Word Collage

Fraction of a Thought

2011-11-13T23:20:00.000-05:00

When a feeling

Erupts without invitation,

And comes without

Thorough disclosure,

I am often

Left starved

By curiosity.

Coming upon

A portion of a thought

Such as this

Brings about

An involuntary reflex

As if

I had just

Touched

The cold of a popsicle stick

To my tongue.

My body pulls away from the thought,

But my mind

My mind,

It protests

And makes me face

Uncertainty and Discomfort

Eternally.

Female Form

2011-11-13T23:17:00.000-05:00

Whereas reason slips

down the strait of man’s waist,

on a woman

it comes to rest

in protrusions of soft anxiety.

Boundless intuition

saddles the curves

of the female body.

The curvature of hips and chest

are best used for sound logic;

they’re handles

of order in the world

and guards

to the central organ

of the Earth.

Men think without this roundness.

Their thoughts too often catch on the bone

of individual desire.

Women have no such hardness.

From slender sloping necks

to the roundness in heels and toes

ideas slide

without snagging.

Women are impregnated

with foresight.

It pulses through the body

keeping a woman’s past

streaming not far behind her in billowing locks.

She bears a constant reminder

that the future grows

from her mind.

Do

2011-10-05T14:34:00.001-04:00

Hang scripture from your mind.

Hear

the Said

the Taught

the Written

Believe

Your words

Hang up forethought and wander.

The Smell of Smoke in Late Summer

2011-09-09T11:32:00.001-04:00

Somewhere,

the where of some forest

into which

I have yet

to enter,

trees slowly burn

to charcoal.

Black

smudges the interior

of clouds.

The results of which

are peaks of stormy gray.

I am distant from these mountains,

but my lungs-

accustomed to air

heavy only with humidity-

strain.

The haze over the sun

builds thick

like bricks;

no one has shelter.

It’s later now,

and from the Southerly winds,

the smell of pine and dogwood

cloak the night.

It’s cloudless

and starless-

a phenomenon

not at all

an indicator of rain boots and umbrellas.

Tomorrow,

flurries of flip-flops

will flick up

a trillion descendants

of one instantaneous spark.

Loud children

will disrupt

the ashen coating,

but so too

shall gravity

dismantle their medieval castles

and uncanvased sketches

that decorate

the sidewalk.

Cumbersome,

each party is

to the other.

Fascination and amusement

trail alongside

all disaster.

Metropolis

2011-09-09T11:30:00.002-04:00

What are these roots

which stretch metallically

beneath the concrete ground

sucking up

as much as is

eventually

forced down?

The bumps that

uneven the ground

beneath the step

of Man

are the triumphs

and the failures

of underground desires

springing forth to bear fruit.

Fruit of which

does not grow

to be pesticized

and picked by man

for his consumption.

Rather,

They are beings

that only wish to be looked upon

for inspiration

which try so earnestly

to grow upwards

through the pavement.

At the Vantage Point Between Here and There

2011-09-09T11:05:00.002-04:00

Doubt expresses himself
in my ankles,
they wobble and waver
underneath my weight,
but I his worry
roll away
through the balls
of my feet.

clunk clunk clunk
clackity clack clack clack
I've never had
a light step.
Each time I start out,
my destinations
foretells
my arrival.

My heels,
striking first,
lead my arms
in their swing.
This rythmn turn clumsy,
but still I go
along
the wind
of this path.

Direction
Speed
Mentality
Purpose lies
in between
my desires.

Embroidery Thread

2011-08-27T22:41:00.005-04:00

Though the rest of her body
moves in time with the flow of molasses,
Fran's fingers still strike quickly
with a needle and thick colored thread
through tautly pulled fabric.
Her skin is loose
compared to the cloth
through which
her needle pokes,
but her veins run through her body
just as the thread stretches
through the embellished
pillow cases, handkerchiefs, and tablecloths
that lay finished at her side.

When the light stops peering through
the double pained windows and the curtain lace
it is time that Fran
settles her fingers
for the evening.
Tenderly,
she begins to fold her wares
into perfect square parcels,
never to be unfolded or adored
until a customer examines it
herself.

Through table displays of wicker baskets-
formed by Frannie's deceased husband-
customers will rifle
for the song bird
whose presence will make their dinner parties
sing when served alongside these napkins.
Each discarded possibility
Fran folds
slowly and automatically
into a square piece of fabric
that displays
a corner of design
unabashed.

Once every article is ordered
into its rightful place,
Fran will retire
to her rough wooden chair
in the corner of her kitchen.
It is dark there,
having but one dim light bulb
nakedly protruding
from its socket,
but her eyes are tired
and accustomed to this soft atmosphere.
Pouring a can of soup
into a blue and white chipped bowl
and heating it in the microwave
is a daily ritual which
she could just as likely perform
in darkness.
The light rests her eyes and body.
It is not until
the steam stops rising
and the soup is once again cool
that Fran can,
with her now trembling hand,
pick up her spoon to eat.

Had the spoon been polished,
or even properly washed,
it's concave end
would reflect a healthy spoonful of a woman.
Instead,
the spoon is scratched beyond knowing
and only rinsed between uses.
The real reflection-
no matter the light-
is haunting.

She wears shoes
whose soles died ten year's prior-
about the same time
as the death of her husband.
Her socks,
woolen even in summer,
have holes through the toes and heels.
One day, there will be nothing,
but their dank aroma
for proof of their wear.
A wrinkled ankle-length
flowered skirt-
the pattern much like that of curtains-
pairs its dishevelment
with a pearl gray buttoned blouse-
white in another era.
Atop her head,
Fran's brush bristle hair
sits fitfully.
The gray mass
falls out of her bun,
but her hands do not bother
to rearrange the threads.

Grandfather

2011-08-27T22:39:00.001-04:00

Arms,
stoic and solid,
lead to the golden brown
of hands
clenched tightly into fists.
The crooks of the elbows
and curves in the hands
are worn lighter
looking much like patches
of wooden yellow sun-spots.
The grooves along
this frame,
crooked with wise weights,
are permanently tattooed by shadows.
Time hasn't seeped
through the entire surface yet,
but it has reached
the core of this body.

Bronze tacks
are the sinew
that hold red velvet fabric
to a scratched but proud
wooden skeleton.
The metal is gray with age.
A swipe of furniture polish-
lemon scented for this purpose-
reveals an instant
of mirrors
which fades all too soon.
Such acts of deception
are common.
Watch as spots of white
worn into the velvet
blush red with a brush of the hand.
Feel the cushion's plush exterior
deplete upon your insistence.
Underneath,
bare bones introduce
their bare and brittle presence.

After seventy years of sitting,
there is little comfort left.
Let this body rest
in state,
until those who buried him-
through the fragility of memory-
forget their times spent looking up from the lap
of their father's sand-paper face
and grandfather's rosin-lit eyes.

Vines for Veins

2011-08-22T21:41:00.003-04:00

My roots reach into the soil
and my blades tip toward the sky.
I am entangled
in my footsteps
and mixed in
with the underbrush.

I have foot holds
in these
granules of earth,
but I am not kept
from exploring.

Part of me
erodes with each storm,
free to follow
new desires.
Some of yours
washed onto me
taking the place
of rain's etchings.

I am changed
by more
than earth's rotations.
Thoughts of mine
rethink themselves-
sometimes with the shoots of others
giving reassurance
within their shade.

There is no limit to growth
when the sky
appears so infinite,
but my perception
is miscalculated.
Expansion pushes up
against the walls
of other gardens.
I don't always succeed,
but I am
as persistent as grass

creeping up the cracks

in a gray sidewalk.

