Find You in a DreamI wish that I could find a way
To plant the seed of dreams in day
Pick a fruit and choose the taste
No more the maiden runs with haste
Not to be caught but get away
Just as they seem to do in day
It has always been my prize
To break this cage and free my eyes
When morrow comes to still remain
Escaped from sorrows and mundane
And ever look upon the skies
Where peace that is immortal lies
If only I could choose the thought
I'd go to places long forgot
The memories I hold most dear
Forfeit my life and live them here
Ignore the outcomes life had brought
And find the happy end once sought
To Write of HorrorTo paint a scene of mythic horrors
Take dim lit room and darkest corners
Find a child huddled there, cradled tight in his despair
Silent here for not his murmurs,
murmuring out a prayer
He asks the keeper keep to keeping
While all his guardians tucked in sleeping
Ignorant of the shadows creeping
Slow across the hallway floor, standing now outside his door
Somewhere near the sound of breathing,
breaths too heavy to ignore
Then just outside there raised a howl
A distant boom and monstrous growl
Envisions he a ghostly cowl
Afloat across the yard in prowl
Come to steal his soul away, curtains hold the fiend at bay
With scrapes across the window scowls,
scowling out in its dismay
The shutters joined the fray with flapping
Hard against the walls its rapping
While all around began a tapping
With no relent unceasing clapping
the pitter-patter's endless lapping
Solace to the boy then came, raptured from this fearful bane
Slowly drifts his mind towards napping,
napping through a night of rain
Forgotten Beauty(original)A city burns to ruin
as smoke blackens out the sky
soot falls upon a garden
were all the flowers have died
a single flower stands
covered in black dust
once a subtle beauty
now stricken of its lust
it yearns for the sunlight
as it slowly withers away
wrapped in total darkness
crying out for the day
it begs for clean water
but god withholds the rain
finding no salvation
to wash away the pain
Can life ever return to the garden
were fire has scorched the ground
or will the flower be forgotten
and new life never found
i can taste your death in the dregs of my tea (tea is such a melancholy thing).
when i see your stark beauty plagiarized on canvas, when i leave 3 candles lit in constant vigil, when i remember the soft rhythm of your careful footsteps down this now abandoned hall, the sudden collection of dust on my organs is almost palpable and the delicate toothpicks supporting outward appearances snap about halfway to broken.
it takes my breath away to realize how much i miss you.
i feel it deep in my ribcage as my everything collapses onto an ohsovulnerable chest. no wonder they call it a rib cage because my heart is the prisoner to your ghost.
the dead, limp gi
2.28.12today, i deposited the
contents of my stomach
into an open, wanting
i, a liquid solid
am readily taken down
into its belly
where i decompose.
my throat is a raw
i use to
sing off key
i have a fever.
my temples are
and my skull
trapping the heat
it's like i have cysts
between my bones,
in my veins.
i lost my legs along the way
down into the abyss.
but i don't mind.
their muscles ached
i'd often thought of
still, i am left with
and they all creak,
and they won't shut up
and let me sleep
that must be why i never
can never be deep enough
to submerge me.
tonight, i'll sweat
myself out through
my pores and
always about the
same bones &
CavityThere's a heavy cannonball under my tongue and a black hole of emptiness in my chest. My little bones have hardened into led in a last attempt to survive the constant breakage, but instead of supporting me, all they do is drag me down. Darker. Deeper. Into the black velvet of the night-ocean, where the creatures seem more unbelievable and less friendly as I fall lower. Down. Down. Gone. Delivering me to the gates of Oblivion. Or Nirvana. That unattainable, "enlightened" place in the dark vastness of the through-and-through bullet holes that now decorate my chest and poison my blood with a metallic, envious beast. That's all loneliness is after all. How sorry you can feel for yourself, how ugly you realize you are when there's no one around to tell you otherwise.
And as I sit among the faces once so familiar, I perceive a change. The faces are whiter, plainer, empty, different. The one constant in my life has become a variable, and the shock leaves me blind, gasping for air, groping for
Mirror ImagesI was the first person in my family, outside of my parents, to hold my sister. I had only just turned five at the time, and did not quite understand the logistics of adoption, the figurative birth of a child into a family. All I knew was that here was this small, scrunched up little thing and that she was mine to keep. I held my arms out, and she was settled in them, her pink newborn face wrinkling as she was jostled. My sister, in her infant sleep, looked either deep in thought or constipated, her little brow furrowed, her small cherry mouth pursed in concentration. Dreams played out on the movie screen of her face, small fingers flexing and toes curling. My mother tells me I was much the same, my face an open book, my heart begging to be written upon.
She is eleven now and I am sixteen. We are more different than alike, separated by more than uncommon backgrounds. She is stretching tall, her shoulders broadening, and her feet are that of a puppy they showcase what she is yet t
Of Love Letters and Cracked PorcelainShe writes to him. Every day she writes to him thousands of letters, scrawled on lined paper, lunch bags, the backs of her homework assignments. Whole books, she writes, entire epics, tragic love stories.
Her fingers are perpetually stained with ink.
She doesn't begin every letter with "dear", though that's what he is to her. She knows he knows. Knows she loves him. Knows he is wanted, needed, cherished. Her one and only, forever and always. She tells him about her days, sends pictures of her sister, her mother, herself. She loves each letter to pieces, so it's wrinkled and stained and torn a little by the time it's finished.
They were childhood friends before they were lovers. He was a year or so older, an inch or two taller, an older-brother type for the first thirteen years of her life, before he grew into his body and she into hers. Relics of their combined childhoods clutter her bedroom, piling up on the bookshelf, the desk. On her walls hang the crayon drawings, fifteen ye
me minus you.i used to sit alone on the porch swing
watching the summer leaves fade to red,
humming melodies meant for two.
rhythmically tapping my knee with
brittle fingers, and counting the seconds
that went by; counting the seconds of me
the leaves are now dead, buried under
seven layers of winter's breath.
never goldher piano key teeth bit the bullet
and shattered the melody
that was keeping her
on her toes
he watched from a distance with his oceanic eyes
counting her every breath with ignominy
his heart was always silver
she stared up at the ashen sky with anticipation
waiting for the rain to wash her away
and as she crawled to the sea
he couldn't help but
reincarnation of a sycamore.You whispered fables in my ear
as I swept our past underneath
the Aztec rug. You told stories
about a girl who watched the
leaves on the sycamore tree
change. She said that the
metamorphosis was the
answer to everything.
What a foolish girl.
wing shiverstiny tremors that
will keep rhythm with your quivering heart, only to
later, clandestine and yet nearly poetic, unravel you from the outside-in.
