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.
Jealous WatersPale twilightfrosted the waters;nymphs sigh, jealous of Pan.
Hinging TimeAutumn's diarydances in the breeze--pages ripped from barren branches.My father's father's bloodwas the same color, once--an angry, untamed flame.My own blood is an oil-spillchasing the metal of my joints--each move creaks.
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.
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.
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.
Summer's VicesWatching the ripplescast from long, freckled toesreflect and refractoff honeycomb scales,Summer paints ribbonsof ivy and starlingsacross her fingernailsin clinging moss.Rose petals and mother of pearlcascade through the tanglesof her sun-kissed hairas she watches the koichase breadcrumbs around her bony ankles,wondering what vices they will bringto the seasonwhen they replace her.
Forging WorldsBeneath silver clouds,android insects skitteracross timeless trees.
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.
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.)
a different explorationwe talk aboutastrology and ex lovers. the raspberriesdying in the heat, the way the waterbit our skin, the homeless man set outto buy California, the center of our universe,you. that feeling labelled “blah,”and the notion I am not my own.we leak questionslike overrun rivers, excess spillage,draining curiosities about that tragic skeletonballed up beneath your clothes.and for you,I’d travel the length between heartbeats,shallow and vain like your promises,your liquid eyes.above all, we were lucky.miracle children. one in ten,one in a million, a pair of stragglersin seven billion exempt fromclarity and unclaimed skin.-I know this guy who hadsorry lips and scars down his spinewithout a story. we didn’t havea thing to say so we talked abouthow the stars were our newest horizon,the undefined, and how we’d escape to themsome day.
ZestSunset is early,a cast-off orange peelfloating on the lake.
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.
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.
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
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
how to become a writeri.peruse catholic schools. stumble overpaltry naivete to fall in (love)with the angelic crackhead. hookhis libel over your heartstrings. invoke the attention of God you've learned to worship. abandon faith. ii.enter the theater. extend every lasthope fiber on the chance for stardom.earn the spotlight on a fluke. eradicatefear with a giant's assistance. scrunch him into your pocket. flail wildly afterhe escapes and disables your psyche. iii.desire fruit from the tree of good and evil.become this generation's adam. knowyour ambition will be your downfall. coaxthe serpent to you - just punishment isits own reward. weep for the loss of everything before - no more innocence.iiii.love with everything you areand can ever hope to be.
Expensive LiesI sit and stare at the toilet bowl.A guy I know is bulimic.When we compliment himI see the twist of agony in his eyesas his brain reprograms itto sound like an expensive liethat costs him another tearin his tattered dignity.Friends hurry to him,to reassure him, to love him.They tell him how beautiful he is.We didn't know him before,but he's definitely not fat now.We whisper things in concern like;body dysmorphic disorder.'I know you'll never believe mebut you are so gorgeous -not just on the inside.' Not just.And they're right, I join in,because they are right to say itbecause it happens to be true -he is stunning. Not just on the outside.And we want him to see himselfthe way we see him, beautiful.And I join in becauseI've felt that strangle of painin my stomach, bowels and belly,when someone used to tell me lies.So I know how he feels.Only, he is beautiful on the outsideand I'm not.He's not seeing reality in the mirrorand I am.And people rush to correc
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.
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.
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
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
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.
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.
The World is just a Beachball in SpaceUnder the basementis a nest of plumbing,stone intestines slurping sewage,the coffee-brown sponge of a green-and-blue cake,a magma ocean like subterranean salsa,a forest of moon-white diamonds,and one massive nickelstuck in the Earth Arcade,so whenever you feel likeyou are but a clump ofbiological pixels,or that the stars are crushing you,remember:You are literally on top of the world.
White Pinewe speak in long blinksand sleep apnea. i count fifteen whole secondsbefore you breathe in. we find respirators in your apartmentand almost need them for catching our breath,your weight still settling onto our chestsand off of your feet —i don’t believe in heavenbut somewhere you’re standingcrooked, white pine.
You and I conjugate with instinctual easeYou and I conjugate with instinctual easeso abundant that grammar grew greenas sin at our grasp of verbs, for weare present tense doing and breaking rules as we pleaseso that fixed form at ‘speare point shakesand melts liquid into more form-less and lesstradition and a, b, a, b, c, d, c, d, makegreater sense and the most beautiful mess.Circumventing stutter-in-struct-ure, slipslick quick electric free in defence of verse‘til meaning and love runon and out and meet halfway, crossingevery line togetherso there is none… (none for there is no need)just you and I, in a single breath -- we.
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.