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?
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Sleepless
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Self-Preservation
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?
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?
Friday, March 25, 2011
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.
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
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.
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.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Fog
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.
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.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Disillusionment
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.
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.
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