Digging up BonesYou left me nine weeks dueundressing poetry.Like a bad habit,I found you and I lost you. Who are you, again?Ghetto baby,poets should never make ghost children.
Counting Starfish to Fall AsleepI wonder if you wonderhow it goes,how it was, how it should beon Tuesday morningslostin the reefwhen the stars fade to blue.Drifting into five AM,half of myselfis listless--for you, for him.Uglyand voidand landlocked.Dear poetry:for what it's worthI am not your ocean girl.I am just trying to sleep.
Fragile Magpie MoonsIt's only spring when you first wake up,two magpies and the dull ache of menstrual crampstapping on. Death's windowsleeps in all our bones,a dripping water faucet.Brittle things--like love,marlboro midnights,a jar of not-quite-nothing--small and fragile and oursare the presences we carrywhile running from the moon.
Treading the HorizonA love story you don't wantpigeon stepsthe places we keep our hearts.Tonight, pretty girl,I'm not sorry for missing you.When the leaves whisper,I'll hire mourning doves.
Swallowing MidnightThe sun will never shineunder the bedwhere you found love...but there is still timeto swallow the stars.
Scorching SunsetWhen a poet's heart breaks,take a seat and shelter under my leaves.The best we can do is pretendthere is still timeto paint the world in wildfire.
Winter PoisonTo the boy with ghost hands:the best we can do is pretend.The breakers will always call us homebut you don't feel the poison--it drips, it dripslike a bad habit.We are fragile.Bury me in whiteunder the winter moon.
Dripping WordsSimple wisdomfor the girl teaching herself to fly--love is overrated,a super nova's roarcrackinga sliver of the galaxyon the edge of nowhere.Parched, starving,I am the Apocalypse.
Tell Me What You've Gone and Done NowIt seems like everybody writes about romance,the murmurs left behind,the lonely strength of men,the evolution of goodbye.There will be times when I tell you I can'tbe a number on a list.I was what you are, once--the dying star of a memory--but you must have mistaken mefor hindsight.I can bring your candle to glitter again,but I can't be your oxygen.Yes, my bed's a single--where did you sleep last night?
pollenwasp-waisted beautypray into my collarbonelet your snake tongue slitherwith the syllables.i wish for soft-chested nights,and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,nurse my coiling tongue with yours;tap my scalp like a silent drum,and wind my hair in between your fingerslike broken guitar strings.(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
ZestSunset is early,a cast-off orange peelfloating on the lake.
rock bottom, ocean floorhalf-past a different kind of brokenon sadness, she wrote: blind fool in the umbra bury yourself in me on the other side of lonely and by god, i love you (maybe i will be a landfill) everyone i meet looks for a place to stay;out of the woods, on wet roadsunder wind, under rain -i'm so far awayno wonder it took him 1455 pageswaiting for her to come this waytramps like us- in lieu of emptiness in absence of a poem wander, wander (pour a little salt, we were never here)your heart was a broken sailorfishing for hearts with lace and not netting;into the deep end of our storyi saw god leaving the shore
in which I become beautifulI drown my conscience inthe holy water of my wrists,I carve hearts from emptypaper for my galaxyboywith stars written in his skin,and I swallow moths tomuffle the emptiness andhelp me fly away.
Jealous WatersPale twilightfrosted the waters;nymphs sigh, jealous of Pan.
resurgencelet's make small talk,six month silence swelling;sticking inside our throats,filling the space between us.let's make small talkand skirt furtive eyes aroundthe absence we never quiteaccustomed ourselves to.this is easy,but then it's always beeneasy.we move lightly,flow smoothlyin synchronous;an oh-so similarfamiliar scene.let's make small talk,stumble on faux pas promisesand the intimacy between twowho are no longer intimate.orbiting the past,we dance in words.
In Dark Silencea pile of exiled leavesand a grief-stricken moonsetcapturethe secrets of fireflies.A stranger to gravity, sometimestrees know how to be brave,standing tallwhere the stars collide.
