#Michael Bazzett

[soracities]

"God", Michael Bazzett

for Ada Limon

Look, it’s not that I believe in him. Nor he in me. We have moved beyond all that. I just like having someone there in the dark. Usually we sit in silence, waiting for passing headlights to glide across the ceiling and knock stray prayers loose from where they got stuck on their way out, so many years ago. It’s almost like finding old piñata candy, says God, picking one from the floorboards. He unwraps it, takes a quick taste. Winces. Nods like he’s just remembered something for the thousandth, thousandth time. What is it? I ask. It’s kind of like chewing tinfoil, he says. All that aching naked hope.

[thebluesthour]

The sound a bluejay makes, if it were a color, would not be blue.  It would be the color of something torn open.

Michael Bazzett, from “Nine Possible Observations to Consider”, pub. Booth

[headlightsforever]

Michael Bazzett in The Adroit Journal, Issue 50

[kitchen-light]

I think most poets would be the first to tell you that they don’t really know where poems come from. Which means, perhaps, that we don’t so much write poems as listen for them. Or, alternately, that we create conditions to lure and coax them indoors, and perhaps even eventually onto the page. Yet it’s the silence of the unknown that grows the poem—the white space of the page that lets it resonate. Sometimes words, with their impulse to define (and confine) are troubling to poetry. As Tadeusz Dabrowski writes in “Hall of Mirrors”: “It’s very dangerous to know / too many words. / Each of them has its / flip side.”

Michael Bazzett, published in the Paris Review, Spring issue 2023, no. 243. 

[poem-today]

A poem by Michael Bazzett

A Confession

When my dog started rewriting my poems, they got better. They suddenly possessed the ineffable whiff of multivalent scents milked from the breeze by a wet black nose, the ear-flopping joy of open car windows, the quivering willingness to lick the ones you barely know but sense that you might one day love. The squirrel imagery grew more pungent, more necessary, the piercing musk of unbathed human flesh rose sharp as wine intermingled with uncured salami, and when the pages closed at last, you only had to follow the circle of your own steps before collapsing into an untroubled sleep.

Michael Bazzett  

More poems by Michael Bazzett are available through his website.

[6peaches]

Michael Bazzett - A Confession

When my dog started rewriting my poems, they got better. They suddenly possessed the ineffable whiff of multivalent scents milked from the breeze by a wet black nose, the ear-flopping joy of open car windows, the quivering willingness to lick the ones you barely know but sense that you might one day love. The squirrel imagery grew more pungent, more necessary, the piercing musk of unbathed human flesh rose sharp as wine intermingled with uncured salami, and when the pages closed at last, you only had to follow the circle of your own steps before collapsing into an untroubled sleep.

[missedstations]

“When They Built the House,” - Michael Bazzett

they built it solely out of windows so they could fling them open and the house would become air. Even the door was a window. When it came time to leave, the man announced, I come and go so breezily. The woman claimed she could not tell where the sky ended and her breathing began, and the child shouted, Look at my body flutter in the wind! Meanwhile, the cast-off doors leaned melancholy against the barn. Eventually they found jobs as tabletops and bedsteads; a few joined forces to become a makeshift raft and soon found themselves adrift among strange floes of arctic ice. How exactly did we get here? they muttered. All our lives we opened for others, yet now it seems life’s just begun—

[hepatosaurus]

national poetry month, day 8

God for Ada Limón Look, it’s not that I believe in him. Nor he in me. We have moved beyond all that. I just like having someone there in the dark. Usually we sit in silence, waiting for passing headlights to glide across the ceiling and knock stray prayers loose from where they got stuck on their way out, so many years ago. It’s almost like finding old piñata candy, says God, picking one from the floorboards. He unwraps it, takes a quick taste. Winces. Nods like he’s just remembered something for the thousandth, thousandth time. What is it? I ask. It’s kind of like chewing tinfoil, he says. All that aching naked hope. —Michael Bazzett

[havingapoemwithyou]

report from beyond by Michael Bazzett

[soracities]

...the beehive / that replaced my heart / with all that pulsing / making honey from the loss

Michael Bazzett, from “After Machado”. You Must Remember This: Poems

[thebluesthour]

Yes. It was more like something white remembering the idea of blue than blue itself.

