Break
I don’t need –
your sympathy,
used theorems
on the quantum mechanics
of attraction,
distraction,
chemical reaction.
Of the breaking
of glass,
shattering preconceptions.
You fond –
solace
in my curves,
sinuous synapses,
tender heart
but no pull
of the ocean waves
no gravity,
no phases of the moon.
I’m left –
with shards
of words, stabbing
like rakes,
emotions
dripping
from chandeliers
like blood,
with no one
but me
to blame.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Solace, and Ocean Waves
Solace, and Ocean Waves
Can I find solace
in what you’ve left me here?
Broken heart, bruised ego,
swollen lips. Tattered memories
of our very last kiss, last touch.
Your body wrapped around mine
in the dark, so close I could
feel your pulse against my back,
intrinsically knowing “this is home”,
“this is home”. I was wrong.
You didn’t join us in the water,
choosing instead to beach yourself
on the sand, and it should have been
a sign of distance, of distancing yourself
but I never noticed. And now, I cry
myself to sleep at night,
wishing you had chosen me.
Can I find solace
in what you’ve left me here?
Broken heart, bruised ego,
swollen lips. Tattered memories
of our very last kiss, last touch.
Your body wrapped around mine
in the dark, so close I could
feel your pulse against my back,
intrinsically knowing “this is home”,
“this is home”. I was wrong.
You didn’t join us in the water,
choosing instead to beach yourself
on the sand, and it should have been
a sign of distance, of distancing yourself
but I never noticed. And now, I cry
myself to sleep at night,
wishing you had chosen me.
Poets & Liars
Poets & Liars
Plato penned poets as liars.
Thrice removed from the subjects of their idolations,
their knowledge sorely lacking,
easily dismissed from society were they.
If this rings true, my dear,
then I, among all poets, am most wicked,
penning half-truths to, and of, you
until you cannot stomach
my saccharine praises –
of hand and eye and foot,
of touch, of voice.
My odes ring too deep
for our half-winded love affair.
We were over before we’d begun,
just pottery fragments
discarded by the failing artist,
another grand liar, like me.
Plato penned poets as liars.
Thrice removed from the subjects of their idolations,
their knowledge sorely lacking,
easily dismissed from society were they.
If this rings true, my dear,
then I, among all poets, am most wicked,
penning half-truths to, and of, you
until you cannot stomach
my saccharine praises –
of hand and eye and foot,
of touch, of voice.
My odes ring too deep
for our half-winded love affair.
We were over before we’d begun,
just pottery fragments
discarded by the failing artist,
another grand liar, like me.
Mirror, Mirror
Mirror, Mirror
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
I’m not the fairest of them all.
My hair’s too dull, my eyes too dark,
I lack that certain, vital spark.
The boys, they laugh instead o stare,
I’m not beautiful beyond compare.
My legs are long but far too thick,
I’m slow and lazy, my mind’s not quick.
I run away instead of fight,
my will too weak, my strength too light.
My hands, they shake, when he is near,
he envies my height, I’m full of fear.
This heart of mine, it falls too fast,
my love affairs burn too hot to last.
The tears I shed turn not to gems,
I’m far too pitiful for any men.
This cross I bear, easily it lifts,
when I’m onstage, I show my gifts.
For this voice I have, none can compare.
I am much more when I’m up there.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
I’m not the fairest of them all.
My hair’s too dull, my eyes too dark,
I lack that certain, vital spark.
The boys, they laugh instead o stare,
I’m not beautiful beyond compare.
My legs are long but far too thick,
I’m slow and lazy, my mind’s not quick.
I run away instead of fight,
my will too weak, my strength too light.
My hands, they shake, when he is near,
he envies my height, I’m full of fear.
This heart of mine, it falls too fast,
my love affairs burn too hot to last.
The tears I shed turn not to gems,
I’m far too pitiful for any men.
This cross I bear, easily it lifts,
when I’m onstage, I show my gifts.
For this voice I have, none can compare.
I am much more when I’m up there.
Other Than You
Other Than You
Okay, so we’ll play this game,
I’ll pretend I don’t love you
and you’ll pretend not to care
when I cry myself to sleep
or throw my arms around you
and beg you not to go.
You lose yourself in her, but
are you thinking of me instead,
are you remembering
the way my lips taste,
how my eyes roll back
and my fingers gripped your shoulders,
how you kissed me
like you never wanted to let me go?
I can’t see myself with anyone
else, even when he touches me
I can’t feel anything but
your touch, I see your face,
lips open, breath coming heavy,
the way your eyes scrunched up
when you let yourself go,
when we crested this wave
together. He never cares, you see.
I don’t want to see myself
with anyone else,
other than you.
Okay, so we’ll play this game,
I’ll pretend I don’t love you
and you’ll pretend not to care
when I cry myself to sleep
or throw my arms around you
and beg you not to go.
You lose yourself in her, but
are you thinking of me instead,
are you remembering
the way my lips taste,
how my eyes roll back
and my fingers gripped your shoulders,
how you kissed me
like you never wanted to let me go?
I can’t see myself with anyone
else, even when he touches me
I can’t feel anything but
your touch, I see your face,
lips open, breath coming heavy,
the way your eyes scrunched up
when you let yourself go,
when we crested this wave
together. He never cares, you see.
I don’t want to see myself
with anyone else,
other than you.
Nymphette
Nymphette
She twirls, an innocent
pixie dust pirouette,
glittering in the lamplight,
a stray carnival pinwheel.
He is still, on the sidewalk,
transfixed, as her dress
blows upward in the wind
and he cannot help but stare.
Expanse of leg, pretty, turned ankle,
knobby knee.
She laughs and he longs
to be the source of her laughter,
the pale, upturned face,
long lashes, eyes dark
with forbidden thoughts.
His hand reaches out,
grasps a curl,
and she is gone,
traipsing through the lavender
back to safety’s door.
A whisper on the wind –
“I’ll wait for you”.
She twirls, an innocent
pixie dust pirouette,
glittering in the lamplight,
a stray carnival pinwheel.
He is still, on the sidewalk,
transfixed, as her dress
blows upward in the wind
and he cannot help but stare.
Expanse of leg, pretty, turned ankle,
knobby knee.
She laughs and he longs
to be the source of her laughter,
the pale, upturned face,
long lashes, eyes dark
with forbidden thoughts.
His hand reaches out,
grasps a curl,
and she is gone,
traipsing through the lavender
back to safety’s door.
A whisper on the wind –
“I’ll wait for you”.
Bonded
Bonded
Flood me in your ocean.
I’m ready, to sink or swim,
to be pulled along the sandy bottom,
just please don’t let go
until I’m ready.
I’m so unsure, unsteady,
on these newfound legs
like a colt, learning to stand.
I’ll get there, I just need
you, to lean on, for a moment,
only a moment.
It hurts to spread these wings.
I know I need, I feel, I yearn,
to fly. But it’s terrifying.
You pull me back to earth
by a tether, not a leash,
more like an unspeakable bond
that holds us together.
Flood me in your ocean.
I’m ready, to sink or swim,
to be pulled along the sandy bottom,
just please don’t let go
until I’m ready.
I’m so unsure, unsteady,
on these newfound legs
like a colt, learning to stand.
I’ll get there, I just need
you, to lean on, for a moment,
only a moment.
It hurts to spread these wings.
I know I need, I feel, I yearn,
to fly. But it’s terrifying.
You pull me back to earth
by a tether, not a leash,
more like an unspeakable bond
that holds us together.
Morgan
Morgan
This is the promised land,
this stretch of bed between us
where our hands form bridges,
fingers curled tightly.
Where our lips first met
and introduced me to love,
our heads spinning
and I had to pull away
just to breathe awhile.
This is the promised land,
this stretch of bed between us
where our hands form bridges,
fingers curled tightly.
Where our lips first met
and introduced me to love,
our heads spinning
and I had to pull away
just to breathe awhile.
Replaceable
Replaceable
Fool me once, shame on you,
fool me twice, shame on me.
So place the shame, give me the blame,
because I let myself forgive you
over and over again,
claiming you had changed.
We were two halves of the same whole,
or a fire burning out of control,
burning far too hot to last.