The Companionship of Seclusion

2011-08-21T00:06:00.003-04:00

Her almost black bangs
catch on the tips
of her even darker
eyelashes.
The rest of her hair
runs straight
into gravity's
seductive clutch.
In this merciless chamber
also swims her sharp perfume
-lavender, I think,
but I don't know
fields of flowers
as well as I know her.

I meet her dark gray eyes
for instants
that impress upon me
for all eternity.
Her eyes hold mine
and direct my gaze
through the dirty
double pained windows
of my dimly lit attic.
What she sees
in the world
I am ever-asking.
Wordless replies
breathe cold air
down my neck
and raise goosebumps
along my spine.

She does not feel cold
though her skin
is perpetually
that temperature
to my touch.
How she stands it,
I know not.
Her hush
crazes me
and I must leave her
to be alone.

It is hard to think
in the presence
of her paper white skin.
I feel haunted
by a living ghost-
one that lingers
without revealing
its mission.

Unlike a ghost,
however,
Solitude has no past.
I am her present,
and already
I can guess her future.
This window seat
and backyard swing
are her homes.
She moves into
these barren places
where sometimes I reminisce
until I can't bear
the lonely air
any longer.
Together or apart,
we don't stay long
as either.

Rusty Town

2011-08-09T21:36:00.000-04:00

Threadbare voices
crowd the air.
Some notes ricochet
like an un-tuned violin
others like wheat rustling.

I count their syllables
out of habit
and they their coins
out of need.

A penny per ounce
has long since passed-
I'm lucky to get
a penny per page.

Suck down the last bits
of salt and pepper joy.

The horizon ails
sucking life
from this dilapidated town.
I see no precipice for elation
rolling into view.

Bending down
with backs of rod
and soggy plaster,
the workers bow
in prayer:
God lift me,
but the plaster dries.

Soon,
the only way free
is broken.
Salvation comes from a preachers lips
whose battered bible
is self-inscribed.

Let his words
hang themselves in the air.

Dangle your own thoughts,
drop them through the air,
break them open with mortar and pestle,
and mix them
in the meal of others.

Eat redemption.

The Position of the Dreamer

2011-07-07T23:02:00.000-04:00

Dreams must have some
magnetic correlation
with the Earth's axial symmetry.
With my spine parallel
to lines of latitude
I have long dreams
so detailed
that they trick me upon awaking.
I feel as if my eyes never really closed
and that all those in my dreams
live them as if they were day.
It's odd to believe in this realism,
but often times I do.
I begin asking people
about their past midnight fraternity,
only to stop myself
realizing: twas only just a dream.

Perpendicular to other nights,
I dream in indulgent fantasies.
These wonders
run straight across
my resting field of vision,
and I wake up
longing to chase them-
almost never do I get my way.
It is my hope,
upon the shrugging off of these dreams,
that nobody else
dreams the same.
In my attempt
to let these savory scenes slip away,
I become obsessed
and soon believe in anything.

Anytime that my head
rests at an odd angle to the rest of the Earth
and my feet dangle off my bed,
I can be assured a nightmare.
I am neither locked into position
to receive a comfortable chimera
nor am I set up to tease myself.
It is on these nights
when my pillow
becomes my life preserver
and sleep a bottomless black ocean.

Blind Reconnaissance

2011-07-01T22:49:00.000-04:00

Without sunlight as a guide,
time passes in texture.
The wrinkles
in his watch grow deeper,
and the man knows more
by them.

Reflections pass by
as heat radiation;
in this way
he knows people passing.

Through his liver spotted ears
time still echoes,
but it comes with delay.
Sounds take time
to shape into beings.

With cracked lips
and a white dry tongue
the man speaks a name.
He knows whom to call by scent,
and the particular gait
of footsteps.

He is precise.
The opacity blocking his sight
is the very blueprint for his world.
A map gridded in by sound and smell,
and filled in by touch and taste,
guides his way.

Stagnant

2011-06-30T19:01:00.002-04:00

Bitter water,
so easily disturbed
by the slightest trickle
of wind
rolling
from the cool front
of late summer,
sits calmly.

The last
of the mosquito eggs
have hatched-
leaving behind,
in the small pond,
a foam of transparent casing.
This decays,
shells of origin,
descend
into the murky sediment
of aged water.

Sour refreshment
to the passing inhabitants
of the abundantly sweet forest.
The last of the
summer berries
fall from their bushes
and fragrance the pond.

Change
comes to this still
encampment.
Spring wishes
and summer crushes
evaporate
in the rays of the August sun,
but still
stays the water.
It has no where to rush,
and no mind
for worry to hurry
over its
perpendicular
and cockeyed existence.

Tired Body

2011-06-25T19:10:00.000-04:00

It's that point
in my day
when my body
takes a deep drink
from drowsiness,
and my mind
counters
with the subdued introduction
of it's own
self-prescribed
draft
of caffeine.

Caught in
this deliberate torment,
my body
splits itself
into two different bodies.

Muscles
don't tear
in neat lines.
Bones splinter
and ligaments stretch
until everything
snaps and frays.
Contemplations
commence to be contempt
with one another.

Which body am I?

Do I claim
either
of these two ruins,
or shall I take
these last
remaining grains
of wood
and build a new home
in the vacant lot
of some
far gone
soul?

Natural Hunger

2011-06-20T18:40:00.004-04:00

Even to a beholder's
eye,
the sensationalized
sticky serum
of desire
and the
slippery
wax coating
on lust
aren't visible.
The blind
do not
have less
yearnings
to be
completely
saturated
by
mutual accompaniment.

To know
even the slightest
morsel
of love
is to abandon
the salivating
sounds
of another's
voice.
Tender is
quiet.
Even those,
who cannot hear,
find themselves
acknowledging
the sizzle and pop
of their hearts
as they cook
over a warm
reception.

Fires blaze,
but the heat
of these
burning bodies
do not begin
to sear
the surface,
melding together
the succulent
meats
of two lovers.
The joint
of these two flavors
consummates
somewhere
within the
bodies'
chemical stores.
The measurements
and ingredients
are guarded
secrets.

Silence
wafts the scents
of communication
from
muted mouths.
The mind knows
what
the tongue
won't produce-
taste
still transmits
the spices
of complimentary
beings.

Together,
though
the nerves
don't know.
A mind,
however,
cannot withhold
from itself
the fuzz
of a peach
or the nectar
that flows
when
a bite
is taken
from pleasure.

Comfort exists
when all senses fail,
as long
as minds
don't abandon
their innate
recipes.

Statisfied

2011-06-19T22:29:00.003-04:00

When did we become

tangled
in trying to remember
what matters
more
if
-as a whole-
it is
a complete
waste of time
when we know
to expect
nothing more
since we are
already
stuffed full
of all that we
need.

Phantom Visitations

2011-06-11T23:38:00.002-04:00

At night,
with the lights off,
the door closed,
and the curtain
pulled down below the window;
my thoughts
chassé from my mind.

In the light,
that escapes
from my digital alarm clock,
I see their
naked
white wisps
of bodies
dance
in the still
of a dreamless room.

Instead of dreams,
I see poetry
come alive
from the hands
of these
heaven-heighted
spirits.
Their handwriting
is elaborate,
flowing in flourishes
that typeset
has yet to
replicate.

It's hard
to collect
everything
from these walls
while the room
is still en-caved
by darkness,
but I know
the second
I move to turn
my nightstand's light
on
the poems
and their
shimmering bodies
will vanish.
As they race away,
I race
the onset of sleep
and late-night-forget-fullness
to copy
everything onto a page.
I wish I had
a candle.

It cannot be enough
to watch the
nimble bodies
extrapolate
meaning
from their fingertips
by myself,
but even
my ghost
emotions
are shy.

Fall and Recovery

2011-06-11T16:51:00.003-04:00

The Fall
I started
dangling my toes over the edge
slowly inching out
until balancing
meant fighting for stability
and I lost interest
in Earthly security.