Lion HeartIt is building up deep within her fragile body like a heaving monsoon forming over the dry, cracked, heavy heat of an African savannah; an unforgiving and all-consuming storm desperately willing to drown out its less than fleeting welcome. Flickering with ceaseless coils of skin-searing energy like a grey-faced fugitive's adrenaline stricken heartbeat, it is not a bringer of life, but a threat to itand even the most reckless are hardwired to take flight in the face of such a colossal and uncompromising foe.
Beyond these white-washed walls, the world would have her believe that she is brave, a lioness, an exception confronted by the inevitable; but outrunning the storm is no longer an option, and she has never felt more betrayed. Slowly, it is emanating from her heart and through the pulmonary arterythere, free to roll and crash, it engulfs her lungs in a terrible thunder that rattles the brittle bones holding her together. The ominous feeling that has settled into
Of BlissKissing daffodils sway,
serenaded by the waver of
faces blushing bright
as the sunlight
Crossing ArielYour wedding;
you spoke your way toward it
one prospect at a time;
having not been
the cripple or whore,
you settled for
singularity, no future or past,
just announcement and umbra, joy in shade,
soft smiting breath.
How though did you put your children away?
squinting toward dawn.
If your days had been counted
perhaps you would have gone off
fatter, sated as a rook scavenging
in the quiet
instead of blindly staring out bread crumbs
like a gassed canary.
The shine of your boy's hungry mouth
did not dissuade your long whim;
to any call of loneliness
the answer was a towel,
clean and wet
and a ration of cold milk.
Did any irony strike you
like a bell hammer?
Aimlessly you once doodled
no small feet wiggling
toe-ward to fill them.
Gentle prophecy of
immortal effigy for the beauty of drowning.
The flaxen-haired siren
counting out pins from her hair,
swallowing them slowly to armor her heart,
a myth of eaters
and sadness consumed
Pausing By The WineMarriage is
the frustration of reality
when the man who works the wine section
pauses in his tracks to make sure
you've found everything you "really need...are you sure?"
With a look that tells you
he finds you sort of beautiful
and you wonder how your life
might be different,
if any man other than this one
had ever looked at you like that.
GravityDid you know
only owls can see
the noon-day sky?
Dove, sparrow, wren,
spend their days
flapping in unrecognized darkness,
seas of non-blue
You blind songbirds!
favored by wind and wing,
we can't help but envy your flight.
We cut down our kite
the other day,
a blot of red
on the tenor landscape.
It was still twitching as we severed
tangled strings that
wound themselves around a branch,
the last barrier
on its road to immortality
or at least a taste
until a nose dive
gone wild or another
introduces our friend,
Yesterday I asked
why children like to
climb trees, and why
at the top we spread
our arms to fly
but never jumped,
as if unsure
whether we would fall
down or up.
When we die, I think
our souls must travel
to the tops of trees,
sleek iridescence hanging
like a lost kite,
like a quiet child.
You Blind Humans!
Kites are not free
hanging on the air
mocking the swing-tug
of a falling bird,
yet we will chase
the blind birds and
DormantWinter is a blank slate,
but not like Rousseau's
sucking out warmth like poison
leaving only windburnt frost
tacked to the window pane
all we remember
is the numbness
skittish steps across the ice
snowflakes pasted to our faces
smoke rising from our lips
dragged across bleak clouds
winter has us captured
bound by fur and walls
drifting in our eggshelled silence
bone cold until we birth ourselves by warmth
emerge from our shells wet and heaving
uncurl our fingers one by one
joints crackling like fire at our backs
until spring comes
drip by tender drip
old wounds thaw
we are found raw,
graced again by feeling.
Dear MonsterTo start with, I will compose a letter:
Dear Monster under the bed,
Tell you I can still hear
the whispering after
a ten-year vacancy notice.
I'm sick of how you hold me down,
the way you shackle me to the bed,
bound by thresholds
cotton sheets cloaking every
drop of by fear-infused blood.
chills down my spine.
Your phantom is pressing
down on my chest,
and I'm helpless,
waking to my night-robed mother
hand warming my pallid skin.
No memoryonly a voice,
(and I think it was yours)
asking where the monster was.
Are we afraid to forget
what might have been imagined?
I know you, Monster,
I remember our conversations
through parted fingers,
prison bars in the shapeless
dark of the closet.
Let's play a game like we used to:
Maybe if I'm completely still
you will forget me,
Maybe I will be the one
to evaporate come morning.
The truth is, I played our game
too wellI remember
bottomless hours lying beneath
thick strips of cedar, a m
The ForestThe Forest
On a cold evening in winter, snow fell from the skycaressed the earth with a glow that seemed to come from angels. It tongued whispered songs in a language too ancient to understand. The frost had settled into the place, and it had begun to move its hard bristles over the dry landscape.
This is how it began.
I was cold. Terribly cold. My hands were red and numb, and skin flaked from my shaking fingers before, at last, I shoved them deep into my pockets. I wrapped narrow fingers around a cracked compassmy last remaining tether to a recognizable world.
I dont recall much of this time outside the forest well enough to say what exactly I was thinking about. I really cant recall why I was out there at all. But with or without knowing the reason, there I was amidst angels at the mouth of the forest. With each gust of wind, the trees moved and danced with the breez
Train Under WaterBrother,
I'm writing to tell you I'm dropping out of college; I haven't told anyone. I'm twitching, Michael. The hunger came back a few weeks ago, and I'm not sure it ever left. Regardless, it's crying now, and I need to go. I need to keep moving on. I'm leaving for Chicago tomorrow. My train takes off in the afternoon, and when I get there, I'll leave again. I want to go somewhere new, Michael.
I want to go somewhere I have never seen before.
Now, I know you have to be worried, but don't, Brother. Don't you be afraid. I'll write to you wherever I go. I won't leave a return address, please don't try to follow me. You can't, Michael, you're too smart. Your place is here among these people; and mine is out there. You're meant for your books; I'm meant for my trees. I want to roar from the woods with a pen mightier than He
Algeny, Chapter One.Algeny
The young doctor sat with a sigh, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. Moving very slowly, he pulled out and spoke very quietly, but gravely, into a tape recorder.
"Audio log of Dr. Ian Kovane, 25 January 2041." He sighed briefly before continuing.
"Vanity has been an integral part of the human psyche, the human spirit, and all human society since the beginning of time. It has always existed; it will always exist."
A man trudged quickly through a seemingly endless field of snow. Ahead of him, trees swayed in the breeze of a coming storm. His child rested, wrapped in tattered, grey blankets, in his arms. He had begun to lull her to sleep with a gentle lullaby as they walked tirelessly through the frozen landscape.