Quiet intimacies in the darkness,
the only sound breaking over us
was our whispered intentions.
How could you throw it away so easily?
I didn’t know I was as replaceable
as you could make me feel.
Fool me once, shame on you,
fool me twice, shame on me.
So place the shame, give me the blame,
because I let myself forgive you
over and over again,
claiming you had changed.
We were two halves of the same whole,
or a fire burning out of control,
burning far too hot to last.
Quiet intimacies in the darkness,
the only sound breaking over us
was our whispered intentions.
How could you throw it away so easily?
I didn’t know I was as replaceable
as you could make me feel.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Zoo Welcomes Baby Giraffe to Herd
Zoo Welcomes Baby Giraffe to Herd
The African Savannah is the perfect place for raising
wild insecurities, breathing rich summer air untainted by
man-made chemicals, smog, traffic. As in, I am feral and untamed.
As in, do not claim to own me. Giraffes give birth standing up,
ejecting their young into the world like a rewound videotape
ready to be watched, throwing the foal onto its feet,
hoping it will stand. I’m partial to open jeep rides across the reserve,
leaves clenched tight in my palm, priceless emeralds
lifted from my sweating fingers by curled, black tongues.
They are always hungry. I cannot fathom this,
not when I’m watching a sea of spots dancing across the grassland,
patient, plodding adults and small, perfectly formed calves,
graceful hooves picking around holes and imperfections,
necks stretching above my outstretched arm, curling
around my waist, trapping me in their muscular embrace.
Being here, in this moment, wet saliva dripping off my knuckles,
skin red and peeling underneath the wide brim of a safari hat,
means everything. It is who I have become now, forsaking
floral bed sheets and penguin calendars for nights brimming with stars,
soft grass beneath my calloused feet. This feeling,
of knowing that everything is so much bigger than me
is overwhelming, underappreciated. It hurts to think about it.
Giraffes live in small, loose groups, like knitting circles,
that change, the ebb and flow of the ocean, the young
never left alone but watched over like human offspring in a daycare.
Children fight over everything from trucks to dolls, engaging
in drawn out shouting matches with well-placed punches to
underdeveloped shoulder muscles or round cheeks. Male giraffe calves too
engage in play fighting, before they are a month old. This does not bode well
for giraffe society. I often read in the shadow of giants,
stretching my neck out as far as possible, wishing
for hooves instead of fingers, the tail I lost in the womb,
long spindly legs. My field guide states that calves are 6 feet tall at birth.
Forgive me, but I want nothing more than to be reborn.
The African Savannah is the perfect place for raising
wild insecurities, breathing rich summer air untainted by
man-made chemicals, smog, traffic. As in, I am feral and untamed.
As in, do not claim to own me. Giraffes give birth standing up,
ejecting their young into the world like a rewound videotape
ready to be watched, throwing the foal onto its feet,
hoping it will stand. I’m partial to open jeep rides across the reserve,
leaves clenched tight in my palm, priceless emeralds
lifted from my sweating fingers by curled, black tongues.
They are always hungry. I cannot fathom this,
not when I’m watching a sea of spots dancing across the grassland,
patient, plodding adults and small, perfectly formed calves,
graceful hooves picking around holes and imperfections,
necks stretching above my outstretched arm, curling
around my waist, trapping me in their muscular embrace.
Being here, in this moment, wet saliva dripping off my knuckles,
skin red and peeling underneath the wide brim of a safari hat,
means everything. It is who I have become now, forsaking
floral bed sheets and penguin calendars for nights brimming with stars,
soft grass beneath my calloused feet. This feeling,
of knowing that everything is so much bigger than me
is overwhelming, underappreciated. It hurts to think about it.
Giraffes live in small, loose groups, like knitting circles,
that change, the ebb and flow of the ocean, the young
never left alone but watched over like human offspring in a daycare.
Children fight over everything from trucks to dolls, engaging
in drawn out shouting matches with well-placed punches to
underdeveloped shoulder muscles or round cheeks. Male giraffe calves too
engage in play fighting, before they are a month old. This does not bode well
for giraffe society. I often read in the shadow of giants,
stretching my neck out as far as possible, wishing
for hooves instead of fingers, the tail I lost in the womb,
long spindly legs. My field guide states that calves are 6 feet tall at birth.
Forgive me, but I want nothing more than to be reborn.
Case #98067
Case #98067
Age: 21.
Eagle tattoo on the shoulder.
Clothing included
a leather jacket, orange polo,
and a pronounced lack of style.
Sex: Male. His nose turns
slightly up at the end.
His eyebrows were trimmed,
but his watch face melted.
Race: White. Even though
the burns cover over
seventy percent of the body,
he died in neatly pressed slacks.
Date of Death: May 5th, 2008.
The piñata exploded upon contact.
The police are investigating,
but, so far, have failed in finding
any leads. Donkeys are herbivorous
in the wild, but this one
must have been raised in captivity.
Autopsy findings: muscle atrophy.
Concentrated largely in the area of
the heart, extending the length
of his torso. His fingertips
are perfectly round and clean.
Degenerative joint changes. The
soles of his feet match
the color of early cave paintings
in Lascaux, France. Toxicology:
abnormal levels of carbon monoxide
present within the lungs. The lyrics
to popular love songs promote
spur of the moment hook ups
inside parked cars. Broken hearts
kill no one.
Cause of Death: suffocation,
third degree burns, poison. He
choked to death on his own heart.
Age: 21.
Eagle tattoo on the shoulder.
Clothing included
a leather jacket, orange polo,
and a pronounced lack of style.
Sex: Male. His nose turns
slightly up at the end.
His eyebrows were trimmed,
but his watch face melted.
Race: White. Even though
the burns cover over
seventy percent of the body,
he died in neatly pressed slacks.
Date of Death: May 5th, 2008.
The piñata exploded upon contact.
The police are investigating,
but, so far, have failed in finding
any leads. Donkeys are herbivorous
in the wild, but this one
must have been raised in captivity.
Autopsy findings: muscle atrophy.
Concentrated largely in the area of
the heart, extending the length
of his torso. His fingertips
are perfectly round and clean.
Degenerative joint changes. The
soles of his feet match
the color of early cave paintings
in Lascaux, France. Toxicology:
abnormal levels of carbon monoxide
present within the lungs. The lyrics
to popular love songs promote
spur of the moment hook ups
inside parked cars. Broken hearts
kill no one.
Cause of Death: suffocation,
third degree burns, poison. He
choked to death on his own heart.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Dante didn’t know…
Dante didn’t know…
that babykillers are sometimes accidentally christened so,
their only intent: to silence their child’s screaming,
not forever, but just for the moment. Their hand too
heavy for a soft child’s skull to absorb impact from,
or breathe around, due to a runny nose. Perhaps they
shook just a tad too hard in the middle of play,
realizing, too late, that infantile necks are too
underdeveloped to withstand rough play, panicking
when their child went too still in their arms.
The ones who get away with it, how do they live
with the guilt? Do they lay flowers on the
fresh mound of earth in their backyards, that
tiny little grave a constant reminder, or do they
avoid the place, afraid the neighbors will notice
in a way they don’t when lost pets are likewise interred?
How can find answers to friend’s innocent queries,
hastily concocting lies, all the while hearing the phantom cries
of their late child reverberating through their house?
Maybe they have come to believe in their own words.
Did you know, Dante, that not all murder is calculated?
That not all lust is intentional? Perhaps in your day
everything was carefully planned out, but nowadays,
these things can happen so accidentally. It’s not apocalyptic.
Just normal. A prostitute enrages a patron who chokes her,
a little too hard, during routine business. He never stops,
never questions her silence, her too pliable yielding underneath him,
until he’s finished, and she still hasn’t moved or opened her eyes.
Does he deserve to be punished or was this a simple encounter with fate?
Sometimes suicides make sense. The abused teen,
the alcoholic asleep at the wheel, the child discovering electricity
through a fork and outlet. Maybe hatchmarks on forearms
are museum masterpieces in other dimensions. Maybe
toasters are asking to be poked at with knives, their seductive voices
audible to only a chosen few, those they know will listen.