I never breathed properly
until the air
forced itself
up my nostrils
and exhalation
became
my freedom.

I counted the feet
then the seconds
three
two

The Bottom
It didn't hurt
as much as you think
to hit
and have
resolute affirmations
break apart a body.

It's cold and moist
and I think
some of these sharp rocks
were actually part
of my once accepting
countenance.

I'm shattered
and shivering,
but I feel a comfort
in this metallic
state of gray.

The Rise
Really,
I am a person
and this is a pond
and it was only
a rock I descended from,
or am I tricked into seeing this
from the mirrored abyss
that ripples
with the cast of a fishing line?

Hook in mouth,
tug tight,
make sure
the metal ridge
punctures the uvula-
life won't let you go.

I cast myself
as far away
as my imagination could manage
and when the
line
became taught
as I reached the furthest land
-from sanity-
I felt
a distant self
retract and reel.

I am being pulled from my throat
back into life.
I am choking
on my own blood,
but I'm choking.
I haven't,
despite my irrationality,
stopped trying
to be,
even if being
-for some moments-
means living
existentially.

Pretentious

2011-06-11T14:50:00.002-04:00

You'd think
she was privy
to the
sun's
brilliant thoughts
and that
only
moments
ago
she dined
with her
in the shallows
of the moon's
garden.

Reckless Poem About a Flower

2011-06-07T17:30:00.002-04:00

You are a flower
at the mercy of the sun
and are the center of the clouds
rotations
or
is it
that you believe yourself to be
in the center of the sun's rays
and beg for mercy
from the clouds
who periodically
reign down
with relief?

How do you stand it?
-all the time-
your stems straight up
with a head of petals,
such an ornament
is no light weight
to carry.

You can't run away.
I'd uproot
if I could,
but that's a lot
of shoes to find
and fill.
How does it feel down there?

Which is better:
The rain falling
and sliding down
your green cuticle
or having a shower
of water
that directly sinks
down to your
varicose roots?

I am a flower,
not a rose
or a golden sunflower
or any one of those
species
that like to catch
people's attention.
Call me a bush
or a shrub
and that's what
I am,
but I am not

I know nothing
of the flower
as I separate
it's young body
from the black
partitioned container
-it knew nothing
more of the world
than that,
by the time I
dug it's hole
-it's new container-
into the ground,
watered it
and
surrounded it with
soil.
Does it know anything
besides
itself
now?

Would you tell me
if you
did?

I'm not a plant,
but you are a flower
and I wonder about you
-too much-
I am thinking
and writing these thoughts
on the bone of my brain
while driving.

You are you,
being a flower,
and I being me,
am speeding down the rode,
because I forgot
to slow down my questions
and ask you simply
about being a flower
when I had the chance.

From the Porch of an Old Plantation House

2011-06-06T10:15:00.003-04:00

The white tips
of the high
green grass
bend in the breeze
of an
otherwise still day.

It's you
running past
and through
that bends the tops of the grass
in prayer
"God, please don't let her leave."
or
was that what I said
as you ran away through the field
after the clouds
you said
looked so free?

The skin around my elbows
itches
from
the tops of the high
green grass.
I chased after you,
but you never looked back.

I am reminisient
as I look out on the field
behind the run down farm house
we called Home.
The high
green grass
with its white tips
still shows your path
Out.
I'm tempted to once again follow,
your indentation
in the bent over grass,
but I need to start fixing up this place
so if ever you are to turn around.
I'll be waiting
with a plowed field
and bouquet of grass
to welcome you
to me,
at last.

Black Ice

2011-06-05T23:23:00.000-04:00

There is a snow plow
in my mind.
It follows the routes
carved out
along my cerebral cortex
catching thoughts as they fall-
pushing them off
until later.

I've asked the driver
to kindly give me peace,
but the storm keeps
getting worse.

Snow drifts back from it's piles
onto the icy road.
The truck runs out of salt
-I'm sliding

My head is a snow globe.
To shake away a thought
is to let others loose
in the whirlpool
of consistently gray matter.

It's gray outside and in.
I sip tea to keep me company
A few blankets keep me warm,
but my brain
is far from being thawed
by the fireplace.

I am stuck in a crystal palace
of fluffy imagination,
icicles,
and slush.
How do I keep my footing
watch my head,
and stay dry
in such a blizzard?

Exhale and some thoughts
leave me
-"Water vapor"
I think-
and the snow packs in tighter.

Do igloos collapse?
What is the best advice
you can give me,
for out running
an avalanche?

I know how to ski,
but I lost my courage
hearing the sound of ice
cut against
strips of fiberglass.
I imagine all types
of tragedies.

I can't even skate
if the ice
is beneath feet of snow.

The snow is up to my waist,
and past my shoulders.
It reaches over my head-
Slowly my body
succumbs to the cold.
One last,
conscious breath,
and hibernation will replenish
and restore me.

Closed Eyes

2011-05-27T19:29:00.003-04:00

He called her nose a peak.
She never knew
amorous nausea
until
his finger traced
along her bridge.
Instead of falling
in the water,
his fingers kept their balance.
Distantly, she heard him
discovering
a valley.
He rose out of her
be-freckled depths
to carve a gentle slopping plateau
along her forehead.
There,
his finger pressed
against her mind,
and there the imprint
will stay
until the sun no longer wakes.
Even in the darkness,
she remembers.

the condition of a moment

2011-05-17T09:11:00.002-04:00

haphazardly hanging
on the last syllable
of a drawn out deposition,
without space
or time
to think,
bodies rush onwards-
though some may stay behind.

for a mere instant
it is the be
in being
that links us to gravity
and roots us
to the branches
of our longer times.

i have yet to understand
spontaneity.
though fighting
the one force
that does not bend
to the whims of political minds,
i now see
as stupidity.

everything has it's past,
but neither the desk chairs
nor the plastic furniture
resort to the reconstruction
of their ghostly elements.
they are your weight
upon your sitting,
and they are the air
upon your standing.
they are,
what I have trouble being.

momentary.

Hypnotism

2011-05-16T23:12:00.001-04:00

I object to your presence in my head.
It’s nothing but a fool’s game
that you’ve taught me.
You secretly laughed
While I listened
Acted
Waited
Spoke
I learned to play along
Not as participant,
But as a piece itself.

Now you’ve caught me
Hanging on monkey bars
Higher from the ground
Than I’ve ever hung before.
I’m smarter than you know;
I long ago realized
The clouds wouldn’t catch me
If ever I am to fall
From this height.
I learned that,
When you had me jumping
In anticipation
For the next round.
I skimmed the sky
Not that long ago.
It hurt
When I grazed the roof.

Love is unconquerable
Words from a master
Of an ancient art
Cannot quell a hunch.
The knowing
And unknowing
Of all that is following distantly-
Yet embedded so closely-
Does not obey
The wants and wills of humans.
It’s allergic to this game,
And my body pays
For the mixture.

Love is a word
Like paper,
Only nobody has made it
Tear-able like the pulp of wood
Between two anguished hands.
There has yet to be a scientific breakthrough
That let’s love be engulfed in
The belly of a flame,
Not even a scavenger
Can pick at the remnants
Of love
Within the refuse of a soul.

Get out,
And leave be
My essence in its contemplation.
There is no cure,
And maybe even
No ailment.
That’s the beauty
Of shapeless things.
We never know,
Except what we imagine.

I believe
In the black
Shapeless form
Of unrequited,
But it isn’t solid.
I walk ahead.
As I pass
Through the shimmer
That isn’t quite
Color
But isn’t empty either,
I see the silhouette
Of a man
And his burnished gold chain
Fade.
Slowly
the amulet stops
its swinging.