Despite the thick layers of ragged clothes and blankets between them, the little girl felt her father's heart beat like a war drum.
Fear had set in and the wolves were upon them.<
don't whisper secrets
to raindrops, they'll
only betray you,
one day they'll crash down,
(never trust, never love).
i was soaked in rain, and you
were soaked in regrets, and
we are all strangers
in a way.
(when we don't know what to say,
we talk about the weather).
and we are useless and torn, like scrap metal
waiting to be recycled. but don't
let the shame linger,
passerbyraspy voice, like a demon begging for mercy. she was
always a broken melody,
with no corner pieces.
i can see her,
drenched by the truth in her own
words, "i am just
a crack in the concrete,
by the footsteps
of people like
we should celebratei.
i tried to think of pain as a flower,
first it blossoms
it wilts away.
but i won't let myself disappear
along with it,
give you that.
(it's not the agony that makes
me scream, it's the flavor).
and you whispered softly
"i'll rip your heart out and replace it
with a song,
it's christmas soon, and
we should celebrate".
you've always used my scars
as a calendar,
as a way to remind yourself
"today is tuesday
and i still exist".
(it's morning now because
i can see
through my eyelids
a bright summer day,
the flowers are
The Painter And The VeteranHe wanted to pull out the pain
with a syringe, as if it were
black jelly that had accumulated
underneath his skin. This was
how morning welcomed him.
On saturday nights, he was
the kind of man who went around town
painting murals with a can. They
were gorgeous, especially when city
employees melted them with hose-water.
In America you can find dollar bills
stuck deep in the cracks between
sidewalks; you can find people stuck
deep in the cracks between
You can also find people inside
said buildings, inside beds,
and only one
night, the painter was approached
by a hairy young man with combat
boots who claimed to have fought in
Vietnam. The veteran put a grimy
paw on the painter's shoulder and
asked if he knew why airplanes
had so many windows.
The painter didn't
of them had flown
The veteran slurred with distinction that
before windows were on planes,
they were closed-off
plastic flying tubes. But,
one day every p
ImpatientIf you talk to anyone who waits at red lights or cares about fashion or owns a gun, they'll know a thing or two
about all of us; all of humanity. We are all flowers, we are all little universes, we are all the underdog future.
And maybe this is completely true, and maybe some girl pierced her ear in the 8th grade bathroom, and maybe you
have sand in your shoes from that visit to the beach last week. What does it matter, is this an absolute?
We are all pieces of God, we are all forgetting about Heaven, we are all waiting politely for death to break in
through the bathroom window. You can ask the stains on the sidewalk, the birds who refuse to build nests, the
faded black hair on the barbershop floor. They will tell you that this all does matter, and if you care about your
children, it's an absolute, too. Sometimes I run through traffic lights, wear half-unbuttoned flannel and scoff
at the glory of firearms, but you can talk to me whenever you grab my shoulder and take a moment to stop s
NudismI was one of those deaf-mutes,
a shy flame,
a candle left on a park bench
lit and melting
drops of wax between
the wooden seams.
White water from a stone fountain
slides past shooting-star coins
leaving little bubbles in the grooves.
A child bites her mother on the grass,
and I thought she'd bleed caramel
and I thought about animals
(wishing on a drowned out star).
I'm forming quiet,
oil-scented puddles on the ground;
this fountain holds a shimmering
metallic cover beneath the water.
Natural art museum,
a shy flame getting pinched
by licked fingers,
smothered in conversation.
novemberthe sun is a dim pearl
beneath a blanket of gray
hung low from the heavens;
i'm your yellow tremor
paled by the cold, aching
for a proper sunrise.
blasphemyin a Heaven no grander than a forest, He sat upon a throne weaved of ivy and wild roses; it was there He first touched the Universe, and it was there He came to find the thriving rock He named earth. absent lives were flitting about in oceans deep and dark, and He sought to make company, entertainment, using His vast power to manipulate these beings' path. they grew until they resembled His intention, but before the first man thought of the savannah's cruelty or had any thought besides instinct, angels were birthed of the Lord's passing thoughts
He would breathe and exhale
lights that cuddled like sweet birds,
tucked close for warmth in a simple
nest draped with their brothers' down
feathers and cotton brought up from earth;
amongst the soft glow of each new ideal
came a pop like an ember cracking this one
was weakly lit and stuttered its first words
in a hoarse chirp (humanity, love) before it came
to still with its slumbering companions.
in the evening, the lights
stillyou lust to make his long legs quiver
like two blades of grass
heavy with morning dew
but you're the first frost of november.
Car tout finit un jour... - Because everything... (English version below)
Car tout finit un jour...
Dans tes yeux noirs où se perdent les ombres,
Immergés de spleen et d'ouragans sombres,
Assassine étoile en proie aux vingt ans,
N'oublie ta joie, ton courage d'antan.
Ah que le temps vienne où les fleurs s'égrainent !
Nos rires sous les toits bleus, nos fredaines
Oubliées, resteront à jamais les
Germes d'un été, mort abandonné.
Une lettre commencée, une plume
Egarée. Car dès lors de cette plume
Il faut tirer un trait, comme à l'enclume
Retirer l'épée. Des maux que j'exhume,
Aie confiance en eux. Ils laisseront ton
Chemin loin des issus malheureux. Mon
Oracle, ma muse. Nous n'irons jamais
Sous l'arbre fleurit, où je t'aurais donné
Toutes les splendeurs d'Italie. Adieu,
Au revoir, puisse l'air être tes yeux !
Because everything will end one day
In your black eyes where shades disappear,
Les frimas de Mai.J'y avais apprivoisé une hôte des garennes.
Chaque jour j'y venais admirer les jais de l'aube et les jaspures de la nuit, puis déposer à sa portée des anacardes et des fruits
Il pleut sous les peupliers en fleurs une neige chaude et blanche.
Elle plane sur le sol puis se dépose sous les branches, en larges
Bancs et plages, tels de grands dais de velours tombés aux pieds des arches.
L'air clair est froid, c'est le retour des frimas, douces chutes des anges.
Je courais en ce parc à travers les névés, sur une voie
De terre aux bords échancrés. L'aube laissait des traces, çà et là
Dans l'espace, comme des voiles qui lévitent et se dissipent quand on passe.
J'ouvris une à une les clairières parsemées à l'ombre des colosses.
Elle se trouvait là, seule et désuvrée, attendant la lune où
Le pourtour de l'étang semblait s'y jeter. Assise, sur l'herbe
Ou la mer s'echoue...Où la mer s'échoue...