Why do we punish those who are too scared to live?
Shouldn’t we comfort them instead?
that babykillers are sometimes accidentally christened so,
their only intent: to silence their child’s screaming,
not forever, but just for the moment. Their hand too
heavy for a soft child’s skull to absorb impact from,
or breathe around, due to a runny nose. Perhaps they
shook just a tad too hard in the middle of play,
realizing, too late, that infantile necks are too
underdeveloped to withstand rough play, panicking
when their child went too still in their arms.
The ones who get away with it, how do they live
with the guilt? Do they lay flowers on the
fresh mound of earth in their backyards, that
tiny little grave a constant reminder, or do they
avoid the place, afraid the neighbors will notice
in a way they don’t when lost pets are likewise interred?
How can find answers to friend’s innocent queries,
hastily concocting lies, all the while hearing the phantom cries
of their late child reverberating through their house?
Maybe they have come to believe in their own words.
Did you know, Dante, that not all murder is calculated?
That not all lust is intentional? Perhaps in your day
everything was carefully planned out, but nowadays,
these things can happen so accidentally. It’s not apocalyptic.
Just normal. A prostitute enrages a patron who chokes her,
a little too hard, during routine business. He never stops,
never questions her silence, her too pliable yielding underneath him,
until he’s finished, and she still hasn’t moved or opened her eyes.
Does he deserve to be punished or was this a simple encounter with fate?
Sometimes suicides make sense. The abused teen,
the alcoholic asleep at the wheel, the child discovering electricity
through a fork and outlet. Maybe hatchmarks on forearms
are museum masterpieces in other dimensions. Maybe
toasters are asking to be poked at with knives, their seductive voices
audible to only a chosen few, those they know will listen.
Why do we punish those who are too scared to live?
Shouldn’t we comfort them instead?
Faker
Faker
The eye can only stretch so far.
Your perception of me is nothing new,
nothing these ears haven’t heard before.
Why not dissect me like a frog,
pin me down, unzip my costume
and expose exactly what lies inside:
sharp edges, sarcasm,
lengthy explanations for useless information,
endless wide-eyed expressions
of love or lust, or both.
Behind this beating heart,
can you see the Nothing?
It’s seeping, seeping
into every organ, out of every pore,
fading me to empty.
Don’t worry, everything can be
fixed easily with cosmetic surgery,
I’ll become faker than your child’s
Barbie doll. It seems to be the trend.
The eye can only stretch so far.
Your perception of me is nothing new,
nothing these ears haven’t heard before.
Why not dissect me like a frog,
pin me down, unzip my costume
and expose exactly what lies inside:
sharp edges, sarcasm,
lengthy explanations for useless information,
endless wide-eyed expressions
of love or lust, or both.
Behind this beating heart,
can you see the Nothing?
It’s seeping, seeping
into every organ, out of every pore,
fading me to empty.
Don’t worry, everything can be
fixed easily with cosmetic surgery,
I’ll become faker than your child’s
Barbie doll. It seems to be the trend.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Sestina on Childhood
Sestina on Childhood
She used to wander her small world for hours,
searching for the Holy Grail in her backyard
or the shadows of Roman warriors, once revered.
We tumbled down hills, head over feet,
laughing about detoxification and Catholic guilt,
discussing love we’d never share.
On Halloween, we combined our candy and took our share,
rolling on the floor, sugar high, throughout the hours,
even under our mother’s gazes, rays of guilt.
When it rained, we stayed out in the backyard,
getting soaked to the skin, dirt caking our feet,
dancing like the pop stars we revered.
They seem foolish now, half those things I revered.
You, bringing cookies shaped like dinosaurs to share,
I, crying, when mine broke in pieces at my feet.
We slaved our Easy Bake ovens for hours,
never producing anything worth eating, the backyard
distracted us too much, calling, the smoke masking our guilt.
In church, we learnt that Jesus died for us, the guilt
we felt at causing this made it seem less revered,
like we had to feel bad, or something. Backyard
shenanigans ceased for days, instead we sought to share
plastic rosaries, bent over them like miniature saints, hours
meant nothing. In our heads, we were washing Jesus’ feet.
On her birthday, we captured a lizard. His feet
were foreign stars, poking out from between our fingers, our guilt
at breaking off his tail subsided when we learned, hours
later, that it would grow back. We revered
our new pet, building him houses out of twigs. He’d share
them with the other lizards, we decided. A reptile’s backyard.
We snuck around the wooden fence that bisected my backyard,
forced to tramp through the lake’s edge, our feet
squelching in the mud. We slipped along the bank, our share
of adventure waiting, the only thing on our minds, not guilt
or worry over whether our parents would approve, revered
temples forefront in our thoughts, ancient wonders to fill the hours.
We shared a backyard when we were young, when guilt
Meant little more than apologizing for un-wiped feet, revered
Carpet received its share of dirt, and we grew through the hours.
She used to wander her small world for hours,
searching for the Holy Grail in her backyard
or the shadows of Roman warriors, once revered.
We tumbled down hills, head over feet,
laughing about detoxification and Catholic guilt,
discussing love we’d never share.
On Halloween, we combined our candy and took our share,
rolling on the floor, sugar high, throughout the hours,
even under our mother’s gazes, rays of guilt.
When it rained, we stayed out in the backyard,
getting soaked to the skin, dirt caking our feet,
dancing like the pop stars we revered.
They seem foolish now, half those things I revered.
You, bringing cookies shaped like dinosaurs to share,
I, crying, when mine broke in pieces at my feet.
We slaved our Easy Bake ovens for hours,
never producing anything worth eating, the backyard
distracted us too much, calling, the smoke masking our guilt.
In church, we learnt that Jesus died for us, the guilt
we felt at causing this made it seem less revered,
like we had to feel bad, or something. Backyard
shenanigans ceased for days, instead we sought to share
plastic rosaries, bent over them like miniature saints, hours
meant nothing. In our heads, we were washing Jesus’ feet.
On her birthday, we captured a lizard. His feet
were foreign stars, poking out from between our fingers, our guilt
at breaking off his tail subsided when we learned, hours
later, that it would grow back. We revered
our new pet, building him houses out of twigs. He’d share
them with the other lizards, we decided. A reptile’s backyard.
We snuck around the wooden fence that bisected my backyard,
forced to tramp through the lake’s edge, our feet
squelching in the mud. We slipped along the bank, our share
of adventure waiting, the only thing on our minds, not guilt
or worry over whether our parents would approve, revered
temples forefront in our thoughts, ancient wonders to fill the hours.
We shared a backyard when we were young, when guilt
Meant little more than apologizing for un-wiped feet, revered
Carpet received its share of dirt, and we grew through the hours.
Geometrics
Geometrics
I draw triangles. They
decorate the margins
of my paper. Inside
their complicated structure
lies treasures. The trick is,
connect with them.
Build them like pyramids.
Bury dead children inside them.
Color in the empty ones.
Shed tears. Cry for lost dreams.
Cry for the innocent.
Bury cats in them. Bury dogs.
Imagine butterflies
winging high above them.
I create social structures.
Whole caste systems exists,
unaided, within these triangles.
Imagine thousands of
notepaper pyramids, emerging
from the sound of minds
coloring landscapes,
changing worlds.
I draw triangles. They
decorate the margins
of my paper. Inside
their complicated structure
lies treasures. The trick is,
connect with them.
Build them like pyramids.
Bury dead children inside them.
Color in the empty ones.
Shed tears. Cry for lost dreams.
Cry for the innocent.
Bury cats in them. Bury dogs.
Imagine butterflies
winging high above them.
I create social structures.
Whole caste systems exists,
unaided, within these triangles.
Imagine thousands of
notepaper pyramids, emerging
from the sound of minds
coloring landscapes,
changing worlds.
How to Break a Heart
How to Break a Heart
Misuse it. Abuse it.
Insult it. Revolt it.
Kick it when its down.
Make fun of its taste
in novels, music, and technology.
Call it too old fashioned.
Split your time between it
and another. Lie to it.
Ignore it, or, better yet,
smother it. Talk about it,
behind its back,
to anyone who will listen,
or when it is right beside you.