So You Want to be a Writer

2011-05-03T18:26:00.007-04:00

If you like your sleep,
don't bother.
Writing doesn't have the courtesy
to let you sleep.
You might as well,
get addicted to caffeine-
stock up on tea bags
and instant coffee-
for the nights of anxious words
that lie ahead.

Get in the habit
of eating your vegetables.
Writing is about endurance
Didn't mother always say,
"Spinach makes you strong."
It's true.
And like artists
who go on painting fruit,
writers can go on
about their broccoli,
and the readers never tire
of its green florets, veins, and valleys.
Also, since Americans
stopped endorsing
cookie devouring creatures,
they look forward
to anyone who successfully
makes a tomato entertaining.
It's the health department
you ultimately must win over,
with your pure and clean
stream of consciousness.

Write until your feet hurt.
This will happen
long after your
hand starts cramping
and maybe even after it goes numb,
but at least then
you have the assurance
that you wrote for
a good long while
and of that while
something had to be worth
sharing.
If you still
don't have anything
except the name of your sweetheart
scribbled over and over
across pages and pages
of now impure pages,
then you'll at least have a story
about how your feet
almost fell off
that one time you sat writing.

Finally,
if you must succeed
you'll stop reading
-or listening
as it may be-
to this rambling poem
and transfer some thoughts of your own
to whatever medium you choose
before this
stanza
ends.

Muted

2011-04-20T13:20:00.001-04:00

I know you're
just trying
to solicit an emotion,
but don't you know
that your prying tongue
and hinging jaws
elicit
little more than
frustration?

When you speak
your lips
send scavengers
to my brain.
They only pick at the decay
which is nothing close
to what
I wish to say.

Maybe This is All We Have

2011-04-19T19:15:00.005-04:00

Voices caught in repeat,
we're like the sun
stuck with rising.

One with the air
we settle where
there is place,
regardless of location.

Continually,
the wind
brings our thoughts
once round the world,
then twice.

Calliope, Erato, and Polyhymnia (or so says wikipedia)

2011-04-07T21:24:00.003-04:00

every time
it is
that i write
my thoughts
wander
to your body.
they stray
from my
wooden
and wicker
writing chair
to sit and swing
on the seat
of the curl
of your brown and gold
hair.

I don't have the mind
to send those spies,
but they report
back to me
anyway.
I know of your comings,
they say where you go,
and I know-
I just know-
truth hides
behind
your eyelashes.
that's why I watch,
when I know
I'm not wanted.
it's because-
just because-
you hold
the secrets
that could keep the world
from falling
off-
No.
-I mean
deserting
the course onto which
it's already
fallen.

how do you
keep
your skin
so smooth
'midst
the creases
that fold this world
into misery?
and your eyes,
they stand
so
high
already.
what allows them
to keep their poise
when the rest of us
are well acquainted with
little more
than the ground?

your left shoe lace
is undone,
did you know?

Sleepless

2011-04-06T20:53:00.000-04:00

These dark circles scream:
Raccoon Eyes!
Assault and Battery!
or maybe even Heroin Addict!
But I know they’re undreamt dreams.

I wait for their preview
to roll across my closed eyelids.
When R.E.M. hits
I’ll be ready for the feature presentation.

Until then, my body turns in the dark.
It collects tired skin and aches of bone.

Losing consciousness twelve hours after its expected arrival
is not an option.
Pushing through lead-lined doors of exhaustion,
I convince myself, tonight I’ll sleep,
but what I want, and what my body does
rest on opposite polls of this four corner bed.

Self-Preservation

2011-04-05T20:50:00.000-04:00

There is a path
worn in my carpet
that identifies
with the heavy penetration
of your voice in my head.
I never sit still.
Something needs to distract me
while I listen.
Usually you’re wanting a reply.

On my wrist
a brownish purple line darkens
each time I pause
and order my thoughts into scripts.
I swear, my meaning
is always stuck in my hand.
It never travels
to my brain through these veins.
Responses burn through my skin
and catch
on the silver sliver
of my bracelet.
I bear the branding
-Left Unsaid.

I am this cast
of hoarded thoughts,
but I mean for my bronze statued lips
to break
and spill something
-worthy.
I don’t expect someone’s hands to sift through
and declare gold.
Just notice
I tread the shore of contemplation
and at times
leave myself behind in the sand.

I know my hand continues to
finger my belt loop,
pull my hair,
and trace the table’s edge.
I know this,
and yet you stare.
You’re expecting something.
I’ve already spoken.
Why must I fulfill your expectations?

2011-03-25T14:45:00.000-04:00

The sky replaced where your eyes once were. The clouds drift over the ground where your head lies and sun glasses rest. Are your eyelids open? I can't see anything, except for the reflection of the ocean twice over. I've begun to confuse my ups and downs since we started sitting here.

We've been here so long that the grass has grown up around us. Beneath our bodies, yours outstretched and mine pretzeled, the grass yellows in death. I pick at a weed that vines itself around your wrist. I feel your flinch long before I see it. I know we are still here for a reason. I move with uncertainty, and you move with a hurried assurance that we both know doesn't match the weather.

Like robins we search for worms. We're the bird's careful ears and sharp beaks. The soil must echo our attempts to draw out long sentences from one another. Does it matter we eat grubs instead? "Tell me something. Don't be beautiful."

Your dry summer lips open. "I imagine thunderstorms. At night, lighting breaks outside sleeping windows. The electricity illuminates dreams. I've seen past your countenance. Skipping stones always ripple the water."

Overhead, the sun burns my pale skin.

DreamCatcher

2011-03-25T13:43:00.002-04:00

The father secured a golden braclet around his daugther's ankle. The click of the clasp assured its safe travel; where ever Natalie went, the sound from that belled charm echoed. The click of the clasp echoed in that stagnant room, too. Everything was already said; everything explained the best a seven year old's ears could understand. Natalie left the room with her hand in a stranger's. Her eyes didn't look back to say goodbye. They were busy watching the light reflect off her shiny anklet.

An insatiable longing was chained within the loops of gold. In moments of dispair, Natalie thought the bell let some of her father go. It took years for her to discover her father never left. Each sock fuzz that stuck on her right ankle, was the work of her father. He was there. At softball games, an extra voice added itself to the crowd. Afterwards, the red fabric stuck to the golden chain would make her smile. "Hello," her mind would say to the emptying locker room. "I thought I heard your voice today." She wouldn't remove the material from around her ankle. Instead, it would linger until her father revealed himself again.

Late one fall, Natalie was tired of waiting and went looking for him. She stood in the graveyard where her father hides unsure of her words or actions. The wind picked up. Autumn leaves fell at her feet. Bending down to pick up the brightest one, she saw between the cloth of her jeans and her shoe, a distinctly looped tan line.

Fog

2011-03-06T16:19:00.006-05:00

It doesn't
feel necessary to breath
when such a superficial
landscape
settles outside.

Pulses
don't exist
as these white sheets
ease humans
into sedation.

Captivated by the radiance,
clocks forget to turn.
It may be lifetimes
since last
the sun shone.

Eyes are useless
within this brazen fog,
cautiously
other senses
adjust to the terrain
and humans reawaken in the mist.

Disillusionment

2011-03-05T23:09:00.006-05:00

Thought portends
struggle;
it's a wretched
consequence.

Every advance
of knowledge
crushes
the remnants of simplicity
that trail behind
natural born ignorance.

As little children,
the plane of the world
shoots out beyond
outstretched fists
of curious infants.

Minds grow peripherally.

It takes many years
before anyone notices
doubt poking holes through the landscape.

Left to wade
through smoldering suspicions,
each step
questions the validity
of belief.

The foot falls
never stop falling;
they break through
theory's illusions.

Thought turns against
the thinker.