Tu regardes à l'infini d'un regard perdu
qui ne sait où se poser.
Tes yeux sont las, las de chercher,
tel un albatros géant qui plus d'un an
déjà cherche son rocher ;
où la mer s'échoue,
où les vagues sont brisées,
où l'aube chevelue perce la marée.
BlueI am completely in blue today.
"Rhapsody in Blue," you murmur. I shake my head.
"No, just blue."
"Nothing is 'just' anything with you."
Blue because it's the color of the sky when I'm happiest, water (the same shade as the sky), the cover of my favorite book-of-the-moment (I'm always reading something different), and my cousin's eyes.
Red is your favorite color because it's the color of autumn leaves, fire, your mother's hair, and the ink I'm using (it's smudging onto my hands).
We Summer Salt dizzily through the ocean tide. You find red coral and I find my blue water.
"Mix blue and red and what do you get?" I ask.
"Purple..." you answer hesitantly. I grin.
"I never really liked purple," I tell you.
You distract me by k
"So where are you from?" The boy leans toward me, questions swimming in his eyes. I smile.
"Oh, I'm from Boston."
"No, I mean, where are you from?" My smile falters as I realize where this is going. It's an all-too familiar conversation, one I've been having since I was old enough to reply.
"Do you mean where was I born?"
"I was born in China."
"Do you speak Chinese?"
"Does your family speak Chinese?"
He looks befuddled. I sigh.
"Oh!" I see the light bulb over his head go off in a shower of sparks. "Do you know who your real parents are? Like, your real parents?" My temper flares. I stifle the urge to throw something.
"You mean my biological parents?"
"Oh." There's an awkward pause. I have learned to wait it out, to prepare my next automated response.
"When were you adopted?"
"When I was a year old."
"Did you live in an orphanage?"
"Like in Annie?"
Rolling my eyes seems appropriate.
"No, not l
Not Beautiful, Not in Lovei.
I am not beautiful.
I have told you this before.
I am not beautiful,
But they say it doesn't matter.
What I do:
"Inner beauty" is the mantra
(I must say it to myself until I believe it)
But it doesn't seem to be working.
Because, as I have discovered the hard way,
Too many people aren't all that interested
In "inner beauty."
He paints beauties.
Nymphs and fairies and angels
Girls with smooth skin and flowing hair,
In dresses and heels and lipstick.
They are so very perfect in every way
And so very very empty.
But, as you know, "inner beauty"
Never sells. So outer beauty
Will have to do.
The other girls, with their long-lashed eyes,
Glossy hair, flawless complexions, and
Legs that go on forever,
Have told me to find a boy.
A boy who won't mind that I'm not beautiful.
Maybe someone who's blind, they simper.
It's rather wearing to pretend I don't care.
write upside downI write with erasers
I traveled the world
and all the statues in athens
blushed with their voices
when they whispered
they don't read poetry
exhibit.Nanny thinks the carpet is too soft
to be my torturecage
and the sofa and endtables are poor
jailbars, but we
are feline and we're too tough to care
bigsister and littlesister are lioncubs today
baby lionesses, authentically,
we even lap milk from
ceramic bowls, bellies swollen from
the orders we give: 'emily, you're the
Get us more milk.'
She hates serving us, she's only four
but she's getting strong and someday
she'll earn predator status.
(give thanks that we do not consume you, emily,
your fingers peek through the cagebars and
they are white and young and blood
is sweeter than breastmilk)
Roar. We are learning to growl
I tried to wrestle littlesister but we collided with
Nanny's gnarled sandalfeet and
So am I, Nanny.
I am a lioness today and I
Sarah tosses her mane and I explain patiently (she's only six) that lionesses are free,
don't need manes to chase antelopes
she's too young to care
if her imagination grants her maned masculine lion
write upside downI write with erasers
I traveled the world
and all the statues in athens
blushed with their voices
when they whispered
they don't read poetry
"I raped my grandson."
The priest sat back and stared at the old man, brow furrowed and nerves suddenly on alert. He was sure he must have misheard, and after screwing up his courage he leaned forward again to lean over the wheezing, nearly-lifeless form of the wizened creature laying before him. Each rattle that passed out of his lips took with it a small bubble of saliva, and the clergyman had to fight a shudder of revulsion as one such orb popped and wet the front of his robe.
"What?" he asked, and he used the same hushed voice he always did when tending to the dying. But there was a sharpness in the word that the man seemed to have expected, and he licked his chapped lips. It made no difference to the continuing dribble there, and Father Quinn was about to reach for some water to give him before he spoke again.
"My grandson," he repeated, blinking repeatedly. "I raped him, buggered him. I didn't mean to do it, but I couldn't stop. I cou couldn't I cou
Down By The SchoolyardThere is a rather cliched phrase that states that some people live double lives. I have always found that to be an intensely misleading statement and I guess you can call it a bit of a pet peeve of mine. No one leads "double lives", they just lead fucking lives. That those lives are more complex that the singular one-track existence of lesser creatures shouldn't be a matter of duplicity, but of common sense. No one is exactly who they seem to be.
Julio is one of those who they would later say lived a double life, but it is no more true for him than anyone else. The difference in this case is that there are two of him, rather than one.
Perhaps it was a development caused by his utter mediocrity. Everything from his mind to his personality to his face was completely average. Even his name is forgettable, and elicits annoying references to schoolyards and outdated musical classics.
It was in this space of utter pointlessness that I was born. I started out as a craving for something more a
BrainstormThe mind of The Writer began to softly shift. It started with a breath of air, just a subtle shiver of consciousness that even she did not notice at first. The air then strengthened and became a gust, then two, then three. It wasn't long before her skull was housing a howling phenomenon of an irresistible nature, and the wind that tore at the synapses had began to whisper words, to form images with swirling leaves of half-formed thoughts.
It was a brainstorm.
But not all was shattering sentences and violent verses in the mind of The Writer. There was a place just inside, within the center of the brainstorm that was calm. It was always calm, a shelter where nothing of the imagination touched. It was a clean place, so clean as to be barren. Shining white and chrome, a small cottage of metal built into a single, circular room. It was formed in the shape of a sphere, because the inhabitant could not abide the feeling of being locked into a corner.
In this single layer, safe from the angry
PassionAnd I speak with qualifiers like
"kind of"; "sort of"; "maybe" and "a little"
Because if I spoke with as much passion as I
Feel, you all would think
I am crazy.
"You know, I'm starting to kind of think that maybe, I might be a little crazy."