Make jokes at its expense.
Call it names. Screen its calls.
Steal its innocence, or charm.
Disagree with its worldly view.
Make it cry. Rape it. Cut it.
Pillage. Sweet talk it and then
leave it wanting. Tell it how much you care,
then don’t return its calls,
pretend it doesn’t exist,
make plans with other hearts,
and leave it behind to bleed.
Misuse it. Abuse it.
Insult it. Revolt it.
Kick it when its down.
Make fun of its taste
in novels, music, and technology.
Call it too old fashioned.
Split your time between it
and another. Lie to it.
Ignore it, or, better yet,
smother it. Talk about it,
behind its back,
to anyone who will listen,
or when it is right beside you.
Make jokes at its expense.
Call it names. Screen its calls.
Steal its innocence, or charm.
Disagree with its worldly view.
Make it cry. Rape it. Cut it.
Pillage. Sweet talk it and then
leave it wanting. Tell it how much you care,
then don’t return its calls,
pretend it doesn’t exist,
make plans with other hearts,
and leave it behind to bleed.
Pastel Skeletons
Pastel Skeletons
Define us by what we aren’t.
Let it roll off your tongue,
it’ll roll off our backs
just as easily.
We become ancient shadows,
stalking at the edges
of your melodramatic self-conscious.
Just because the past
holds the top billing
on your weekly shopping list,
you’ll look down your noses at us,
as if we’re some disease.
You cannot cure us.
We’re not some disaster area,
please don’t try to excavate us
into nothing.
Define us by what we aren’t.
Let it roll off your tongue,
it’ll roll off our backs
just as easily.
We become ancient shadows,
stalking at the edges
of your melodramatic self-conscious.
Just because the past
holds the top billing
on your weekly shopping list,
you’ll look down your noses at us,
as if we’re some disease.
You cannot cure us.
We’re not some disaster area,
please don’t try to excavate us
into nothing.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Invertebrate Psychology
Invertebrate Psychology
To analyze earthworm brainwaves,
first attach a lie detector –
one electrode to each segment.
Be careful, these are
slippery creatures, lying
all through their dirt buffets,
slithering out of conversations
where awkward situations arise.
Next, grill the subject,
but not literally!
Oh.
To analyze earthworm brainwaves,
first attach a lie detector –
one electrode to each segment.
Be careful, these are
slippery creatures, lying
all through their dirt buffets,
slithering out of conversations
where awkward situations arise.
Next, grill the subject,
but not literally!
Oh.
Love Means Chihuahuas
Love Means Chihuahuas
I long to press close to you,
until breath melts into friction,
straining the laces
that keep my aching body
from being one with yours.
We will learn to talk through mirrors,
interchange our hearts for crimson,
satin, formal wear.
When we are nothing but
exhausted skeletons,
echoes of lovers that once were,
our fingerprints will stay
carved into your bed frame,
like Egyptian hieroglyphics.
I long to press close to you,
until breath melts into friction,
straining the laces
that keep my aching body
from being one with yours.
We will learn to talk through mirrors,
interchange our hearts for crimson,
satin, formal wear.
When we are nothing but
exhausted skeletons,
echoes of lovers that once were,
our fingerprints will stay
carved into your bed frame,
like Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Moving
Moving
The writers are moving,
ebbing and flowing like the ocean
washing shells and twigs
up onto the beach.
Her eyelids flutter shut
for the last time, last time
they reopened to gaze into his.
Not today. This time
is moving like the writers,
across a sea of well wishers,
across a sea of bliss.
The writers are moving,
ebbing and flowing like the ocean
washing shells and twigs
up onto the beach.
Her eyelids flutter shut
for the last time, last time
they reopened to gaze into his.
Not today. This time
is moving like the writers,
across a sea of well wishers,
across a sea of bliss.
Best Friends
Best Friends
Take down the Christmas tree,
it’s already March. No, wait, I’d rather
bask in its insipid, dead, tinsel glory.
See, the monorail runs twice daily
on the plastic track that circles
the evergreen’s base and Epcot globe,
the one you broke apart
to combat me with
when I chased you with a knife,
around the spacious living room.
Remember back in October
when we danced to Thriller
on this very same carpet?
Now I play Superman
on the island in the kitchen
while you heat up hamburgers
for out late night snack.
Your mother must think we’re insane.
Take down the Christmas tree,
it’s already March. No, wait, I’d rather
bask in its insipid, dead, tinsel glory.
See, the monorail runs twice daily
on the plastic track that circles
the evergreen’s base and Epcot globe,
the one you broke apart
to combat me with
when I chased you with a knife,
around the spacious living room.
Remember back in October
when we danced to Thriller
on this very same carpet?
Now I play Superman
on the island in the kitchen
while you heat up hamburgers
for out late night snack.
Your mother must think we’re insane.
Growing Up
Growing Up
“I hate celery”, you’ve been known to declare.
“No, not hate. Hate is too strong a word.”
I taught you that, you know,
not to hate, not to hit or bite or pull hair.
My words shaped your semi-conscious
just like our hands now shape birds,
horses, fruit, out of modeling clay.
How I long for those days you played dress up,
carting dolls around like your own children
or cleaning house with brooms and dustpans.
Now you answer the phone when I call,
telling me in almost-perfect English
about the Tonka truck you want for Christmas.
“I hate celery”, you’ve been known to declare.
“No, not hate. Hate is too strong a word.”
I taught you that, you know,
not to hate, not to hit or bite or pull hair.
My words shaped your semi-conscious
just like our hands now shape birds,
horses, fruit, out of modeling clay.
How I long for those days you played dress up,
carting dolls around like your own children
or cleaning house with brooms and dustpans.
Now you answer the phone when I call,
telling me in almost-perfect English
about the Tonka truck you want for Christmas.
Rhyming with Lust
Rhyming with Lust
I’m not one for rhymes.
I haven’t got the time, you see.
My minutes are too valuable
to be spent comparing words
to tropical birds, my mind aches
just to think on it. Underwater,
I can abandon reason,
but it isn’t the right season
for swimming in crystal clear lakes.
It’s too cold where I’ve been,
wind keeps you from feeling
anything but the chill,
it will, and everything freezes,
including the breezes.
Fast forward to us holding hands,
bangs in my eyes,
your hands on me under the table
making me unable to move,
unwilling to go, anywhere
but here.
I’m not one for rhymes.
I haven’t got the time, you see.
My minutes are too valuable
to be spent comparing words
to tropical birds, my mind aches
just to think on it. Underwater,
I can abandon reason,
but it isn’t the right season
for swimming in crystal clear lakes.
It’s too cold where I’ve been,
wind keeps you from feeling
anything but the chill,
it will, and everything freezes,
including the breezes.
Fast forward to us holding hands,
bangs in my eyes,
your hands on me under the table
making me unable to move,
unwilling to go, anywhere
but here.
Writing For You
Writing For You
I will try to write you a poem,
plain-spoken, containing
no questions. My lips
will gush like a fountain
until you’re nothing more
than a goldfish in the sea.
You’ll need a morphine drip
to relieve the weight
of all my heaviest emotions.
I believe in happy endings
but we’ve never discussed our own,
not to the point where
happily ever after
comes into play,
an ace in the hole.
I’ll give you a grave,
we’ll fill it with our doubts
and dance until midnight is through.
I will try to write you a poem,
plain-spoken, containing
no questions. My lips
will gush like a fountain
until you’re nothing more
than a goldfish in the sea.
You’ll need a morphine drip
to relieve the weight
of all my heaviest emotions.
I believe in happy endings
but we’ve never discussed our own,
not to the point where
happily ever after
comes into play,
an ace in the hole.
I’ll give you a grave,
we’ll fill it with our doubts
and dance until midnight is through.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Permeating
Permeating
Grooves weave languid stories.
Shutters, unwounded,
wound, divulge, resuscitate.
System shuts down pale expanse,
basking in the scream
of transparent suspicions.
I save ants, seduce
razors pocketing human haul,
emerging to elevate wild salvation,
slicing open staring-wide eyes
leading to unity,
discord, harmony once more.
Grooves weave languid stories.