Part 1: Above a Town

2010-12-18T23:27:00.004-05:00

I cannot tell the street
from rivers, streams, or brooks.
Highways are distinct.
Their surveyed lines
run from point to and fro,
but roads
are reminiscent
of long 'go trodden foot-paths
a foreign foot once tread.
They whined like rivers,
and cut sharp like fallen trees.

The steeple
tops the church
pointing upwards.
Through me,
sinners' penances
travel to the Lord;
I am unimportant.

In Flight

2010-12-18T22:49:00.003-05:00

Propellers cut fast through the
ever increasing
always outpacing
clouds of human
corruption.

Thick white smog
rains down upon
civilians,
but passengers
in flight
are spared
least they glance
the real axis
on which the world rotates.

Fed on fear
of heights.

Fed on worries
higher than reach.

Fed from care:
caring too much
about pebbles in entirety.

Until we lift ourselves with curiosity
above the trap of life,
we cannot know why birds spend
more time in flight
than foraging on earth.
They don't want to eat
the garbage that humans cycle.

Celestial Dance

2010-12-14T22:20:00.000-05:00

Cascades-
ember streaks-
meteor tails of reason
fade quickly.

Save The Life of a Child

2010-11-26T17:30:00.006-05:00

**title inspired by a Simon and Garfunkel tune

Writers should never father children. Likewise, a woman should never put down her pen in order to push a child into the world. Similarly, if two writers choose to marry, may they be blessed by infertility. Writing warrants wombs of words, those who write aren't ready for wobbly limbs. Writers teach lessons that bypass toddlers' minds. They spend more time properly punctuating parenting advice than they do pushing their child to potty train. It's messy.

Novelists never get to the point of punishments. The progeny sent to time out will remember the 12 minute anecdote over the three minutes spent in the corner.

The short-storiest leaves off the important bits: socks then shoes, don't swallow tooth paste, and never speak with a mouth-full of anything. Every preschool teacher prepares for these children. They identify the child who gets off the bus wearing two pairs of pants (one not on his legs) and socks on his hands as being from the home of a writer, specifically the short story kind.

Poeticians leaves their families hanging, metaphorically at least. They speak a dialect of babble-ish, sounds too strange for forming minds. Children who hear such language are lost between baby talk and the far sweeping sounds of the sea.

Columnists like their writing to be neat. While cleaning house, they are known to arrange small children on bookshelves and put others in the corner. Children don't need to be dusted!

I know too many children of memoir-ists who have been defeated. Their white flags of surrender read, "My Parent is a Writer and She Writes About Me."

Please, writers, consider twice before becoming a child-rearer. You wouldn't send an unbound book into the world, what makes a child any different.

Writers have the chance to send their genes to future generation through writing. They have enough trouble forming headlines and remembering deadlines; they don't need to add birthdays to their list. Imagine the child who gets a report on the economy and the editor to opens his mail to find a card with singing bears.

Parents are profound influences on their children. In the arms of any parent, children squirm for words. Let those words be "I Love You" or "Dream Big" and not the words from the first line of the first page of the book you think are writing.

Enrapture

2010-11-25T22:30:00.004-05:00

Poetry has curly hair.
It cascades in loose ringlets
from the crown of her head
past her shoulders
and down her back.
In the light it shines all colors,
chestnut, brown, and gold.
Each movement of her head
is another line
in the ballad she sings.
I follow her words,
a sunflower to the sun.

When she stretches her neck,
I peer around the bend,
looking to see where her desires travel.
Her eyes are fleeting,
and leave no indication
of where they may land.
Even her ears
register different decibels;
her body moves to these sounds.
Toes, feet, ankles, knees, hips
Fingers, hands, elbows, shoulders, neck
Something pulses just underneath her skin,
I've heard it beat between the rhythmic timing of her heart,
when I searched her body for the answers.

Taste and Style

2010-11-24T22:01:00.001-05:00

A verse-
recreating itself within a new meter-
falls on a different page
but never leaves the book.

A Poem Cannot Lie

2010-10-02T13:01:00.002-04:00

Any illusions that one throws
are always juxtaposed
to life as it arose
from experience: start to close.

Skipping Stones

2010-10-01T14:28:00.008-04:00

Words thrown to the world
Sit on water
Before falling through

Bodies of Fallen Leaves

2010-09-28T22:01:00.003-04:00

Sunk are the spirits of the living.
Every step desecrates a noble memorial
for what we race against.

Time has turned these bodies brown
It proceeds at will.
Just wait, time is merciless.
It will show no patience.

The seasons rush us onwards.
Water, rake, shelter, prune
Did I stop and share in nature's communal solitude?
Was I in deep slumber at the awakening?

Every drop of remorse
lingers in the dehydrated leaves.
Pledge with each crunching footstep
that the bodies of fallen leaves
will receive a dignified burial.

Spoken of the Woods

2010-09-28T20:46:00.004-04:00

Converse with the trees.
Wooden chambers, human thoughts
Behold, rings of time.

Conversation of the Natural Sort

2010-09-27T20:53:00.012-04:00

Speak freely to the air
for all it throws back-
whether it be a breeze, a gust, or a tempest-
is void of ill-wishes
and cannot pose any harm.

When spoken to
the water will sing back
with an orchestrated rain
or a metered undulation.
Do not fear the depths of placidity,
it wants nothing but to make buoyant your soul.

Fire will not think to scorch
least the embers glow
and more than words are thrown into the flames.
Heed where feet pirouette
when felicitating nature's eloquence.

It's only the human tongue,
with its eons of phonations
that hastens from serenity to blasphemy
without forecast.

Unearthing Conversation

2010-09-26T21:33:00.006-04:00

Is it now that my turn has come
to weigh in with my shoulders,
bend from the knees,
and lift my point to the sky?

Is it time to plow the fields,
sew the seeds,
and tenderly pluck
at the root of my thoughts?

In the mind of an afterthought
I wipe my brow in worry.
Have I planted much too late?

Will the frost hold off
while the autumn sun shines
on a harvest hoping not to spoil?

Essential Seasons

2010-09-19T23:10:00.002-04:00

I.
Verdant
The sprite of springtime flower
lands and roots
anew.

II.
Sun tramples
Come quench
an arid persistence
breathes dust

III.
Grown for humble earth
Supple leaves
curl
in autumn decay

IV.
Whisper
growth renew
refresh from last year's
desecration.

Body at Rest

2010-09-17T22:54:00.002-04:00

Her body fills the spaces between springs.

It's been two hours

since her muscles

tensed against the sheets;

two hours,

and pain still lingers.

Nothing but a real sigh will take her into slumber.

Afterlife

2010-09-17T17:04:00.000-04:00

Otherwise known as: Margaret recognizes her afterlife and wonders if she should put any reliance into faith.

I will be sent to hell
rather than receive
the nectar of heaven,
for I was heathen.

I will perish
for believing
that solid bounds of earth
touch the infinity of the sky,
in universes.

I will cry at my funeral
for having found myself reincarnated
and realizing that our beautiful planet
was the prophetical destination
all along.

Reunion

2010-05-27T09:57:00.003-04:00

I apologize
if I have forgotten
how our hands glide together
in the steady beat
of our stride.

I'm out of practice
of where to place
my lips when I whisper
the things not for parents to hear.

They don't let on
that i should believe
in love-
not at sixteen or ever-
They won't encourage "it"
but they won't stop
"it" either.

By "it"
I mean what you mean
and if that not "it"
please stop me now,
because I don't want to start off
with lies.

Remember
how we played truth or dare
And you were so true
I dared you to kiss me?
Remember,
you did so with honesty.

I felt "it"
when your fingers traced
my tears,
and later
as you told me what makes
your world black.

