Category Archives: Ryan Bartlett

Musee Mecanique (For Angela)

secret sign in the cold, cold light

running fast to the Judah line

holding hands not to lag behind

fingers tugged just to get inside

tracing moons near the window sill

bag shoe biff asking for a meal

we’ve got food but he will not eat

we’ve got more than he’d ever need

your eyes change from green to blue

thumb war stakes mean more to you

let me win and I’ll let you go

let me win but don’t let me know

buffalo on the walk back home

your hair’s shorter than before

my breath’s heating up your neck

your hand’s warming up my hand

the way we came will never take us back

the sides of cliffs are falling way too fast

we’re chasing tracks

we’re making maps

Walk-in Killer

Hold my holy rosary

(turn out the light)

Jilly’s talking in her sleep

(turn out the light)

I can hear him in the wall

He is looking for a door

I clean my closet everyday

(I know)

yet it always looks the same

(I know)

Mom gives seconds to complete

what never will be neat.

Diamond Bar’s not far away

(turn out the light)

We just past it Saturday

(turn out the light)

We just left the house too soon

He’s snuffing up my room

Hair is wavy as the heat

(turn out the light)

His mouth’s melted to my sheets

(turn out the light)

My wall’s not really a wall

I’m not even here at all

Jack Clark hit it into space

(I know)

See the look on Daddy’s face

(I know)

See the lines left on my wall

that were not there before

Sweat is on my trundle bed

(turn out the light)

that isn’t from my head

(turn out the light)

Eyes the size of time and space

are sucking up my face

Police sketch stapled to my wall

(I know)

Matt just saw him in our hall

(I know)

He just opened up a door

that wasn’t there before.

Prince Carlos’s Poison (1568)

I keep falling down the stairs

especially those that are not there

Father said he’d save me first

but my best became his worst

Silent William, you had no choice

to fill me up to find your voice

Prince of Orange/Oh Prince of Fight

I’ll drink the day right from your night

Poison ends us all the same

Life is just like iocane

We choke loud on pregnant words

Ones that hemmorage do not surge

Mother, My Queen…Don’t cripple me just yet

just yet just yet

I could be your miracle

My brain reverses life cycles

I could darn your butchered heart

a broken clock turned brand new art

I could be your peace retreat

wind you back to be pretty

I could be all that you’ve reaped

Death won’t part us/help us sleep

I could teach you not to grieve

I’ve got clots no one can see

Yes, the blood we should not break

is the blood you have to take.

Father, my king…Don’t love us like this yet

just yet just yet

Uncle Rocky Rewrite


I am not ready for any more acne. My sister admits it’s much more than malignant. She sits on Jillian’s twin bed, makes herself bewail to the Bangles, “Eternal Flame.”


The Bartlett calendar has off-days you’d hope. We hear Sabbath from my neighbor’s tool-shed. His name is Neil and this is all he remembers for us.


My granddad says a man is so much something when he has his own room.

Early 1990

Ryan, Uncle Rocky has AIDS. It is all over the kitchen, our bathroom, our living room. Hide your toothbrush.

Late 1990

Rocky’s long asleep somewhere upstairs, in the hallway, resting his legs for Man of La Mancha. Resting his limbs for someone else, he dances disclosed beneath a long hum in a playhouse room on another island.


I still hear his summer samba as if it were a sonata, the crimson chords moving to angry blue. I still see him if I look away.