Shutters, unwounded,
wound, divulge, resuscitate.
System shuts down pale expanse,
basking in the scream
of transparent suspicions.
I save ants, seduce
razors pocketing human haul,
emerging to elevate wild salvation,
slicing open staring-wide eyes
leading to unity,
discord, harmony once more.
Anti-Advice in Rhyme
Anti-Advice in Rhyme
I cut my jeans to the knee,
just like you callously cut me.
I don’t know what I expected,
coming to you looking for advice
and ending up rejected.
Your words were unnecessarily harsh,
leaving scars on myalready wounded heart.
Now I cannot be the same,
I am so doubtful,
with only you to blame.
I feel like we’re two different keys,
miles from each other
on the keyboard,
but when he touches me,
I know you’re wrong.
I cut my jeans to the knee,
just like you callously cut me.
I don’t know what I expected,
coming to you looking for advice
and ending up rejected.
Your words were unnecessarily harsh,
leaving scars on myalready wounded heart.
Now I cannot be the same,
I am so doubtful,
with only you to blame.
I feel like we’re two different keys,
miles from each other
on the keyboard,
but when he touches me,
I know you’re wrong.
Awkward Pieces, Drawn Together
Awkward Pieces, Drawn Together
I haven’t written poetry since I met you.
That should have been a warning, I guess.
When my words stopped flowing,
rising only sluggishly to the surface
or needing to be forcibly fished
from the well of mind, instead.
It’s true the Earth moves when
we come together
(no pun intended)
but awkward, me, around you,
tiptoeing on eggshells,
trying my hardest not to scare you away.
It feels like I’d spill my heart to any one,
these days, all those things I could never say
to you, and you would never push me to.
Maybe I am settling,
maybe you are a dog like all the other men,
but if that’s true,
please let me remain ignorant
for even just a moment more.
I haven’t written poetry since I met you.
That should have been a warning, I guess.
When my words stopped flowing,
rising only sluggishly to the surface
or needing to be forcibly fished
from the well of mind, instead.
It’s true the Earth moves when
we come together
(no pun intended)
but awkward, me, around you,
tiptoeing on eggshells,
trying my hardest not to scare you away.
It feels like I’d spill my heart to any one,
these days, all those things I could never say
to you, and you would never push me to.
Maybe I am settling,
maybe you are a dog like all the other men,
but if that’s true,
please let me remain ignorant
for even just a moment more.
Early Winter
Early Winter
I understand why most suicides happen,
this time of the year.
I take to my bed for long stretches of time,
hibernating like a polar bear,
waking only for food
or the sound of rain bouncing
off the roof outside my open window.
I watch my bangs grow,
through clenched tight eyelids,
or immerse myself in historical fiction,
trading reality for corseted, flirty women,
and grand medieval royal courts.
I’ve chewed the red off my fingernails,
reflecting my mental state over you.
Lightning flashes outside
but I am “safe” underneath fluorescent lights,
watching my life pass me by,
pass me by.
I understand why most suicides happen,
this time of the year.
I take to my bed for long stretches of time,
hibernating like a polar bear,
waking only for food
or the sound of rain bouncing
off the roof outside my open window.
I watch my bangs grow,
through clenched tight eyelids,
or immerse myself in historical fiction,
trading reality for corseted, flirty women,
and grand medieval royal courts.
I’ve chewed the red off my fingernails,
reflecting my mental state over you.
Lightning flashes outside
but I am “safe” underneath fluorescent lights,
watching my life pass me by,
pass me by.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Your Touch
Your Touch
You leave me dizzy,
reeling, almost nauseous,
from first kiss to first touch,
first fuck,
first doubt.
All men are dogs,
but when you’re holding my hand,
surreptitiously,
through our folded arms
on wooden tabletops,
I can’t believe it.
My poor nerves are on edge,
innocence gone,
reeling in the aftermath
of everything the world is saying.
I’m almost afraid to define us,
you, spilling secrets in the garage,
I, shocked and drunk,
wandering from your arms to his
and back.
Why should I strain
when everything around us
seems so hard-pressed
to keep us down?
You leave me dizzy,
reeling, almost nauseous,
from first kiss to first touch,
first fuck,
first doubt.
All men are dogs,
but when you’re holding my hand,
surreptitiously,
through our folded arms
on wooden tabletops,
I can’t believe it.
My poor nerves are on edge,
innocence gone,
reeling in the aftermath
of everything the world is saying.
I’m almost afraid to define us,
you, spilling secrets in the garage,
I, shocked and drunk,
wandering from your arms to his
and back.
Why should I strain
when everything around us
seems so hard-pressed
to keep us down?
Monday, February 18, 2008
How Hollywood Failed
How Hollywood Failed
Nothing stays whole. Everything splinters
into shards, fragments of ‘used to be’,
‘never was’, or ‘might have been’.
We work hard for simplicity.
Once gained, it seems meaningless,
as do our lives. And each part of the world falls off,
or so it seems to the untrained eye,
that disbeliever at Pompeii
claiming no harm, no foul,
even when magma turns his feet to stone.
Are we doomed to repeat history
or is history doomed to repeat us?
What if Columbus, deterred by erroneous minds,
had conceded that he was wrong,
the earth was indeed flat,
allowing himself to be locked away while
his boats turned to moldy remnants, his
sailors disappearing over the edge of the world.
Do lost souls find their way back eventually,
or do they wander alone forever?
I’m not sure of the answer, just like
I’m not sure whether Pluto is aware
of the fact that it is no longer a planet.
Do planets have conscious minds like human beings?
When the time comes, I will gladly jump
from the highest precipice with you,
no questions asked. It will be refreshing
to not exist for once, to n’existe pas with you
where wars are only things we read about in history books
or reenact with toy swords in our backyards.
Where calendar dates dissolve,
like flesh decayed, leaving nothing but bone,
we will ‘not exist’ with fingers crossed and eyes wide shut.
“Fractions fit together never form the whole”,
therefore, whole is but a lie.
Parts long to touch but never align just right.
Every morning, we’ve fewer eyelashes, hair,
fingernails, thoughts. Are we nothing but imperfections?
Entropy seems so vast, yet
it cannot exist without loss of the whole –
which, in its nonexistence,
cancels out the universe.
I was lost once. But no longer.
A verbless noun can still stand on its own.
The girl born four-fingered cannot knit,
she lacks opposable thumbs and therefore
cannot declare a thumb war. I win by default.
We will live like kings when society lies in ruins.
We will fashion houses out of twigs,
and rejoice, even when our hair grows grey,
even if we set our souls afire
just to watch them burn.
And each part of the whole will fall,
like leaves in Autumn,
the sun rays in your eyes.
The world will revolve around your lips
and I will write you love sonnets.
Where there is no ink, I will use blood.
I shall be the new Shakespeare.
Our lives will join together,
like a bruise progressing backwards,
like your sweater unraveling into spools of thread.
What of when we will exist purely in soul?
When the moon ceases to reflect sunlight,
when our parachutes refuse to unfurl so
we plummet.
I’m ill-equipped for skydiving,
less so for rejection.
You hand me my words,
we’ll toast incongruity
like we’re defining wicked.
Ten feet under salt and sea,
yet still I attempt breathing as your fingers unlace
me, I’m a flower in bloom.
We’re no love out of convenience,
even if we are, forgive me, but
I’d rather cling to my vain, tortured semblance of romance.
I’d not give it up for my weight in gold.
I’d rather be useless and beautiful,
like a plastic fruit display in the heart of the Sahara,
then admit my whole existence exists purely in my own imagination.
I will savor our game of pretend,
played out amongst this meaningless war,
this corrupt society which we are forced to inhabit
until our veins cease to function,
hearts slowing their rhythmic pump.
I hope my pale visage is the last thing you ever see.
Nothing stays whole. Everything splinters
into shards, fragments of ‘used to be’,
‘never was’, or ‘might have been’.
We work hard for simplicity.
Once gained, it seems meaningless,
as do our lives. And each part of the world falls off,
or so it seems to the untrained eye,
that disbeliever at Pompeii
claiming no harm, no foul,
even when magma turns his feet to stone.
