Imagination, Mad Swirl, Metazen, Mirror Dance, Neonbeam, Nerve Cowboy, Nomad's Choir, POEM, Poesia, Posey, protestpoems.org, Purpose, REAL, Rusty Truck, Scifaikuest, Sex And Murder, Shoots And Vines, Tales from the Moonlit Path, The Legendary, Thieves Jargon, Zygote In My Coffee, and others. |
Two Poems (March 20, 2010. Issue 15. The DirtyDirty.)
Dirt
under my nails,
on my hairy scalp,
in my belly button,
on my name,
since I took you
roots and seed,
pebbles and grease,
ball and rock,
excrement squeezed,
rolling down a hill with you,
scratched and naked,
wet grass between legs,
my stick stuck in mud.
Salt
Again you come to me,
angry woman I want to hold,
settling you down in my squeeze,
stripping you slowly,
water running down our legs,
licking your liquor,
hating myself,
knowing I'll leave you,
my misery an ocean between us...
Yes, we're sick,
your anger and my misery,
sighing in the dark,
quenching a few moments,
salt burning our wounds.
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Glimmer of Light (April 24, 2009. New Moon. Issue 4)
Shaving your legs in the shower with the lights off.
Hot water spattering against your skin, steam rising.
Legs coated with white cream, ready for the blade,
silver sharp, held light in your hand, making a move,
past chrome fixtures, sleek glass, porcelain. The drain
slurping, as the reaper sneaks into the bath from a prior
debauchery.
Out-of-touch memories swarm like a mini-twister
around you. Purple lizards climb the tile and glass walls.
A little truth-stretching helps the blade's path. Knee bent,
at the right angle, juggling your ego, a no-fair demon,
slip of accomplishment, takes the wrong line down your
shin.
A burn-cut and you watch the blood catch the current
to a dark hellhole, where open-mouthed vermin wait to
swallow.
The TV suddenly flicks on and washes your room in colors.
The purple lizards scurry to the ceiling, as the shower door
opens.
A thousand miles to your bed. It's not empty. Something
like a teddy bear sits with arms open, black button eyes,
smiling.
You were once innocence. Pale blonde with jewel-blue eyes.
Now you're permanently impacted. Traumatized wrongdoer.
But the teddy bear waves you over, across the dead zone.
You drip blood all the way to recovery.
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