"It's" dark out now,
but tomorrow I will see you
for the first time in months.
I will be nervous like it is
the first day of school,
but it's been longer than summer vacation.
What if the other kids don't like me?
Will you trade the topic of sweaty palms
for our teacher's French styled mustache?
I need a good laugh
and a good smile.
It's been a while,
and the wight of this time
needs to be lifted
from our shoulders.

Best Friend

2010-05-10T19:16:00.004-04:00

I remember
how we had show and tell
and you told
that in your new house
your walls were painted yellow.
You were happy.
Yellow looked so good on you.

I remember
in fifth grade
how your walls started to speckle.
The paint was chipping,
it was a long time
since kindergarten.

I remember
when I came to your house
and you had changed your walls to green.
You were happy with the color.
It was my favorite back-drop
for slumber parties.

I remember
how one night
you told me
that you wanted your casket
to be black.
In the flight light's glow
I reasoned for cremation.

I remember
when I got pulled from English class,
and was told the news.
The fumes from your
wounded red walls
had leaked into your brain.
I never got to help you
with the rest of the decorating.

Your walls were crimson.
Your face was white.
Now you sleep in a
seven by two and a half
solid mahogany
tomb stained night.

Don't Hold Back

2010-04-28T20:31:00.003-04:00

Some people don't speak
Lest they jinx the future.

On partially cloudy days
I prepare my shadow:
Should I disappear,
I won't be gone for long.

Cloud's of uncertainty
Are impermanent.
Now is always Then
As if it never Were before.

The School System

2010-04-25T17:22:00.003-04:00

It makes me sad to see
an ice-cube melt
before it reaches its potential.
Sometimes no one gives
an ice-cube a chance to
cool down a drink
or soothe a soar on a gym warrior's knee.

The system is selfish.
They choose only the top ice-cubes
from the bucket.
The bottom ones are left to
melt and deconstruct
the perfect lattice structures
of their neighboring cubes.

The system is not set at zero.
The weight of the upper ice-cubes,
should not be greater than
that of the students on the bottom.
Remember back in fifth grade
when you first balanced equations?

The system has failed.
Today, only part of the world drinks cool lemonade.
There are children left thirsty.
Have you thought about tomorrow?

a Curse

2010-04-19T19:21:00.001-04:00

When you write enough fiction

you begin to forget

My memories

are of photographs

Mathematics

2010-04-19T19:15:00.003-04:00

I fell asleep in my text book
and woke up with
plus signs
dividing the contours of my jawline
and numbers dotting my forehead.
As I reached for my pencil,
formulas, postulates, and theorems
unstuck from my unfurling body
and landed in my heap of unanswered questions:

Why does a universal language
accept erasers and calculators,
but when it comes to international relations,
not consider the numbers?

Comfort

2010-04-14T20:36:00.002-04:00

I wonder:
Does silence get along with his neighbors?
Does he warmly welcome with
jello salad
and dishes of casserole?
I want to know his recipes for
mac-n-cheese,
brownies,
and mashed potatoes.
They're the kind of recipes
I'd pass on to my daughter
after her first break up,
when she has nothing to say at all,
but really
her thoughts are racing
and her only friend
-for the moment-
is cast in the air between us.

He Knows Who He Is (You Know Who You Are)

2010-04-11T09:02:00.005-04:00

I'm sorry I described you
In such a manner
that you found out
that I noticed your spine.

I should have asked
Your permission
Before I tried to understand
the contours of your mind.

If I've gotten you wrong
or offended you so
please tell me, because I know
that assumption is blind.

"Love" Story

2010-04-10T16:48:00.003-04:00

There was a young girl who was puzzled by her parents attitude. They did not fall anywhere on her scale of love. No touching, no smiles, and any laughter that escaped actually concealed her parents disgust with one another. Pleasant exchanges between the couple were staged. To make up for it, the girl started pretending.

She pretends that her father and mother met in their mid-twenties. They were introduced by a mutual friend who they did not want to disappoint. Despite an obvious lack of attraction, the couple continued to talk. On the first night, they discovered that they had something in common; they both were ready to settle down.

Without concern for their offsprings' futures, the man and the woman united in marriage and the bond's of children. The love they thought would grow from family did not. In its absence grew tension and this tale.

Validation

2010-03-30T09:57:00.003-04:00

At birth,
you took up existance's hand.
He has yet to let go.

Take him up on his offer;

don't compromise your thoughts

for what to you is true.

There is no one world,
one way,
one thought...
Instead, there are a millions ways
to derive
the sights you see.
Choose one,
and believe.

Only one person needs to
wake up
in your head
to realize the sun rises.

The chocie needs to be made
on whether
to slip in as a whole
into a 'this way' warped society,
or to fall
-of our own accord-
holding onto the one cord that will pull us through:
Think.
Thoughts can never be
unthunk.
You were never not here.

Calloused Hands

2010-03-27T09:37:00.001-04:00

Peace is the space between my thumb and pointer finger
I am at ease with a pencil poised there
Ready
At any moment
To preserve thought on paper
I wonder:
Is peace in my hand, my pencil, or
the world that lets me write
without compromise?

Simultaneous

2010-03-26T20:41:00.003-04:00

To hold the future
Is to watch cupped water run
From impatient hands

Fears

2010-03-22T13:47:00.002-04:00

I'm still afraid of vacuums. They pose a threat, sizing me up to suck in my existence. Actually, I may be more afraid of loosing this fear than I am of afraid of loosing myself. I'm not fearless.

I'm in constant worry over the sake of actually loosing my fears. They are all I have in connection to the freedom of youth. Nobody stops a child from believing. Since I've shed my baby fat and balled up fists of tears, you think it's right to take away my eyes of innocence? You tell me I am either right or wrong; there is no sense being creative.

I'm afraid of this darkness adulthood presses upon me. I hope my flashlight never goes out.

A Lot of Things Are Round (for Pi Day)

2010-03-14T13:43:00.002-04:00

The penny from the ground
takes the shape of gold
in a child's palm.

The pupils in your eyes,
dare I tell you why,
entrance me.

The disk that is the sun
resumes it's earthly run
each morning.

From peace signs to shirt buttons
the circumference will always be
a function of 3.141592653.

Empty Nest

2010-03-08T09:55:00.000-05:00

The room, like the cupcake tins, is dusted with flour. The surface has acquired that extra slick consistency that little particles add to shined granite. The island counter-top is gray speckled granite, or it was before it was assaulted by the baking weapons and heavy artillery. Now, it has the look of a light snow fall, one that would have disappointed her now grown children as they buttoned up for the bus stop. On top of the snow are metal sleds for cookies and a red ceramic bowl dripping with batter.

The bowl holds a spatula rather than swirls from a handheld mixer. That’s what you get with time. Hand mixed batter has settled in droplets into new area codes. They would have had a street named after them had the snow plow not come along and washed the slush away. The batter softens into the green checked washcloth as it is rinsed out into the large kitchen sink. The sink’s stainless steel sides are sprayed in the action. Eventually, water mixes with soap; some bubbles form and float to the ceiling.

The ceiling is masked with a fresh coat of white paint. There are not any cobwebs in the corners of the dark sea green walls, none that the bright lighting shows anyway. I am sure they are in attendance like the few crumbs that modestly hide from the broom. Some blend in well with the floor tiles of gray, black, and white. Others, the lady’s aging eyes just don’t see. She’s concentrating on her baking.

Found: a Stranger in a Friend

2010-03-05T10:06:00.004-05:00

His spine curves over in an exaggerated arch. He is stretching for something. That something might as well be tucked somewhere in the texts of last nights trigonometry homework for that he is right now. Man he is smart. His head bends low, nose touching paper and his back rises like a cats.

His smooth liquid flowing shirt uncovers each vertebra. It is as if acid has run down his spine and eaten away every so often. Pools of sorrow and depression gather in the recesses. I would cry if it meant he’d show some happiness.

