Break

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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”.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.