Are we doomed to repeat history
or is history doomed to repeat us?
What if Columbus, deterred by erroneous minds,
had conceded that he was wrong,
the earth was indeed flat,
allowing himself to be locked away while
his boats turned to moldy remnants, his
sailors disappearing over the edge of the world.
Do lost souls find their way back eventually,
or do they wander alone forever?
I’m not sure of the answer, just like
I’m not sure whether Pluto is aware
of the fact that it is no longer a planet.
Do planets have conscious minds like human beings?
When the time comes, I will gladly jump
from the highest precipice with you,
no questions asked. It will be refreshing
to not exist for once, to n’existe pas with you
where wars are only things we read about in history books
or reenact with toy swords in our backyards.
Where calendar dates dissolve,
like flesh decayed, leaving nothing but bone,
we will ‘not exist’ with fingers crossed and eyes wide shut.
“Fractions fit together never form the whole”,
therefore, whole is but a lie.
Parts long to touch but never align just right.
Every morning, we’ve fewer eyelashes, hair,
fingernails, thoughts. Are we nothing but imperfections?
Entropy seems so vast, yet
it cannot exist without loss of the whole –
which, in its nonexistence,
cancels out the universe.
I was lost once. But no longer.
A verbless noun can still stand on its own.
The girl born four-fingered cannot knit,
she lacks opposable thumbs and therefore
cannot declare a thumb war. I win by default.
We will live like kings when society lies in ruins.
We will fashion houses out of twigs,
and rejoice, even when our hair grows grey,
even if we set our souls afire
just to watch them burn.
And each part of the whole will fall,
like leaves in Autumn,
the sun rays in your eyes.
The world will revolve around your lips
and I will write you love sonnets.
Where there is no ink, I will use blood.
I shall be the new Shakespeare.
Our lives will join together,
like a bruise progressing backwards,
like your sweater unraveling into spools of thread.
What of when we will exist purely in soul?
When the moon ceases to reflect sunlight,
when our parachutes refuse to unfurl so
we plummet.
I’m ill-equipped for skydiving,
less so for rejection.
You hand me my words,
we’ll toast incongruity
like we’re defining wicked.
Ten feet under salt and sea,
yet still I attempt breathing as your fingers unlace
me, I’m a flower in bloom.
We’re no love out of convenience,
even if we are, forgive me, but
I’d rather cling to my vain, tortured semblance of romance.
I’d not give it up for my weight in gold.
I’d rather be useless and beautiful,
like a plastic fruit display in the heart of the Sahara,
then admit my whole existence exists purely in my own imagination.
I will savor our game of pretend,
played out amongst this meaningless war,
this corrupt society which we are forced to inhabit
until our veins cease to function,
hearts slowing their rhythmic pump.
I hope my pale visage is the last thing you ever see.
The Sun, A Cyclops
The Sun, A Cyclops
Six AM is not too early for
rabid laughter. Shadowy forms
merge on the doorstep,
we strip off our fishnets in the kitchen
over bowls of plastic lemons.
Later, we’ll crowd, shoulder to shoulder,
into this very room, rehearsing steps,
but for now we spin on candy apple stools,
knees cracking together in the cold.
Night fades into sunrise, striking
my tight-shut eyelids as I attempt to hide
inside faux fur and leather.
Her voice rouses us from sleep every time,
knives to our eardrums,
until we issue an ultimatum
that finally evicts them from our slumber.
Six AM is not too early for
rabid laughter. Shadowy forms
merge on the doorstep,
we strip off our fishnets in the kitchen
over bowls of plastic lemons.
Later, we’ll crowd, shoulder to shoulder,
into this very room, rehearsing steps,
but for now we spin on candy apple stools,
knees cracking together in the cold.
Night fades into sunrise, striking
my tight-shut eyelids as I attempt to hide
inside faux fur and leather.
Her voice rouses us from sleep every time,
knives to our eardrums,
until we issue an ultimatum
that finally evicts them from our slumber.
Carbon Copy
Carbon Copy
Something snaps,
sinking lovers back into reality,
every sigh another city show.
In the urban darkness,
photos become mirrors,
gilt edges shining for no one.
Discarded valentines overflow
from every crevice in the skyline,
she doesn’t understand holidays or herself.
The rabbit jumps back into the hat,
the garish light invades the void
and on every street corner,
couples quarrel into bed.
Something snaps,
sinking lovers back into reality,
every sigh another city show.
In the urban darkness,
photos become mirrors,
gilt edges shining for no one.
Discarded valentines overflow
from every crevice in the skyline,
she doesn’t understand holidays or herself.
The rabbit jumps back into the hat,
the garish light invades the void
and on every street corner,
couples quarrel into bed.
Mistaking Tornadoes for Tomatoes
Mistaking Tornadoes for Tomatoes
Exchange languished sighs for
fumbling hands, pale as doves
just released from the dovecote,
feathers of silk.
She’s so young, tread carefully.
No longer do we enforce the wear
of red A’s on maidenly breasts,
but eyes can still wound
just as much as verbal accusations.
So she falls prey to the sharks,
naive but not quite innocent,
eyes wide and mind empty.
You had such promise,
but it all breaks into shards
within your hands.
Exchange languished sighs for
fumbling hands, pale as doves
just released from the dovecote,
feathers of silk.
She’s so young, tread carefully.
No longer do we enforce the wear
of red A’s on maidenly breasts,
but eyes can still wound
just as much as verbal accusations.
So she falls prey to the sharks,
naive but not quite innocent,
eyes wide and mind empty.
You had such promise,
but it all breaks into shards
within your hands.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Only You
Only You
I’m too far gone to breathe you in,
hands too weak to untie this noose.
With broken jaws and blistered lips
we bleed through the teeth,
eyes locked on the cracks in the sidewalk.
We wrote each other’s epitaphs,
rotten words form rotting corpses,
shin bones prematurely decayed
into dust.
The pecan tree I planted
above your still-warm flesh,
produces fruit that only tastes of you.
I’m too far gone to breathe you in,
hands too weak to untie this noose.
With broken jaws and blistered lips
we bleed through the teeth,
eyes locked on the cracks in the sidewalk.
We wrote each other’s epitaphs,
rotten words form rotting corpses,
shin bones prematurely decayed
into dust.
The pecan tree I planted
above your still-warm flesh,
produces fruit that only tastes of you.
Bruised
Bruised
A finger pressed hard
against a bruise as fresh
as yesterday’s bread,
lips form an O,
eyes reeling fast
find ceiling cracks.
Concentrate on anything else.
Not on teeth, not on hips
or the trailing of lips across
that shadowy place
above your eyelid’s crease.
Even eyelashes can stretch
upwards, to meet moving flesh,
towards reawakened desire.
Pulse beats faster, faster,
no knowing if this moment is the last
or if every second fades
into another shade of gray,
another broken vow, toes curling,
fingers scrabbling.
Hands find mountain ranges,
peaks and valleys as strange as
entirely new worlds hidden
among scraps of deceptive clothing.
The clock ticks from the wall,
reminders that this will all
fall apart, eventually,
when it strikes twelve.
A finger pressed hard
against a bruise as fresh
as yesterday’s bread,
lips form an O,
eyes reeling fast
find ceiling cracks.
Concentrate on anything else.
Not on teeth, not on hips
or the trailing of lips across
that shadowy place
above your eyelid’s crease.
Even eyelashes can stretch
upwards, to meet moving flesh,
towards reawakened desire.
Pulse beats faster, faster,
no knowing if this moment is the last
or if every second fades
into another shade of gray,
another broken vow, toes curling,
fingers scrabbling.
Hands find mountain ranges,
peaks and valleys as strange as
entirely new worlds hidden
among scraps of deceptive clothing.
The clock ticks from the wall,
reminders that this will all
fall apart, eventually,
when it strikes twelve.
Crash
Crash
Dashboard meets
shin bone, patella
smashed hard
into glove compartment handle,
thigh cracks
under pressure.
Pelvis clings to leather,
joints snapping back
into place,
ribs find resistance
causing whiplash,
neck straining
to retain
normalcy.
Eyes wide,
mouth opens in
silent scream.