His eyes are livid with thirst. They roll in dark shadows. He’s stayed up late for the extra fulfillment of knowledge. Now, his tired body sags in a walking sleep, the arch of his back is restful.

I think he has abandoned himself. I do not know when the last time he brushed his hair was. I hope he doesn’t care that I noticed. Normally, he’ll just shrug off those things. His arched back will heave a sigh, shoulders will rise, and he will speak out of the side of his mouth in a nasally voice, “Oh well.” or “That’s okay.” He speaks simply, but I can’t figure him out. When he walks, his head is content with looking forward and his back is happy being straight. I envy his sub-confidence.

I say sub because I know when he sits he recoils into his mind where it is a less than happy place to be. It’s one of the only places he finds acceptance. It troubles him. On the inside, I know he chuckles at the world, but he can’t bring himself to do so out loud. I wish he would just laugh, because I know the world would take that chortle and smile upon it. All he needs is a smile. Maybe then, happiness can begin to fill the depressions in the arch of his back and his hair will untangle into brown curls. His eyes will fill in fuller the recesses of his waxed cheeks. The mumble that escapes past his skinny fingers resting up his chin may grow loud.

I want him to eat more out of life. He is terribly skinny. It’s unusual; I thought a master secret keeper would be fat and able to hide evils in the folds of his skin. Instead, this man is skinny. But this boy, riddle by enough tricks to be a man, hides his muffled thoughts between bona and the faint ripple of muscle. I suspect those evils also home in the mess of his hair. It takes two hands to reach up and brush it from his eyes. I hope he never cuts it. He’d have no where to hide behind. If he cuts his hair, I’ll see everything. I’ll see his neck. I don’t want to see that spine creep up off his back; it will mean he is no longer hiding and that I can no longer look.

Grammy Porter

2010-02-25T12:31:00.005-05:00

It was not just camera shyness, my grandmother always held her hands together against her body. I, too, walk that way. It was second nature. I think she needed to hold herself back. Otherwise, like I do, she would erupt in smiles and mouth covering giggles again and again and again. It's embedded in me.
I think she stitched something different into each of her 14 children and grandchildren that many times doubled. I, the sixth to last grandchild and fifth to last girl, got her hair, her dance, and her love of Scrabble.
Even at 80, her hair was never gray. It was brown and soft; it permed loosely at an iron's touch. I loved my grandmother's hair. She once held my own back as I spewed hot dog guts into her kitchen sink. I might have been four when I first fell for love.
My grandmother was endless Scrabble games with butter cookies. They were always homemade. Wobbly arms, once young and muscled now aged with the love of so many children, would press fork prongs and sprinkle colored sugar into the dough. Nobody has since done the same. She always as the best.
Not even my parents could beat Grammy in scrabble. Was I too young to challenge her words? Perhaps, I was not old enough to know the right words. No, I think she was just that wordy.
I have inherited my hair and impromptu dance skills from my grandmother. I have seen them age over twenty years of eight millimeter film and the fourteen years I knew her. Maybe I'll learn to play scrabble like her, someday.

Euneirophrenia

2010-02-15T22:15:00.004-05:00

Hearts may wish in dreams,

But it is up to our heads

to act upon them.

I've Become

2010-02-09T09:59:00.002-05:00

I have permanently bent big toes
from shoving them deep
into the shallowest of shoes.
I've always refused to grow up
even as I grew.

I've become my words
more often than my face
because I hear they speak better
than myself.

I search for knowledge
because
I've forgotten all the lessons
I was taught
when I was little.

I talk to strangers
because
they fascinate me,
and I like to hear their stories.

Anyway

I am someone
because
I've been before
and experience is a masterful artist.

Fifty-Five Fiction

2010-02-08T19:03:00.003-05:00

Raphael
I was a Sunday before a big test. What was she to do, but sneak her art history notes into her bible. God would forgive, she was study his works, wasn't she? By the end of mass, the sleep deprived Ethna was snoring in the pew. The priest walked over, "Ah, a Last Judgment".

The Great Marker Incident

2010-02-03T15:43:00.001-05:00

I still can't taste cheeseburgers on sesame seed buns without also tasting the concentrated chemicals that compose a certain Smelly's Blue Raspberry (Washable) Marker. Without realizing it, I once ate the tip off such a marker. Doing so warded off all future cravings of cheeseburgers. The worst part, it didn't even taste like raspberry.

Words on His-Story

2010-02-03T15:31:00.000-05:00

When I think about words coming together to form a story, I wonder why our society doesn't congregate the same way. Lines of prose don't bicker over who begins a paragraph, because every point on the plot-line is equal. It's not about punctuation. It's never been about individualized verbs. There is only one standard held high above history's head; it's that nobody gets to spotlight on the cover.

Dive into Prose

2010-02-01T20:53:00.000-05:00

Books and I are in a rough relationship. I read daily. I read because books are there, and that, my friend, is the devil. Reading is my ultimate temptation.

eehh? not titled yet

2010-01-27T20:43:00.000-05:00

He was the most genuine person I had ever encountered. His character was possessed by the purest of substances. Because of that, I loved him. He was nothing other than himself. He was the being I wanted to be, or at least be part of and by some beneficiary I secured a place in his heart. Blessed be the loved, for they have reason to love.
We meshed like gears in play dough. It works, but not efficiently. That is, I am at fault. I take the blame. I am the goo that clogs his brain. I'm the poison that faults him. Genuine shakes his head at my hallucinations. You cannot be true by being false, I am contradiction. Blessed are those who can take blame for they have forgiven their blunders.

Expunge these Thoughts

2010-01-23T19:35:00.000-05:00

I still have your t-sheet
Folded neatly
The same creases
Have stayed pressed in my hand
Since you last held it.

My stomach hurls these memories
Into the garbage.
You're something
I just can't handle.

Nymph

2010-01-14T09:54:00.000-05:00

I booked a ticket
to ride a petal's flowers.
Raindrops follow me.

This week I've collected...

2010-01-08T20:44:00.000-05:00

We've evolved from a hunter gatherer society
into
a wasteland for our own refuse.
Where is redemption
when you say
it's really all physiological?
If the possibility exists,
all habitually hoping humans
will fall for this little injustice
that we ourselves have provided.
Nature seeks a minimum.
Think about it.

I Want

2009-12-26T20:41:00.000-05:00

Holed up,
these moth eaten dreams,
have been resurrected inside of me.

A Poet's First Glass

2009-12-17T10:49:00.000-05:00

I'm not the poetic person who can sit in a coffee house corner and leave creativity to caffeine. Instead, I open up to opportunity and observe. I lend my language to the alliteration laureate that sits somewhere on the lookout for lost souls. Countless times, Trial and I have met with her and moseyed through the meadow of meaningless measurability. Who am I? Are these my dreams in the dregs of my drink? Sip from the flask of French Vanilla fortune, for it is entangled in answers.

The Way You Wear Your Socks

2009-12-16T16:41:00.000-05:00

You wear tube socks in the summer.
You wear them in the winter.
Before your white laces meet your shoes,
I see them peep under your hem line.
Sometimes, the stripes don't match.

You wear tube socks in the sun
which leaves you with a really retro tan.
It's sporty,
but you disappear in gym.

You're the boy who wears tube socks.
You sit two seats up and one row over every fifth period.
You are never in gym.
You're color blind.
I think your cute.

Food is Good

2009-12-07T20:58:00.000-05:00

Taste is a little obese man
who grasps the restraints
ready to take total control
of your tongue.

Tonight he tarries overtime
Sweating out sweet and sour
in increasing increments as he
pushes buttons and pulls levers
in a tiny control room.

Each morsel of food is carefully careened
around your mouth
then swallowed
leaving behind a lingering aftertaste
pronounced: [dĭ-zīr'].