And I want to feel your steady breath against
The curve of my spine every
Morning. I want to feel the aching press of your
Fingers against my tender breastbone. I want to
Feel your longing, your need, your passion
In the way your arms wrap around and constrict my fragile ribcage.
"Please, break me. So I have a reason to feel so broken."
And when the words have dried and stuck to your
Cracked lips like blood, kiss me. Silence envelopes
And chokes and disintegrates the need to
Breathe. There are no words for this feeling. It's
Beautiful and brutal and passionate and yes,
It scares me.
"I love you and that scares me."
And I don't think I've ever been quite
Complete. On the nights I lie awake with your
Name still on my teeth, your broken dreams crestin
Daughter of an AlcoholicI'm pressed between your
Lips and hips.
My hands caged within yours, and
I am smiling.
Poisoned blood flows down the highways to my heart, which beats slowly and softly under your weight. I am dizzy and weightless and everything you say reaches my ears through a thick, muffled filter of vodka and bittersweet numbness. The heat of the room comes from only you, until everything outside of the press of our bodies feels like ice.
I'm caught between your
Teeth and claws.
The armor of my skin reduced to ash, against
Your fiery breath.
It's a new year, a new decade, an entirely new experience, yet nothing feels new to me at all. It's like slipping my hand into a frayed mitten from childhood that, miraculously, still fits. You are the crunch of snow beneath my boots, the rasp of dying leaves, the scent of honeysuckle tickling my nose, the bite of a sunburn stinging my chest. There is no sense of innocence here, kissing a stranger drunkenly, and yet I feel like a child again. In a
Self Sabotage, SugarShe thrives in heartbreak,
living for the crash and the
She wants to
but there's something
Something that pulls her in
(pushes you out).
She thrives in sorrow,
aching for the burst and the
She wants to
but there's something
Something that builds her up
(breaks you down).
She thrives in panic,
yearning for the snap and the
She wants to
but there's something
Something that makes her soar
(takes your wings).
Devious DamselOh look at her, tis such a shame,
A beast beside a dainty dame,
And clothed upon her satin skin,
Are rays of sunlight that wherein,
Can never bare what hides beneath,
The lamb that bites with wolf-like teeth.
For she is more than she appears,
A monster well beyond her years,
The dragon near her tiny form,
Will die a tragic death 'fore long,
This damsel acts in mere distress,
She is so cunning; dangerous.
In victory she swiftly slides,
From all the clothes in which she hides,
Revealed to all in moonlight's eye,
A pale young figure to the sky,
A cruel seductress - that is she,
Tragedy meets all she sees.
AngelsWings of gold and white have we,
You may not think that we exist,
But if youd look and try to see,
Wings of gold and white have we.
Soft; our feathers falling sleek,
They hang about us like a mist,
Wings of gold and white have we,
You may not think that we exist.
Anne BoleynThe clink of chain invades my ears,
For I may be a prisoner,
Yet I shall keep my noble stance,
For I am not a commoner.
With filthy cries, they throw their food,
I wonder why they need complain,
That they are hungry everyday
When they gladly cast away.
Disgust embroils in my skin,
I am the Queen, forever be,
This festered boil of lowly streets,
Will be the last sight I shall see.
For I was born with malformed hand,
And with my beauty captured King,
So obviously I am Witch!
And I deserve the Guillotine.
You may despise me, peasant scum,
But think of future! Times to come!
My daughter will have claim to throne,
And my death you wont condone.
Listen as your taunting cries,
Lay claim your fate, your demise,
With every stinking breath you take,
In this turmoil you partake
And while the entry took so long,
A swish, a thud and Anne was gone.
the ocean is pollutedthe ocean is polluted
and our children will be throat down baptized
in its weightless mausoleum choke.
staring at the rising tide
swallowing the shore,
swallowing the rivers,
man sees himself reflected across the cerulean surface,
remembers the tyrants past,
given power so surging
(the helpless destroyers),
sees the giant lumbering to transplant him
in an ecosystem generated for the mermen,
the chemically inflated
above the land where
there is only hunger and cold,
the leftover lineage
of an animal that slit its own tongue
and drank its belly full,
desperate for the memory of blood.
The prayer CicadaThe prayer Cicada
their sound the roaring tumble of an airplane,
yelping a nascent cry of living...
soon the motor drone will cease cicada,
your moss-green intonation,
burrowed into the syntax of the buddhist's haiku
and the southerner's humid laboring atop
sun baked bricks,
your harmonics that thumbed their way
into the neighborhood's ears,
like wave dolloped shores whoosing a
stream of consciousness, subtle
as the intake of breath or even less perceptible,
like a thought, will be filled by crickets and car alarms
and gloomy maniac screams, imperfect silence is the night
when you depart cicada.
autumn's care-worn smile kills the leaves, in a month,
but you wont live to see tomorrow. the sky goes black to grey, lethal like gunmetal,
and lightning crisps the trees, your homes! but that is the future,
in the storm,
where I, the witness to your brevity, will haunt your brothers
with my listening to their song
what can you teach me?
cicada you are alive so brief,
if teen dreams were teen novelsthere was once a boy who had all the write words to say
with all those fancy allegories, metaphors and similes
and antonyms of synonyms, like rails and snares and storms
and organs and trains and drums and hurricanes and
and she was only a girl with plain words, the kinds of things
that are only found in piles of papers and pens, books
she keeps where she sleeps,
that will only break when he leaves in the morning,
but she shares everything, like a boat shares a bard,
like a cigarette shares a lung, like a mouth shares other mouths,
like an artist shares her heart.
but there is a running in her heart:
not that type of beat she got when she was a little girl
and her favorite boy gives her a kiss on the cheek, but like when
he first shared his words with hers,
the kind of thing she gets only with naked skin,
and not like that kind of naked skin, naked, but before that
when she looks up and his eyes shine in that kind of way she thinks
might've happened when shakespeare was a teena
cancer handshoney, you should have known
i'm one of those tasteful girls
with all those tongues hidden
in her bones
and not one of those watered down ones
wasting their time with fake, ersatz tastes,
but the pilled, the ones that can be
and can't kill
with cancer hands
The Order of Sublime SimulacraKamon woke to the sound of bells and saws. The ceremony must have started hours ago; there was invigorating yellow sunlight outside the gauzy curtains. Kamon's Self was intoning eight o'clock, eight o'clock with all the insistence of a song looping in his head.