With Rain on our TonguesI have been walking our oceans again,having held on forever to the hope of knowingthe dialogue of the tides.The clouds never spoke pounding melodies,only echoes into the nothing.The stars whispered a lie that tells the truth:You waited, praying to fireflies, andI wanted to be someone else.You're never touching anything,singing me oblivion and creating destinywith a void dance and erotic spills:eloquent tradition like petals and leaves.
a mantra of the youngI don’t want to be a body anymore,so here is my heart, here is my home,though I’m sure you’d rather see me nakedand composed upon an abandoned sofabecause how much does a broken heart buy you?(Yet somehow we make it feel like it’s enough,or maybe it actually is to the bloomers and the blowflies.)
philosophy has lost its appealYour absence isn't the elephant in the room;It’s the invisible parasites lounging in the floorboardsJust writhing for a taste of lonely flesh.My repaired left half is gone;Without you, I’m faulty once more:The half-blind broken wind-up doll is here again.There aren't words to describe the emptiness:just return soon.
addicted to bad ideas.i've learned that we getaddicted to the idea more so than the drugs.
shedding skini read somewherethat our cells regenerateevery seven yearsold ones dieand new parts bloomdestroying youremaking youand it’s now impossiblefor me to be the personi was ten years agono matter how muchi long for the ease of thoseyounger daysbecause that girl whohunched over notebooksin crowded trainsor behind backstage curtainsliterallyphysicallyactuallydoesn’t exist any moreso i have to just bethis person nowone my seven-years-ago-selfprobably would have loved to bebecause she believedi’d have known how toafter seven years of shedding skinpity none of thoseregenerating cellsincluded a user guidean update manualbecause i feel just as cluelessas my fourteen-years-ago-selfand no matter how many storiesmy mother regales of thattwenty-one-years-ago childi can never again connectwith the way she saw the world
WhyI struggle to be real; it's something I have fought withfor a long time. I am always, always afraidthat my real thoughts, real opinions, real motivationswill be judged. I am always afraid. I live my lifein the shadow of doubts, some inherited, some self-invented, and I juggle thoughts behind what some callsparkling wit, and I refer to, cliché as it is, as a mask.I have thoughts that are locked in my head; I never reallylet them out, and not necessarily because I don't want to,but because my words are clumsy. They trip from my lips,stutter all conversation to a grinding halt, and so my thoughtsstay safely locked inside my head while they grindagainst my skull and ache my head. I do not have the adequatewords to talk about things; I do not know how toapproach the subject of how I watched your face drowningin kitchen linoleum tile while you waited for someone[but not just anyone] to save you and acknowledge your pain – but youwere trapped with a little girl w
4 haiku in parting.we left the gas station at 8.i could see all the candy lights,reds stuck in your dashboard,count the spots on your cheeks.you said you thought about me a lot.7 motes from your eyelashes,traded with a silver band on the carpet,then i waited for a late ride home.my stomach popped.outside became a violet,and while the windows were open,you rubbed my shoulder.
All I gave you was neglect.I am staring at your pictures, reading some heartbrokenand tough girl words that you post, and all Ican really say is that I love you and miss you;you ignore my messages, and I can't blame you whenall I gave you was neglect, but we weredifferent people then. Today, I'm a broken girl, too;really, I was yesterday, but I couldn't admit it yet, andnow that I can, I just want to remind you thatyour pain is not unique, not to make you feel bad,but just so that you can remember the love and devotionthat two girls with broken pieces form, andthat I love you. And miss you. I will trade conversationsfor snatched information from facebook statuses,but I will never accept that this is what we've become.
I was never a writer. I: Halfsleeper I fell in love, once.A snowstorm melting from my hair - dripping cataract: diluted coffee. A dark room filled with languageso beautiful, I almost understood what was said.Children are getting younger, and this land has no end, where do you rest your head?All things are in a constant state of vibration, a harmony in the space between our fingers. our hands. I’ve only ever stopped to listen
k.n., ii7 9 13 he took a bow overlooking interstate 680: car-comets in full spin, orbital lights his dreams planetary, saturnian - he almost sprouted wings that night and i cannot say it would not be beautiful; the palpations of downtown pumping luminous cells, coursing through highway veins and he, standing in the heart of his world visions galactic mind ecstatic - his feet began to lift just a little.9 20 13a few phone callsand a pair of
confessionIf I could, I wouldn't hesitateto feelthe heft and heatof everything inside you;I'd ferret outyour sins,I'd sell indulgences, I'd sewcoinsinto the lining of your skin.
Dreams: A Gateway DrugA grief-stricken moonset--burning clouds for the sake of silver linings--capturesthe secrets of fireflies.Under the bed,hindsightkeeps a close watchthrough the dark.