I Peel My Citrus Neurotically

2009-12-05T10:24:00.000-05:00

I don't know how I managed to make friends in first grade.
I'm convinced it had something to do
with a teachers scientifically assigned seating chart
rather than a sudden interest in social skills.
Most kids made friends at snack time,
but who wants to trade doubled stuffed anything
in exchange for apple sauce?
Friendships were based on a mother's grocery list
and a child's knack at bargaining.
My friendships were all accidents.

Mea Cupla

2009-11-27T22:11:00.000-05:00

I've plagarized my way trough poetry
and imitated your intentions in prose

Repeatedly the sky was blue

I've snatched each "the" and "ampersand"
to fill in the gaps between:
Would the defendent come foward
to speak on behalf of the prosecution?
&
my confession.

These sounds are not mine.
I'd rahter be
wahofamgiging imant livobirx
than foolishly writing
in a language I didn't pen
with the thoughts that were never for me
to play in.

7,000,000 Hits this Week

2009-11-27T22:05:00.000-05:00

I cannot fit a tree
into my CD drive.
There is no way
that I can
transfer the smell of bark
up onto this digital page.
Through this touch screen
my feet don't feel terrain
batteries act like a drain
straight from my heart.
I'm in love with the Earth
because you can't just download her.

Restless Poem

2009-11-17T16:42:00.000-05:00

Like a three year old,
A poem will dodge nap-time.
I've seen one nestle itself between
Toppling blocks
and the couch
Were it thinks
I couldn't see its tail.

Poems create bags beneath my eyes
I stay awake
Staring down a work's glow green irises
from the slit under the dark door.
They rank up near the Bogey Man.

Chamomile tea won't tease the tension
out from tender moments.
When you thought a word or two would suffice,
think twice, or maybe even a million times
before the pen will print fluidity.

When poems find themselves finicky
I draw a warm bubble bath
Letting them soak a while
with crowns of bubbles on their heads.
Later, when I take them out
I realize
Poems are like children
Take them out.
Scrub them down
and love them.
They'll be okay.

A promise to be better at Human-ness

2009-11-10T19:02:00.000-05:00

The day slid in
like a curious pastel rain.
The raindrops swirled my thoughts
in the salt water of aggravation
which brought,
out of desperation,
maturity to my self painted portrait.

Advocate

2009-11-06T10:20:00.000-05:00

I envy the Earth
How she advocates for the trees
This natural artistry
Can’t keep me from my knees.

Glimpse
The chirping birds
that sweetly serenade
the tulip bloom.
That's beauty

I’ll give myself
To pay my passage
Into the forest that speaks in wind.

I’ll be a bird
Nestling the horizon
I’ll assume the tree
with its leaves
and obstruct your view of the skyscrapers
and illusions
muddled in the confusion
of this,
Our World.

Human Experience: Memory

2009-10-26T16:22:00.000-04:00

Love,
I admired your flawless features
Your cool nature, not of myself.

Greed,
I wished every ounce of you
Was every 28.35 grams of me.

Remorse,
Drenched in the sweat of my doings
I face not only the tomorrows
But every last one of the todays.

calming

2009-10-21T21:09:00.000-04:00

me and my soap box out in the square
give me my chance and i will stand there
say nothing
the world has no need for more vibrations
vibrating out and out
i want peace only silence can give me

Let Go

2009-10-20T10:27:00.000-04:00

Did the devil come up and
burn your hands?
Is that why they
are so mangled?
The skin grafts, do they
hold the scars from
He Said He Was Your Lover?

Social Worker

2009-10-15T10:03:00.000-04:00

I do not wake up
to fufill my life
It has been a long while
Since I dreamt in dreams
I no longer drink to fantasies,
Merrily

I respond to my alarm
beep, beep, beep
beeP, beEP bEEP, BEEP, BEEP,BEEP!
Rubbing crust out of my eyes
So that yours might hope
to see another day.

Ms. Nancy Volpe, this Woman, she is my Hero

2009-10-05T20:25:00.000-04:00

Cigarettes are burned into my memory. I only know the scent of one brand, but I love the smell of its smoke. The dry air can surround me all it wants, I'll only think of her.
How do I explain her? Would you understand me if I told you she was the one who fostered in me a love for sweat? Would you love her as I do becasue she taught me never, even through blood and blisters, to give up on a perfect releve en pointe? No, you wouldn't understand that, it's a dance thing, but maybe you'd love her too if you knew her as I do.
She taught ballet. One repremand or correction after another, our class grew as dancers. I was never to follow in her foot steps. I was headed toward Ailey to study modern and choreography. The rest were looking to be ballerinas. I couldn't connect that way. However, there was this one story, it hooked me to her class, and eventaully kept her in my heart. That particular story, well, it was about the devil. How she met him, face to face one day in a soda shop down South...
The bus had stopped for lunch and all the dancers got off. Still dressed in their warm ups, black tights and leos, they went into the store. A bell rang softly overhead, announcing a very unwelcome arrival. From behind the counter a woman's shrill scream echoed: MY LORD, GET THESE SINNERS OUT OF MY STORE! GET THEIR BLACK LEGS AND THEIR LILY FACES AWAY FROM HERE! IF I EVER DREAMED OF THIS, MY GOD YOU COULD'VE TAKEN ME AWAY LAST TUESDAY! GET THE HEAVENS OUT OF HERE, AND NEVER EVER COME BACK! THERE'LL BE LYNCHINGS IF YUH DON'T SKIDADDLE! Faster than they'd ever bourreed they ran from there. If they weren't too worried about the events that just played out maybe someone would have realized the bell forgot to sound. That brass bell took years to get replaced, but finally hope started ringing. It was a distant sound at first, but it made it's way across the land. The sound of the bell, I heard it once. Ms. Volpe whispered it into my soul. I understand nothing can make us all great dancers. Not everyone has talent. But we are all born with a chance to do something great. Maybe I can be somebody's hero one day.

2009-09-30T17:51:00.000-04:00

Fear
is a
bare
branch
growing outside
my window.

I am afraid
to be alone.
Without leaves
to shelter me,
I shiver in the dark.

It is night
and I wonder
What creatures lurk
Outside.
Is the boogie-man
hiding in the shadows?

Will the sun rise
Once it seems to have set
For the very last time
in the dead of Winter?

Will spring be coming
Growing leaves
that will accompany me
While I hopscotch?

I am afraid to stop writing
To stop thinking
To pull down my shade
and leave the bare branch
on the lone tree in the yard
Deserted.

Speachless

2009-09-22T10:14:00.000-04:00

I believe my point just waltzed out.
Along with paper airplanes
And secret thoughts
It has avoided recapture.

Open mouthed
With no words to describe my loss
All I can be is silent
I don't have a reason to speak.

Treason, a Personal Felony

2009-09-21T10:26:00.000-04:00

Here, take my heart
And for what in exchange?
Oh nothing
Just keep it safe,
Lock it up,
Do what you please,
But don't give it back to me.
For, I know if I hold onto it
I'll stab it in an act of betrayal
And I don't want that blood
On my hands

Sweet Dreams

2009-09-21T10:21:00.000-04:00

Place your head upon my comfort
I will cast my magic
Lifting worries above the
Loftly rafters
Only pleasant thoughts
Will transpire tonight

Color Out the Sadness

2009-09-21T10:09:00.000-04:00

The girl contemplates the mirror,
Or rather
She sees what she chooses to know.

Green grass and hayfield eyes
A nose spattered with freckles
A mouth

There is no light to her life.
She contemplates her shadows.

On goes foundation,
Gone goes her youth.
Brush on blush, eyeshadow, liner, mascara
Where did her innocence go?

Her pungent red lips bear a smile.
The girl's glittered eyes sparkle,
But doesn't she know
After the partying is through
As the makeup washes off
There the sadness will remain?