Flesh brain, he thought, you should have caught that alarm. Sometimes the flesh was louder than the devices supposed to make it properly quiet. The flesh insisted on the persistence of the Real. This was exactly the type of lesson that the brothers were supposed to learn, and Kamon hoped that relaying to the abbot how thoroughly he had learned it might lighten the inevitable punishment that came from reminding himself of himself. (Of course, that punishment would still be severe. He was going to arrive at the ceremony so late--)
On the orders of his Self, Kamon moved blearily out of bed and into the shower. (Rules For The Sanctum Three and Four, said his Self. Wear a clean robe. Wear a clean body.) Li
Ahsoka's AkulShe jumped off the flagship into the cold yellow clouds, her ears filling with the sound of her clothing flapping as she plummeted. The clones jet packs hissed to life behind her as they followed, and despite the emptiness of the sky ringing in her montrals, she felt filled up, embraced by a gravity well as comfortingly choking as a fur coat, and she whooped to fill the sky with the same completeness.
It may have been the next mission, or a few afterward. They tended to blur together when most of them did not involve things as exciting as jumping out of spaceships and battling lightsaber-wielding CIS leaders. Most of them involved something like this; sitting under a mud-brown-and-grey tarpaulin lashed with rain, waiting while the clones pushed en masse ever so slowly into Seperatist lines. Most of them, too, involved this, Master Skywalker coming and looking down at her darkly, saying Look Snips, I just wanted to talk to you about
A Handful of MothsThe mountain is a pincushion for cactus. It looks like some irritated desert deity just threw saguaros like spears at the hillside until s/he ran out of spears.
It's movie night, and that means that tires crunch through the gravel at the drive-in to see the latest stars-and-explosions movie. It's robots tonight, great city-wrecking things with Hollywood voices and gears spinning behind their ear plates. That means that we pile into the cars and go, plaid rugs flung over the backs of the seats, plaid shirts over tank tops, team bumper stickers. Go Team! It's cooled down to seventy-five degrees and the condensation on my soda cup drops down to gather between my skin and the plastic.
We talk and talk and pay our dollars and park. The blanket gets tossed out like a bigtop tent and flattened in the bed of the pickup. The bed door falls down on its chains with a clunk.
The screen looms in front of the cars, cream-colored and silent. The logo of the drive-in dances around it like a screensave
AUTUMN IMPRESSIONSI sit in the coffee shop imbibing mochas and
memories and counting the leaves extinguishing
their color in my eyes, windblown with their
sighs of sincerity, Autumn fills my little cup
with reveries, her amber sensations I drink...
until I feel my mind unfold into a tender Twilight,
her cool caresses soothe me into a state of
gentle reflection where the hum and hiss of
human locomotion no longer exists, and my world
is still and silent and I can hear my thoughts,
impressions darkly blue are all that's left of
yesterday's voices now distant from where I am,
for I am as Autumn left me-impressions of some
dusky renown caught like leaves in my simple
pages-a draught of whispers mingling on my ripe
tangerine tongue, oh how I missed her! Autumn
my lover my friend, now I feel her crisp windy
fingers untether my self-induced insulation,
my isolation from Summer's heavy heat and noisy
crowd are no longer needed: Autumn is here.
My thoughts are imprinted on her petticoats,
drifting like the nosta
GHOST SONGBeneath a hollow Sky I lie far below,
cold under the sleeping daisies, colder
under my silent gravestone, as the
Fire stirs up from the ashes of old,
what is dead in the world I can see-
whispering through the velvet velour
of my mind, I feel the secrets that
slumber in the dusky gaze of Forever,
they speak to me in the Moonlight wine
I drink, brewed by the beasts who walk
the landscape of visions only I can
see, I see them even on a Moonless
Eve for I exist in the celebration
between Dusk and Dawn, in the heart-
beat every spirit hears between Death
and Rebirth-there I will be, I exist
in the rays of the Midnight Sun that
illuminates the subconscious, in the
mist that separates the Known from
the Unknown, though others may not
see me-I live, I breathe, I dream-
not cold in my crypt of Solitude,
but warmed by the Wisdom tumbling
down on me from Stars long dead.
Copyright: April 11, 2009
AUTUMN WOMANDeep within the belly of my home...
I sip gingerbread tea and line my bed with
the skin of October, groaning beneath my feet
the floor creaks like aging bones, I hear the
air's cookie crunch outside, it breaks up the
fast of my fantasies with its crackling cold,
whispering that Autumn's pantry has been
stocked with a bounty of seasonal reruns,
I see the Sky skirt low before the nibbling
frost as I step outside, I am not as cold as
others may be, I am warmed by Autumn's
plump lips upon mine, keeping me warm
with her mulled applespice, I kiss her-deep
and probing even deeper-our love leaves us
tangled on the Earth, steaming and sweating
-but the mirror has never been clearer, looking
into the slow simmer of creeping years when
I will age into a crone-I do not fear them or her.
Age will make me an Autumn Woman, my belly
full of Wealth and Wisdom, an abundance only
matched by Autumn's full harvest belly, sinking
low, sunken hollow, this little world of me will
be drawn into the slow steady
Dear Daddy's GirlDear Naive 15,
You're ignorant as Hell.
You dress in baggy blue jeans, wear an oversized hoodie every day, and never let your hair down. Students at school, and even your mom, think you're gay… and you don't even know.
All of your classmates blame you for a burn book that circulated after that Mean Girls movie. Everyone thinks you're a jealous bitch and secretly they mock you. How can you not see that?
Your teachers are all positive that you cut yourself and that you're always on drugs. Even now you have no idea why they ask you to take your jacket off during class. Could it be that you always wear long sleeves?
It's okay, sweetheart. I had to find out the hard way, too.
Right now you're probably wishing your dad was home. He's the only one that will read your stories and tell you how creative you are. You don't have to beg him to watch movies with you, and he'll listen to your favorite songs without calling you suicidal. Right now, living wi
Submerged in Swan Lake
Swans and wings are floating by
on a breeze imbued with jasmine and
willows outstretching their arms in welcome.
Through deep breaths he arrives
plunged in murky, pungent water.
A quiet whisper, and he prays -
"Please... may I linger here?"
Willows lower their arms
and jasmine falls to the Earth
where the wind dies and finally rests.
The crows are cawing hymns,
begging to be swans.
But only the duck submerged in Swan Lake
has delved the desired shore.
Its waters dangerous and plagued
by monsters baring their teeth;
most ghastly and putrid they are
that no crow may ripple its surface
nor any songbird seeking beauty fair.
The Swan Maidens bare their chests
and open their wings in veneration -
for the duck has sought beauty through courage
and earned his guise of grace and virtue.
The Mating Season
The copse was luminous and inviting.
Balmy winds shifted and the leaves swirled in tuneful coils.