Michael Bazzett, from “The Dead Woman”, pub. Guernica

[ensorcellment-biscuit]

[magnoliaison]

[pilgrimattinkercreek1974]

REPORT FROM BEYOND BY MICHAEL BAZZETT

In paradise the work week is fixed at thirty hours and manual labor is only pleasantly more tiring than typing so that a morning chopping wood is barely enough to make the ham sandwich and the cold bottle of beer a bit more delicious at the rough wooden table afterward

Punctuation is underused because words flow one into the other like branching streams of snowmelt wrinkling over rough granite into alpine meadows where tiny stars pass themselves off as flowers and the children weave green stems into crowns which are the only trappings worn by the rulers who are wise and listen intently to their subjects without merely thinking of what words they will offer in response

The parks are clean the social system stable and the new eight day week has created a gentle hammock of time in what used to be Sunday evening where the bells toll and streets are closed so families might stroll the avenues

Old men still wear their pants too high public fountains are still fish-scaled with coins the authorities have yet to solve how the smell of frying food hangs in the air for hours

At first the great beyond was to have been quite different each life was to have comprised one note in the harmonious thrum of a cosmic chord but they found it too difficult to reduce even simple lives to a single sound and a gluey paste kept getting caught at the back of the angels’ throats

God has yet to make an appearance but this absence is common fodder for the rumors which suggest he wanders among them as a breeze so they see not him but his evidence

[oconist]

The tenderness of his muscle would be beautiful to eat.

— Michael Italiano yuki tsunoda & michael italiano + this post

Rainer Meria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge / Sarah Rose Etter, The Book of X / Ellen Bass, Indigo / Michael Bazzett, Inside the Trojan Horse

[soleilnomoon]

Well done on the milestone and this event looks fun! I hope I did this right..Can I please have Marco (One Piece) with female bodied he/him pronouns or a gn reader caramel + oatmeal raisen cookie.Thank you so much <3<3<3

omg thank u so much 😊💛 so sorry this took me forever 😭 but it's finally here. also i love marco so much, like a very normal amount of course.

1.5k words, fem bodied reader (he/him pronouns), nsfw, 18+ mdni, tiny bit of angst lite and smut; feat. footjob, flirting, marco being in denial and a lil oblivious and grumpy bc i love that journey for him, also a slightly bratty reader who has zero self preservation, reader really shot his shot and i'm not mad at that, thatch makes a cameo! (if u see spelling/grammar mistakes, no u didn't :D)

“and why? / appetite— / and why? / it is always only appetite.” —michael bazzett

you don’t exactly know how or why, but you’ve somehow pissed marco off. it started earlier in the week when you accidentally brushed up against him, much closer than you should have — if anything, there was no reason for you to try and squeeze by when you could’ve walked around. he eyed you carefully, mouth set in a straight line, and all you did was wave him off as if you hadn’t just set his entire day off. you turned around once to gauge his reaction, but he'd already turned away to head in the opposite direction.

a frown settles on your lips at that, but you don’t give up; if anything, you’re just a little bit more determined to get under his skin — only a little bit, of course.

while you know you’re toeing a very dangerous line, there’s a thrill that passes through you recklessly every time he gets annoyed with you. he has such an expressive and handsome face, one that you admire from afar whenever you can. you’re not subtle, even though you think you are — almost everyone can see how much you’re into marco, and while he can also see that too, he chalks it up to an impetuous infatuation that’ll blow over shortly.

besides, he doesn’t have the luxury to be distracted by anything now.

you start volunteering to help marco out throughout the day, but he denies your request every single time. at first you laugh, but after the tenth time you huff and complain until he acquiesces.

“fine,” marco says with sigh, resigned to following your whims again; you try not to look too pleased with yourself, and marco has the foresight to add in a stern, commanding voice, “behave.”

blinking up at him, your lips stretch into a slow, seemingly innocent smile. “of course,” you say softly, “i only want to help, honest.” and it’s true — partially.

marco makes it a point to not stay alone with you for longer than necessary, because you’re much too touchy and he only has so much patience left within him. which is what you’re aiming for — decimating the remnants of his sanity so he can just obsessively focus on you for a while.

was that too much to ask?

probably.

when marco regales his woes to thatch, the latter laughs so hard he cries. marco rolls his eyes and smacks his arm playfully, “it’s not funny.”

more tears roll down thatch’s face and he presses his lips together but when he sees how distraught marco is, he starts laughing all over again. so much for going to friends for advice. thatch only quiets down when he sees just how serious marco is; clearing his throat, he motions for his friend to sit down for a drink. it’s early in the afternoon, but pirates don’t really have a set drinking schedule, now, do they?

“okay, okay, i’m sorry.” and he meant it, marco could tell by the sincerity in his tone and the way his features softened as he smiled back at his friend. “the solution is simple, because it’s obvious what the issue is between you and him.”

jaw clenched, marco tilts his head and motions with his hand. “please, elaborate.” thatch grins like a fool and downs the shot before getting up to clap a hand on marco’s shoulder.

