the broom and a happy tear


forever, the cigarette pretending to
be a lover on the beach,
the rain trying on discount suits
before an elaborate mirror,
our faces painted,just like before,
and I remember the water and the
other places the poets refused to walk-
paper turning the headboards into
mist and my grandfather’s face
arguing with the door, tempted, but
not afraid in the sand,
here we are once again, my love, with
a kiss in the downpour and a
thousand words parked on the sides
of streets we have yet to see,
quiet, the songs smelling like memory,
turning roses into dandelions and
back again before someone weeps
and learns about quantum milk and
the dances we’ve never forgotten, the
broom and a happy tear, waiting
for the other side of the morning
to gather its flowers and construct
its pyramids for the goddesses and the saints,

Something Big Masking Itself as Something Small–An Update


I recently lost most of my writings from wordpress, many of which I don’t have copies of. I’ve been unable to find a cause for this, all I know is that it has happened, leaving me to put everything back together. 

I’m thankful for it. This, along with an inclusion in Barton Smock’s “isacoustic”, have spurred a great deal of new works, and a far more positive outlook on my work, be it the poetry, or my various other pursuits. 

As for the name change, I’m returning to my mother’s maiden name. K Taylor is no longer here. Out of necessity, I’m following the words of Bob Dylan: “He not busy being born is busy dying”

Kristopher Biernatsky is getting busy getting born. 

the rose bush


the forrest calls my name
but my ears were pigeons
discussing politics and copulation,
wasting time, waiting for the
moon to remember my sanctuary
and where it ended up.

-these walls have dreamed you-

the intense colors of these trees,
these yellows and these greens
that I cannot paint,
raising themselves through the sea,
blinding the quiet man, and
letting us watch in silence,
thinking of frozen bus rides and
June beginning the rest of our lives
for us:

“here we stand with the rose bush
behind us, sirens and thorns, and all.”

oranges (for Ethan)


like the eruption of flames
in a nighttime garden,
I have forgotten to put my
soul on the market and
weep for the plaster
saint’s tired caccoons,
as I continue to gather
oranges for Ethan and the
talkative and drunken sunflowers,
listening to the wisdom
of an army ant, talking you
to sleep, like the films
burnt into the aging sides of
houses with taste buds
living inside, watching us
as much as we were
watching them, not once
sharing an orange,
until now.