He crushed the vivid ambers and yellows with grimy boots;
Feet scuffing the supple earth with each enthralled step.
She inhaled a surging gust
and spread her arms in temptation.
Her warm breeze thrust him in
and he clung to her, obsessed.
Undeniably beautiful was she, that he didn't comprehend
the brambles that curled around her legs
and the twigs that rose in the deep red of her verdant hair.
Her lips were soft and her touch bewitching,
like the undisturbed soil next to a water's edge.
That's where he laid her down
and took all that could be given.
Through slumber he was not aware what soon would be returned.
Damp mists and darkness engulfed the quieted creek;
the ambers had drained and washed away the essence of the marsh.
Cold awoke all visitors - disenchanted.
Gales were silenced and the darkness moved only for one sound;
the breathing of a heavy beast whose power
The PianoThe voice you hear is not mine. It forms words, but it's not me. I can no more speak than I could fly; not if you begged me, if you tortured me.
Once, a lifetime time ago, I could sing, and I lived for my song. Once she sang with me, and oh, how beautiful we were.
I sing no more.
I don't know where she went; far away, I believe. Perhaps she replaced me with another who sang more beautifully than I ever could. Though she tried, I give her that, she tried to take me with her; brought me all the way down to the sea shore, onto the very sands, but that's as far as I could go; the end of our life together.
Do you think me foolish, allowing myself to be so defined by her? Since she left I stayed on that beach, on a sand bank; high above the furthest waves. No-one came, no-one saw me. My life thereafter was a broken world of memory, and every thought reflected her musician's hands.
A diminished sixth, from A to F, resounded in the twilight of my first night before the sea, the mournful sound
a city in rhythm and jazz -..an entire city in tears
singing jazz and rhythm
and jazz and the blues,
singing rhythm & jazz & the blues.
an entire city in tears
with hands held
twisting the wind into whirlwinds of sound
& a red handkerchief flicking on the wind,
whipping & lifting the sound of the wind
& the necks of the crying
in one motion, one
waving, swaying, lilting, loving manyperson,
singing rhythm & jazz & the blues.
an entire city in tears
craning from windows & weeping,
sweeping the dust dragged past the parks
with their eyes.
with their eyes: dust-dragged
past the parks with woodchips & leaves.
with their eyes: worshipping
the centre of a congregation of walking widows
Museum Benchmuseum bench
ponder historical nuances
the sign says wet paint
my hand holds a bucket
He played hard this month: She played well this month:
Mortgages prefixed sales Chlorophyll quotas left in the wake
and rows of steadfast hotels, of cushioned lovers and tickling tiny noses
plastic monuments saluting a gaudy cannon
Learning To FlyI have been here:thumb289943157:
For far too long.
Stumbling, vainly warding
Inept equilibria, chancing my
Half hearted dance upon that edge:
I've been too afraid.
Scared that once I take that
First giddy step, I will fall-
Plummet darkly down and disappear,
Crushed among the jagged sandstone rocks
Scattered like simple ashes to the liberated wind.
So I will not walk. Watch me-
I will hazard this risk, because-
Because- I know now, I have learnt-
Who's to say that I will be the one to fall?
That I won't defy old Newton's laws
Cawing merriment as the cold horizon thaws
Past icy overtures. I may well soar-
Tripping not on shingle stone but
Meteoric flames, cavorting with the comet princes,
Surpassing all my limitations, taming black holes
And racing every ostentatious shooting star-
Pompous individuals... I used to envy them,
Glittering magnificence and doused in reverent splendour
But I can tell you that I have circled matter
They can never orbit, stranded in their brilliant vac
A Thousand Acres of SunTrace it to the cradle, these spiny desires
That prickle golden like Eris' apple,
Snapping as the twig clasp, spite abundant
And bitter blood crunch as I draw it to my lips,
I suppose I believed, or at least, made
Myself begin to believe that time would
Truly make the mangled memory fade to pangs,
Torment to parable, tumultuous clatter to muted patter,
Quiet Trojan clangs- like acid eroded bones
And jigsaw palms- pungent like the apple rot,
Searing and sour.
-I'm trying to remember
The scent, the taste of reward
-Endeavour's gift, sweet sapling blossom
Yellow chrysanthemum gloss
And hollow reeds unbridled
Beyond the salted knees and buckling
-Deserving, dear god, the wintry warmth
Of self subjected meritocracy and frost deserving
Deluge, the silvery swallow veil
Upon the golden fields, the honey wheaten grains
Shame aflame and gleaming
Beneath my thousand acres of sun.
As I inaudibly crumbleThe first thing that I can assure you of is the fortitude of my soul: I am a pact so strong that even the hurricane which caused my house to tear apart couldn't budge me. So strong, that even the earthquake that cracked the face of my school building couldn't chip me. So strong, that no amount of tidal waves could crash and break into my walls, my being. I am a pact made of several precious trinkets, letters and colors bound fervently. My frame has become a watchtower and my spirit, its sentry; I fulfill set duty. I am a pact so strong that I crave for certain commotion over what it is that I am, I wear and bare my vanity. I am a thrill seeker, a bungee jumper. I thrive off adrenaline rushes brought about by the feeling of close calls, the always present possibility of a snapping of the cord, a real potential to, not just fall, but truly crash and burn from grace. I am of a life wanting to be fully fueled, felt and fulfilled. I am a draconian as an experienced freedom fighter.
I wanted to say yes.I wanted to say yes.
I wanted to take your hand in mine and like a couple of idiots, run through the heavy traffic and pouring rain, and keep at it till our feet resign.
We'd find a tree with branches wide enough with leaves broad or plentiful enough to take shelter under, and there, you'd place your head on my lap as I'd sing you my favorite love song. The song I'd always wanted you to sing to me.
If only I hadn't found out the hard way that your feelings for me are but as thin as an onion's skin and that I could never accept and bow down to no matter how suave your courting style may be. If only I was stupider than what I really am- maybe then I would have reciprocated to your efforts all my yearning I've kept sealed tightly, maybe then we might have had a chance.
When I told you to make things clear and to stop teetering between the fringes of my hopes and dreams and the cruel loneliness that awaits, my blood was already thinning and I was gagging from my silent yet continually flow
Serendipity and SnowfallI am la vie en rose,
a newborn with as many mini bones in my body as possibilities.
I am potential waiting to be tapped into.
I am a spectrum of light,
serenity in the symmetry of a snowflake.
I come veiled in lace from everlasting love's womb with my budding,
goose-flesh tucked tenderly underneath.
I spread my spirit wide,
outstretching my feather-tips &,
supplicated by twizzles,
I catch my ballerina's foot & fly.