“you’ll just need to figure it out yourself.”

marco frowns at that, not liking that thatch was right again; still, it doesn’t quell the irritation that bubbles inside of him at the answer. he hates how much you consume his thoughts because it makes absolutely no sense. he’s never had this happen to him before, so he’s out of his element and it unnerves him greatly; maybe that’s why whenever you flirt with him it puts him out of sorts.

not that any of that would matter to you if he confessed any of that.

you find him in his office sitting back in a chair, powerful arms folded against his chest, with his eyes closed. you’re quite sure he’s not sleeping, but then again with marco anything is possible. certain thoughts pestered him most of the afternoon, well into the evening. he hears you enter, despite your best attempts at walking quietly.

he doesn’t say anything and watches you walk towards the table in front of him. it’s pure adrenaline that pushes you to hop onto the table with ease, much to marco’s confusion.

“what are you—”

his mouth snaps shut when you kick off your shoes and stretch your leg out, rubbing your foot against his bulge. marco looks at your sharply, amazed at your audacity and perseverance. whatever argument that was prepared to launch itself from the depths of his chest remains at the back of his throat when you add a bit of pressure with your foot.

if there was ever a day for his body to betray him, today was it.

you smile impishly, leaning back on your hands as you watch him; you know he wants to ask you about fifty questions, so you shrug noncommittally, voice light and teasing when you say, “i’m helping you relax.”

he highly doubts that’s the case at all.

again, he reminds you to behave, and also adds, “i know what you’re doing.” even though that’s not quite true, is it? he only has half of an idea, but it doesn’t matter; your intent is obvious, and while he doesn’t want to succumb to this feeling just yet he’s powerless to stop it now. not when his cock grows stiff and presses painfully against the front of his pants; not when you keep looking at him like he’s all you ever think about; and not when your breathing stills, as if the very act of arousing him also arouses you.

the flush on your face when you rub your foot along the length of his cock, admiring the shape even through the fabric of his clothes. you just might kill him tonight with your actions, but maybe luck will be on his side.

without thinking twice, marco pulls you on top of him, the heat from his hands searing you through your clothes as he palms you openly. you press against him, chest heaving a bit as you kiss him. you sling an arm around his shoulder as you swirl your tongue around his, the heat from your bodies a stifling affair, but you suffer through it happily.

you buck your hips against marco’s before you reach between you and unzip his pants. his cock is longer than you imagined, but he’s always been someone full of surprises. you pull away so you can stroke him; your hand is soft against his skin, too soft. his restraint is practically nonexistent when he speaks again.

“strip.”

if you weren’t so aroused, you’d tease him more — but you have a feeling that if you do too much, it might not work out in your favor. although, if you asked him, he’d tell you that you’re wrong about that.

his eyes take in your body, the soft curves, round breasts, and shapely thighs. he feels a bit of pre-cum slide down the head of his cock and he groans softly, reminding himself to keep it together.

you’re in a similar predicament, hands trembling as you try to calm yourself; you had the upper hand for so long, but now you feel like he’s somehow reversed everything. you climb back onto his lap and rub your pussy along his cock; he kisses you again, hands roaming down the curve of your back and grabbing onto your ass playfully.

you moan against his lips, arousal clinging to your folds every time you roll your hips. marco licks along the length of your neck before biting your skin; you let out a soft whine, hips jerking forward, thighs shaking as you cling onto him. he smiles against your skin and guides his cock to your entrance; he buries most of his length inside of you when the thrusts the first time. you don’t expect any sort of soft intimacy between you, but you also didn’t expect him to fuck you like that.

marco’s hips snap upwards and he plunges his cock inside of you, deep and hard. you moan loudly as you rock your hips against him, your cunt sliding up and down his length quickly. he flicks his tongue against your hardened nipple, swirling and sucking, making your head spin. you call his name out repeatedly, voice cracking when he grabs your hips tightly as his strokes get messy and fevered.

you feel a little delirious now, skin aflame every time you kiss him. he whispers filthy promises against your lips, ones that make you blush more than necessary. you bounce on him wildly, nails scratching at the back of his neck. the pain is barely noticeable, but he angles his hips differently, reaches a spot so deep it has you in a state of euphoria.

the orgasm is more intense than you thought it’d be. marco works you through it, his own finding him as he fucked you harder. once you catch your breath, you notice how sore your thighs are and how sticky your skin is. he lets out a satisfied groan and looks at you curiously.

“are you going to stop teasing me?”

you almost laugh at the question, but refrain, opting to smile coyly instead. what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.