Windshield shatters,
metal buckling,
spinning,
straight into
darkness.
Dashboard meets
shin bone, patella
smashed hard
into glove compartment handle,
thigh cracks
under pressure.
Pelvis clings to leather,
joints snapping back
into place,
ribs find resistance
causing whiplash,
neck straining
to retain
normalcy.
Eyes wide,
mouth opens in
silent scream.
Windshield shatters,
metal buckling,
spinning,
straight into
darkness.
Gravitron
Gravitron
The floor drops out,
disappears,
like Josh’s dad on Sunday nights,
like the football we left in the street
that one day when the pool’s
seductive, chlorinated waters beckoned.
Anything you drop gets sucked out
into another dimension,
so if you lose a shoe,
that’s it, it’s gone forever.
You have to hold onto the bar
really tight,
or you’ll go flying out into space, too.
“It’s true! I saw it happen, I swear!”
That isn’t funny, let’s
throw rocks at the lamppost
instead of going, okay?
The floor drops out,
disappears,
like Josh’s dad on Sunday nights,
like the football we left in the street
that one day when the pool’s
seductive, chlorinated waters beckoned.
Anything you drop gets sucked out
into another dimension,
so if you lose a shoe,
that’s it, it’s gone forever.
You have to hold onto the bar
really tight,
or you’ll go flying out into space, too.
“It’s true! I saw it happen, I swear!”
That isn’t funny, let’s
throw rocks at the lamppost
instead of going, okay?
Gangrene
Gangrene
A human being spends,
on average,
up to two whole weeks of their life
kissing other human beings.
You were only eighteen
when you died.
Where did your number fall?
Flames leave marks on flesh
like lips, like teeth do,
metal bites down harder
but we’re all left scarred.
I saw the car that held you
crushed,
like a soda can,
its embrace too forceful –
people perish this way daily.
No one dies from kissing.
A human being spends,
on average,
up to two whole weeks of their life
kissing other human beings.
You were only eighteen
when you died.
Where did your number fall?
Flames leave marks on flesh
like lips, like teeth do,
metal bites down harder
but we’re all left scarred.
I saw the car that held you
crushed,
like a soda can,
its embrace too forceful –
people perish this way daily.
No one dies from kissing.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
I Could Live in Bathe
I Could Live in Bathe
Nothing stays whole. Everything splinters
into shards, fragments of ‘used to be’,
‘never was’, or ‘might have been’.
We work hard for simplicity.
Once gained, it seems meaningless,
as do our lives,
and each part of the world falls off,
or, so it seems to the untrained eye,
the disbeliever at Pompeii
who claims no harm, no foul,
even when magma turns his feet to stone,
or the unseeing, all-knowing
scholar of the ancient world who follows Copernicus,
proclaiming ‘oh yes, the sun revolves around the earth,
of course!’ and ‘That Galileo is a madman!’
Will we always be led by incompetent blunderers
happy to parrot the ideas of others
while letting their brains turn to ash?
What if Columbus, deterred by erroneous minds,
had conceded that he was wrong,
the earth was indeed flat,
allowing himself to be locked away while
his boats turned to moldy remnants, his
sailors disappearing over the edge of the world?
Can we be so easily mistaken for sheep,
or swine, or cattle even?
Do our feelings mean so little to our tiny brains that we
block them out, block ourselves out
of our enriched fantasy lives?
Can emotion run a country?
Can a smile really ruin your day?
Do lost souls find their way back eventually?
Or do they wander alone forever?
I’m not sure of that, just like
I’m not sure whether Pluto is aware
of the fact that it is no longer a planet.
Do planets have conscious minds like human beings?
Could we just communicate with them across space and time
and deep expanses of space?
No, we haven’t the technology.
Perhaps we never will.
We’re too busy debating about aborted fetuses,
various social anxieties and abnormalities,
when what we need to focus on
slips silently into oblivion.
Produce for the starving,
movement of tanks in far-off deserts,
are these all just far-flung hopes we’ll never see through?
When the time comes, I will gladly jump
from the highest precipice with you,
no questions asked. It will be great
to not exist for once, to n’existe pas with you
where wars are only things we read about in history books
or reenact with toy swords in our backyards.
Where calendar dates dissolve,
like plump hands now turned to bone,
we will not exist with fingers crossed and eyes wide shut.
“Fractions fit together never form the whole”,
therefore, whole is but a lie.
Parts long to touch but never align just right.
Every morning, we’ve less eyelashes, hair,
fingernails, thoughts. Are we nothing but imperfections?
Entropy seems so vast, yet
it cannot exist without loss of the whole –
which, in its nonexistence,
cancels out the universe.
I was lost once. But no longer.
A verbless noun still stands on its own.
The girl born four-fingered cannot knit,
she lacks opposable thumbs and therefore
cannot declare a thumb war.
I win by default.
We will live like kings when society lies in ruins.
We will fashion houses out of twigs,
and rejoice, even when our hair grows grey,
even if we set our souls afire
just to watch them burn.
And each part of the whole will fall,
like leaves in Autumn,
the sun rays in your eyes.
The world will revolve around your lips
and I will write you love sonnets.
Where there is no ink, I will use blood.
I shall be the new Shakespeare.
Our lives will join together,
like a bruise progressing backwards,
like your sweater unraveling into spools of thread.
What of when we will exist purely in soul?
When the moon ceases to reflect sunlight,
when our parachutes refuse to unfurl so
we plummet.
I’m ill-equipped for skydiving,
less so for rejection.
You hand me my words,
we’ll toast incongruity
like we’re defining wicked
(Shaken Baby Syndrome).
Ten feet under salt and sea,
yet still I attempt breathing as your fingers unlace
me, I’m a flower in bloom.
We’re no love out of convenience,
even if we are, forgive me, but
I’d rather cling to my vain, tortured semblance of romance.
I’d not give it up for my weight in gold.
I’d rather be useless and beautiful,
like a plastic fruit display in the heart of the Sahara,
then admit my whole existence exists purely in my own imagination.
I will savor our game of pretend,
played out amongst this meaningless war,
this corrupt society which we are forced to inhabit
until our veins cease to function,
heart’s slowing their rhythmic pump.
I hope my pale visage is the last thing you ever see.
Nothing stays whole. Everything splinters
into shards, fragments of ‘used to be’,
‘never was’, or ‘might have been’.
We work hard for simplicity.
Once gained, it seems meaningless,
as do our lives,
and each part of the world falls off,
or, so it seems to the untrained eye,
the disbeliever at Pompeii
who claims no harm, no foul,
even when magma turns his feet to stone,
or the unseeing, all-knowing
scholar of the ancient world who follows Copernicus,
proclaiming ‘oh yes, the sun revolves around the earth,
of course!’ and ‘That Galileo is a madman!’
Will we always be led by incompetent blunderers
happy to parrot the ideas of others
while letting their brains turn to ash?
What if Columbus, deterred by erroneous minds,
had conceded that he was wrong,
the earth was indeed flat,
allowing himself to be locked away while
his boats turned to moldy remnants, his
sailors disappearing over the edge of the world?
Can we be so easily mistaken for sheep,
or swine, or cattle even?
Do our feelings mean so little to our tiny brains that we
block them out, block ourselves out
of our enriched fantasy lives?
Can emotion run a country?
Can a smile really ruin your day?
Do lost souls find their way back eventually?
Or do they wander alone forever?
I’m not sure of that, just like
I’m not sure whether Pluto is aware
of the fact that it is no longer a planet.
Do planets have conscious minds like human beings?
Could we just communicate with them across space and time
and deep expanses of space?
No, we haven’t the technology.
Perhaps we never will.
We’re too busy debating about aborted fetuses,
various social anxieties and abnormalities,
when what we need to focus on
slips silently into oblivion.
Produce for the starving,
movement of tanks in far-off deserts,
are these all just far-flung hopes we’ll never see through?
When the time comes, I will gladly jump
from the highest precipice with you,
no questions asked. It will be great
to not exist for once, to n’existe pas with you
where wars are only things we read about in history books
or reenact with toy swords in our backyards.
Where calendar dates dissolve,
like plump hands now turned to bone,
we will not exist with fingers crossed and eyes wide shut.
