NYC balconies. Photo: author

Photo: author



Some tales tell themselves

In the punctuation and paragraphs

Of our lives


They shy on our tongues

And in the shinings and closings

Of our eyes


They float on our breath

They’re the residue our tears

Leave behind


From decibels of voice

Foot-pounds of fist power

Bents and twists of lust and gluttony

They wright a new DNA

Scrawled on sheets and walls

And furniture

And toys


Each strand a mystery

Which in only our inky blood

Is solved


©2013 Jason Anderson


4 thoughts on “Storyteller

  1. I’ll be honest. It was a long day, and when I first read this, I thought you said, “kinky blood.” Yeah, I kinda liked it like that after the DNA comment, and I was reading in other meanings for kink, like bent, damaged, etc. But hey, it’s good inky too! 🙂 Either way, I liked the poem.

  2. Pingback: Throwing Verbs | fortyoneteen

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