You took my brain

filled it up with rain

gave me a knife

so I’d leave a stain

on a piece

of your afterlife

one more night

I see no stars

in your aftermath

only death

without ambulance

only sores

in the sky tonight

for awhile

I still wait out here

in a plastic chair

I will wait for you

to get up and fall again

I just scream

when I cannot speak

break a laugh

when I cannot breathe

make a drink when

I need to sleep

for the night

When I dream

trees begin to shake

where the earth feels

its past its weight

you are my room

yet you overbooked

for tonight

I would wait out here

in a plastic chair

I still wait while you

get up and fall again

You tell me

Colton has never been

a place for happy accidents

then your sum took up

no more space

on that night

I have sons

and they learned to speak

in the air

that you could not reap

now the dry blinds

their eyes tonight

Go awhile


I don’t need you to show me you’re the one

I won’t need you to show me you’re the one

The moon is soft and low tonight

My mouth is soft and low tonight

I’m baking on a table just for you

You mend a monster with your arms again

You burn your army in my heart again

Your eyes are strained and cyclical

The fire is dangerous and small

The smoke is lovely when it’s hugging you

The man from Colton with the broken wing

Pumped all his gas then lit up everything

I lost my lungs again tonight

I lost my life again tonight

I was a massive parasite just for you

I was surrounded by the morning sun

I was an atom of the morning sun

My history is clear to me

My sons’ are way too close to see

I can’t believe we made them just like you.

kaspar hauser

some say I’m an angel

who ate his ugly wings

head as big as heaven

brains the shape of splattered meat


some say I had horseshoes

deep inside the womb

made with iron and mankind

I was not made for that shrew


you don’t know me now

probably never will

you can bet your henry

you won’t know me still


we look awfully similar

that means we’re the same

my face made all rivers

with a sweat confused as rain


my words are like digits

poking at your back

sharp as tiny mangers

I will be the death of fact


you don’t know me now

probably never will

you can bet your henry

you won’t know me still


I can be as curious

as a blade of grass

I can be communal when

my knife is spinning fast


some say I’m a liar

with my stocking low

some say I can tatter

all the dirt and feed the earth


you don’t know me now

probably never will

you can bet your henry

you won’t know me still


Gary Went Missing

Gary had a bad day

so he went into his locker

and he pulled out an old picture of a saint

named Francis of Assisi

who had all sorts of diseases

and thought people were God’s

animals to taint

who made all these

funny speeches about

miracles without leeches

and pretended he had never been to Spain

so he’d get all sorts of free stuff

mostly men and plastic flowers

that he’d throw away and never see again.

Gary liked the window

on the far side

of the kitchen

where the earth held all

its sunlight in his brain.

He would dance around

in nothing

hoping someone saw

the something

of the places that his saint

could never take.

Don’t be a sad boy!

It’s a shame that you’re still living

in the clothes that you first wore when you were born

made of your old life in the room that still surrounds you

where your angels always hang you at the door.

Continue reading




A Letter From Tarkovsky


is all



It is





and may




In turn,

a mock

life is




Soma Sema” (“The Body is a tomb.”)

I invented

a liar–





My torso,




of this





The sun is





in bulk

in a book.

Ivan is a


page who

can be



His point

is made

for him




His brain


from it

in a

dead of day



Somewhere else,

as if

an old man,

he sits

at a


writing desk.

He invents

the integrity

of the moon.



the moon


its own



its own



its own



the moon


the sun




the moon





Continue reading

We Will Begin Again

"To hold a pen is to be at war." -Voltaire


Gentleman with a hint of Spark. Any Questions you would like answered email with the subject #ASKGS


Just another site

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The Collected Poems of Dennis McHale: 1981-2015

A Birth Project

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Illustrations of an abandoned world

terribleminds: chuck wendig

Chuck Wendig: Freelance Penmonkey


\ˈprä-JECT-oh-fahyl\ (noun) 1. A lover of projects, especially those derived from scavenged materials and made more beautiful through paint, thread and sandpaper.

Another angry woman

Thoughts and rants from another angry woman


Faulkner said, kill your darlings. I say, put them on the internet and let strangers read them.

MiscEtcetera v2

Random bits about libraries, digital culture, life, and writing

glass half full

This is my blog. I write a lot about autism, raising boys, and my own alcohol consumption. I also tend to cover topics like poop and toothpaste. You've been warned.

Megan Has OCD

About Mental Health, Daily Struggles, and Whatever Else Pops in My Head

Platform 9-3/4

A product of my boredom !

The Belle Jar

"Let me live, love and say it well in good sentences." - Sylvia Plath

Daniel Nester

writer, teacher, husband, dad, Queen fan, inappropriate, dilletante flâneur, Shader

a publisher of quality chapbooks


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