“Fractions fit together never form the whole”,
therefore, whole is but a lie.
Parts long to touch but never align just right.
Every morning, we’ve less eyelashes, hair,
fingernails, thoughts. Are we nothing but imperfections?
Entropy seems so vast, yet
it cannot exist without loss of the whole –
which, in its nonexistence,
cancels out the universe.
I was lost once. But no longer.
A verbless noun still stands on its own.
The girl born four-fingered cannot knit,
she lacks opposable thumbs and therefore
cannot declare a thumb war.
I win by default.
We will live like kings when society lies in ruins.
We will fashion houses out of twigs,
and rejoice, even when our hair grows grey,
even if we set our souls afire
just to watch them burn.
And each part of the whole will fall,
like leaves in Autumn,
the sun rays in your eyes.
The world will revolve around your lips
and I will write you love sonnets.
Where there is no ink, I will use blood.
I shall be the new Shakespeare.
Our lives will join together,
like a bruise progressing backwards,
like your sweater unraveling into spools of thread.
What of when we will exist purely in soul?
When the moon ceases to reflect sunlight,
when our parachutes refuse to unfurl so
we plummet.
I’m ill-equipped for skydiving,
less so for rejection.
You hand me my words,
we’ll toast incongruity
like we’re defining wicked
(Shaken Baby Syndrome).
Ten feet under salt and sea,
yet still I attempt breathing as your fingers unlace
me, I’m a flower in bloom.
We’re no love out of convenience,
even if we are, forgive me, but
I’d rather cling to my vain, tortured semblance of romance.
I’d not give it up for my weight in gold.
I’d rather be useless and beautiful,
like a plastic fruit display in the heart of the Sahara,
then admit my whole existence exists purely in my own imagination.
I will savor our game of pretend,
played out amongst this meaningless war,
this corrupt society which we are forced to inhabit
until our veins cease to function,
heart’s slowing their rhythmic pump.
I hope my pale visage is the last thing you ever see.
Just Because
Just Because
Because life has no backspace option,
no eraser large enough
to rub you out,
I’m left to shred Polaroids
into my red metal wastebasket.
The walls, stripped bare
of frozen moments
seem to echo my thoughts,
so empty,
you could hear a pin drop.
Because you tire of this,
so quickly, your eyes black
as you delivered a speech
devoid of emotion –
“I don’t think we mesh well”
and “Let’s just be friends” –
because this existed,
I rip myself into pieces
to hand out like party favors.
Because life has no backspace option,
no eraser large enough
to rub you out,
I’m left to shred Polaroids
into my red metal wastebasket.
The walls, stripped bare
of frozen moments
seem to echo my thoughts,
so empty,
you could hear a pin drop.
Because you tire of this,
so quickly, your eyes black
as you delivered a speech
devoid of emotion –
“I don’t think we mesh well”
and “Let’s just be friends” –
because this existed,
I rip myself into pieces
to hand out like party favors.
Carousel
Carousel
Child’s eye sees everything
gigantic, never-ending.
Maybe it’s because we are so small
that even playground structures
seem skyscrapers in the sand.
I remember spinning around the Disney carousel,
horse the size of an elephant
ebbing and flowing underneath me,
Cinderella castle rising, magnificent and huge
in the background.
My vision blurred, I clung to reins,
the only tie retaining me on this earth.
It was, in a word, terrifying.
Child’s eye sees everything
gigantic, never-ending.
Maybe it’s because we are so small
that even playground structures
seem skyscrapers in the sand.
I remember spinning around the Disney carousel,
horse the size of an elephant
ebbing and flowing underneath me,
Cinderella castle rising, magnificent and huge
in the background.
My vision blurred, I clung to reins,
the only tie retaining me on this earth.
It was, in a word, terrifying.
Dear B –
Dear B –
I will follow your rules
to a point, but then –
I will wait no longer.
I’m afraid my patience wears thin
very, very quickly, my dear.
Your hands are warm, in mine,
or on the small of my back,
but we’re afraid of each other’s reactions,
aren’t we now?
This fear turns my moments to awkward embraces.
Maybe we’re both just sending mixed signals,
confusing this maybe relationship to
almost beyond repair,
you stringing me along
like a yoyo on a broken string,
me repeating the same words
“but I can’t, I can’t”.
I will follow your rules
to a point, but then –
I will wait no longer.
I’m afraid my patience wears thin
very, very quickly, my dear.
Your hands are warm, in mine,
or on the small of my back,
but we’re afraid of each other’s reactions,
aren’t we now?
This fear turns my moments to awkward embraces.
Maybe we’re both just sending mixed signals,
confusing this maybe relationship to
almost beyond repair,
you stringing me along
like a yoyo on a broken string,
me repeating the same words
“but I can’t, I can’t”.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Heavy Metal: Goes with Silk
Heavy Metal: Goes with Silk
Your lips, my neck.
My entire existence wraps around you.
Can passion solve all the world’s troubles
or does it just cause them?
What did our ancestors know of love like this?
Their pretense, devoid of lust, sweet carnal desire.
Corseted, full-skirted women,
Gentlemanly handshakes, stern-faced chaperones.
Could they ever have imagined love like this?
Fevered, inspired, driven
almost to the point of madness,
to that point of sweet, spinning starlight,
the creation of universes,
the unbroken silence in the aftermath of our union.
Your lips, my neck.
You whisper words of devotion
and I am devoid of all conflict,
still and silent in your eyes.
You are the pull of the ocean,
making me content just to lie here
and let you crash over me all night.
Your lips, my neck.
My entire existence wraps around you.
Can passion solve all the world’s troubles
or does it just cause them?
What did our ancestors know of love like this?
Their pretense, devoid of lust, sweet carnal desire.
Corseted, full-skirted women,
Gentlemanly handshakes, stern-faced chaperones.
Could they ever have imagined love like this?
Fevered, inspired, driven
almost to the point of madness,
to that point of sweet, spinning starlight,
the creation of universes,
the unbroken silence in the aftermath of our union.
Your lips, my neck.
You whisper words of devotion
and I am devoid of all conflict,
still and silent in your eyes.
You are the pull of the ocean,
making me content just to lie here
and let you crash over me all night.
No Details About Risk
No Details About Risk
Are you the unspoken link between Heaven and Hell?
Clasped hands, cold sweat,
you’re clinging to shreds of what was.
It is no longer, maybe it never has been.
Maybe it’s some half-cocked fantasy
dredged up from the wells of your fevered imagination.
I think I am, too.
Don’t you see how translucent we are?
Like panes of glass in an armored car
shattered by the sniper’s blow,
we’ll fall to pieces any moment
leaving blood on the stairs
for the police to find.
Shin bone, jaw bone,
jagged fracture here, due to high pressure,
no sign of a bullet wound,
or a struggle.
Are you the unspoken link between Heaven and Hell?
Clasped hands, cold sweat,
you’re clinging to shreds of what was.
It is no longer, maybe it never has been.
Maybe it’s some half-cocked fantasy
dredged up from the wells of your fevered imagination.
I think I am, too.
Don’t you see how translucent we are?
Like panes of glass in an armored car
shattered by the sniper’s blow,
we’ll fall to pieces any moment
leaving blood on the stairs
for the police to find.
Shin bone, jaw bone,
jagged fracture here, due to high pressure,
no sign of a bullet wound,
or a struggle.
The Fourth Wall is Broken
The Fourth Wall is Broken
Let the blood seep.
It is only necessary to live,
why worry needlessly?
She is not afraid, so neither should you be.
The floodgate machinery is operational,
to say the least.
It won’t break down again, they say.
Although, we hired that Disney engineer
and God knows,
if we get stuck on “It’s a Small World” one more time,
I won’t hesitate to kill him off.
I’d rather tears.
Let the blood seep.
It is only necessary to live,
why worry needlessly?
She is not afraid, so neither should you be.
The floodgate machinery is operational,
to say the least.
It won’t break down again, they say.
Although, we hired that Disney engineer
and God knows,
if we get stuck on “It’s a Small World” one more time,
I won’t hesitate to kill him off.
I’d rather tears.
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