I Want

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

A Poet's First Glass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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?