In these fleeting,
finite moments of ubermensch suspension in multiple salchows comes clairvoyance,
a kindness beyond the absolution of mundane minds.
With the key to perfection being repetition,
I pray you watch me as I molt my flaws away under the wondrous,
I shall soar,
from my axel I shall spiral sublimely on the outskirts of onlookers' smiles-
as well as my own,
& I shall skimpily,
glide through the snowflake strata unto the star-studded shangri-la.
I find my freedom in a winter only world.
Let me lease into my
LingerieEvery woman owns one garment
that remains tucked away,
saved for special occasions
when it will be seen.
It is almost always midnight
black, or blood red, and
covered in lace, or made
of mesh, soft and delicate
as the skin it covers.
Such things should be hidden,
lest the owner be labeled
as something other than "lady."
It has a power we can't
control, one that transforms
denim and cotton clad
ragdolls into Barbies,
perfectly proportioned plastic,
smooth and flawless hourglasses
that turn on command.
We groan and flinch
as satin strings pull us
apart and together,
and heartstrings are plucked
as we scrutinize our reflection;
we are not diamonds
with perfect exteriors--
we are fractured, as we
realize hourglasses can be exchanged
for quartz watches that are
faster, more convenient,
incapable of failure
made by the obsolete.
To My HeroDarling,
I don't have to tell you a thousand reasons why I love you. I could write for hours about your ever-changing hair color, the way your eyes light up when you smile even though they're the darkest shade of brown I've seen, the way my stomach does somersaults whenever your lips brush against mine or you say "I love you" and my name in the same sentence.
But this is not a love letter.
You know all the pieces of stories about him that I've told you as I remember. Memory repression is a funny thing, and there are some things I don't particularly want to remember (like any of the times he made me smile instead of cry, laugh instead of scream).
The void he tore in my heart has been filled with memories of you:
- a single red rose and a cup of hot chocolate;
- our first kiss--my first kiss;
- cold 4:00 a.m.'s spent freezing in your car;
- hot spring afternoons napping in the same car during thunderstorms;
- the warmth of your body as you held me all
Russian RouletteThey take her on her honeymoon.
The wedding was lovely, or as lovely as it could have been with a couple that were more polite acquaintances than anything else and two sets of in-laws as stuffy as a dusty pile of money. They grab her when she sneaks out for a walk one night, two men, beefy, not even bothered to arm themselves. Her last thought before the bag is shoved over her eyes is to wonder how much this would ruin her parents' plans.
She comes to in a small brick room on a sallow mattress, windowless and lit by a cool yellow lamp. There's a man there, standing just outside the barred door.
"Kelly Shale," he says, voice nasally, greasy greying hair half-covering his forehead. She's not sure if it's a question or a statement.
She counts the days by watching the guardsone on day shift, one on night. They're probably the same men who took her, but they stay too much out of her field of vision to really tell. It takes until the third day for the woman to come.
'Meil,' they call h
The Magician - EpilogueThere's a man who isn't real, never was, and a woman who might be. There's a land of plains and skies, but also of times and hereafters. A land away from the darkness, out of the shadows of doubts and uncertainties, and with a spirit of its own.
The other man stays as he stands, a stranger, an intruder like the rest of the crowds who waltz in and out, seeing without really knowing. But unlike them he's beginning to nudge open that door between, taking the first few steps within. And he looks down now where the edges of the fortune teller's gift are cutting into his palm, unfurling his clenched fist and letting his eyes fall on the etched forms within.
A cup, a wheel, a sword, a stave, and a woman. The first card. The Magician.
The Magician - Part 1"Devlin."
The dark man raised his head. "I'm sorry?"
"Ice Devlin, I believe they call you."
A pause, then he smiled. "I believe you have me at a disadvantage. Introductions, then? And a drink?"
He lifted a hand to signal as the other dropped a black briefcase to the floor and took the seat before him, visibly grimacing down at the grubby tabletop.
"Wonderful joint, isn't it?"
"Not at all," was the reply. "My kind exactly."
"I'd imagine so, yes," the other man said, dragging a glance around the bar.
"But not yours, I take it. What are you here for? Need something done?" Ice let his gaze sweep over the form opposite, eyes narrowing, assessing. Then he leaned in. "But no, you're not here to ask. You're here to finish something."
There was a halt in the exchange as a young woman stepped forward with two squat glasses of beer, drunken whistles and catcalls following her across the half-crowded space. Ice accepted with a nod at the deliverer and a faux-posh smile at his table-mate who took a
Faminei told him
i wanted to spend
paying my dues
to the circumference
of my spine, to the size
of my stomach,
that was not in it.
of my constant need,
in a voice like cold coffee.
the way you are."
i don't care
i care about hunger.
loneliness & starving
sisters. and i want to know
if the hunger that turns you
is anything like
THAT POEM (Writer's Block)I sat down at my computer last Thursday night
with the full intention of writing THAT POEM. Oh, don't
play dumb. You know what THAT POEM is. We all know
what THAT POEM is. You with the cigarette train-tracks
charting your eternal drift to nowhere
on the insides of your arms, you
with the sludge of alcohol dripping thick & brown through
veins swollen & slow & pussy as zombies, you
with the eight children whose faces you can't remember
& the husband in the Hamptons whose name you sometimes forget
& the lover who never seems to come around as much as you pay him to you
all know what THAT POEM
is. It's the rhythm beating a dull staccato in your skull
when you've taken something to take the edge off, the weary shadows sinking senseless
into the black-slung cradles hiding underneath your
bloodshot eyes. It's the weight of the gun & the way its metal feels
when you push it against the squelching skin of your skull not to kill yourself, just to feel it,
to know you could. This wa
MEi. I fell in love with a girl who catalogued darkness,
sat in her room with the blinds closed and wrote down
187 ways it felt
in all of the different times she couldn't see.
My name was one of them,
#143, ash velvet, and I didn't know what she meant at the time
but the only description she wrote beneath it
was good night for stuffed animals
bad night for worn pillows.
And I'm sorry I made you dream of the rivers.
ii. I fell in love with a girl who never looked in the mirror
but dressed to perfection, somehow
in her blue skirt and black socks
white tennis shoes
and a smile crooked as the bottom side of Indiana
yeah, I fell in love with a girl
who could never quite get it straight but hey,
I've never been 100% straight either,
and the one corkscrew curl you have
opens me up like fine wine
each time I see you smile in that cracked bathroom mirror.
Makes me half-drunk,
iii. I fell in love with a girl who was depressed by Paris,
but loved Italy beca