i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost, kissing stylish arsonists + I still love every sky escaping from your lips
nothing lies forever & if we kiss it's because I can't find you among the grassy ribbons of your old zeta ego & if I miss tongue, teeth and cheeks let the pavement carve new mouths into my tights she writes an another poem about cigarettes her east coast
don't trust me unhinged like a stolen surge of ocean, I become what your girlfriend thinks I am: drinking alone, forgetting your name until it flowers from my blackberry throat I wash my tangled hair in your kitchen sink, malingering
symptoms of red a materialist inside of you unknitting your sweater & in your dream you are a wolf eating a flower in an orange field. the world is ending. an unnamed girl stains you as if she were tea giving up to a foaming ocean. she writes a story: the unrequited blurry visions of two visionaries
stonemaze sometimes, I pretend our home is tinnitus I scrape pine needles into a horizontal bowl. twisted scenery settling in like snow inside my finger bones, stirring up sparks. he may be the last explosive, a fire fight that bites through my palms; may be the last crackling monolith to collect spacedust on his loneliness. I should be left alone letting the passage of time sink into the corners of my eyes
new suspension demylineating in hand-knit wool, he looks just like you: digging up snake skulls between fallen asteroids and I can barely see the face behind the violence I would rather be left alone with your chemicals setting water on fire
hello, void static children build invisible ceilings over you an abducted plane ricochets between layers of inter- planetary media & we are stomached by our parallels, dusting off musical knuckles with
a dirty kitchen is no place to write a pop song decoded the architecture of your half-apologies while you were gone looking for someone to paralyze with nihilistic undertones. I was brushing collapsed dust off of your shredded cardigans, sadly & ultra-violetly flicking it off with blue fingers near where children told me they had never seen such smooth little stones before
slippers your ghost eats peanut butter out of the jar. an atomic grease fire tongues our oven like an aneurysm. if only we walked on clouds if only we lived in the belly of the ocean
Shallow WaterIt was just a little kiddie pool in the backyard, unlovely pink-and-yellow plastic under the hot summer sun. But on those nights when Mom came home from the swing shift tired and met Daddy sitting in the kitchen angry, it was Amy’s only sanctuary.She wasn’t a sound sleeper. Her parents still talked about how it had taken her infant self six months to sleep more than two or three hours at a time. During the school year, when her life was full of classes and friends and sports, it was easier to drop off, but summer nights were always more difficult. They were hotter, for one thing, and the long, indolent, inactive days often left her feeling too tired to sleep.But mostly, it was because her parents had their arguments at night, right when Mom got back from the station. Daddy would send Amy to bed -- or at least her room, to pretend to sleep -- hours before. Then he would wait, sitting at the kitchen table and facing the door like a judge, hands folded in front of him
Heat AdvisoryWe are an air-mass thunderstorm at the heightof an Indian summer -- a cloudburst collidinginto a cyclone, raising the temperature of anywho wander through our sweaty inversion.I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,straight into a clap of thunder conceived bylightning fever. A roiling heatwave travelsacross our connection, evaporating the atmospheresurrounding the eye of our storm. Your humidbreath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.And as the barometer spikes, my heartbeat quickens;I am sucked into the vortex of your tropical storm.
Before DaybreakCouldn't sleep – 4 AM may beToo early for coffee, butThe corner diner's openAt all hours, so I headThat way. Dickens, Green Mansions,Shakespeare, bleak Russians – shadowsCan watch them for a while…The night air's warm—a slow blockOf rain-sloshed concrete laterAnd I've made it. – Get dark roastPick a table not too closeTo the counter, then sit back.Watch life eddy around you...Whoever sat here last mustHave dropped the tract—Jesus Saves.We're story-weaving creatures.This tale? It's nine-tenths thunder—Granite certainty. Can't seeMuch past my face. But who knows?That might just change as sweet beansWork their magic. ConsciousnessSlowly stirs—I look aroundAt early birds who've lit here…Thin man (business suit, blue tie),Seems harried. Near one entranceA trash-bag clad moustached guyGrowls at home-fries and the wet.This is the dream we're living—Lost in hurry, souls flutterLike paper-sc
Blue Check FlagThe natural locationto begin a revolutionis the breakfast table.No one is happyat breakfastas it is far too earlybut everyone is there,lured bybacon/marmalade.(If there is nobacon/marmalade, thenit is definitely time to revolt.)Attention! the lady of the housedemands, tapping a butter knifeon her coffee cup.Lace up your boots and let’s march.Ben grabs the breadknife,Heather the greasy saucepan. Domwhips the tablecloth from underplates of half-devoured toastand waves the blue checks aloft.Imogen chantsand Ellen clangs two spoons.At desks chairs are empty,gaps are unminded,shirts unworn,tick-boxes unticked,computers snoozing.Tablecloths fly over thehighway, and spoon bands sing.
Eden's AngelI knew the old stories. The first man and woman had disobeyed, and so they had been driven out of paradise. An angel had been placed in paradise to guard the tree.I never heard any stories saying he left the garden.I went to find the tree, to see if it really was worth getting kicked out of paradise. I’d seen the Fountain of Youth, Atlantis, and the Holy Grail. This was the next big thing. It was the edge of the Earth and beyond. It was further than Davy Jones’ Locker. It was paradise.Some people told me the Holy Grail and the Fountain of Youth were the same thing. If you drank from the Holy Grail, you wouldn’t die. If you drank from the Fountain of Youth, you wouldn’t die. But I’ve seen them before. The Holy Grail is an ugly brown wooden cup. The Fountain of Youth isn’t more than a pool of stale water in the middle of a cave in South America. Atlantis was less of a disappointment, but it wanted to remain hidden. So I ventured out for the Garden o
Seeking Your StarMarch 20, 2014Some stars burn so brightly, they burst before they see the cosmos unfold. You shared the warmth of your glow with as many as you could before you rose too high for the sky to handle and scattered sacred stardust across it. Your legacy is seen in constellations.A few days laterMom called me to the window today to show me a lone star in a cloudless sky. She said she thought of you.Mother's Day, 2014Nana told me at lunch today that she heard footsteps in the room where she keeps your urn. She went upstairs to greet Papa several times, thinking the footsteps were his, but found him sleeping. Our waitress gave each woman at our booth a carnation. Outside, sunlight adorned our skin and held us.I could have sworn I felt you holding us, too.June 21, 2014I took a plane out of Chicago to get back home. The sun set mid-flight, tie-dying the sky in orange and red. As we rose over the clouds, my jetlagged eyes rested upon a lone star pinned against
The Great RaceI crack my knuckles and touch the ground, stretching my calves the way Olympic runners do before a race. The gravel spikes at my palms; my muscles burn from the stretching. Jogging in place, I breathe in short bursts that form into clouds in the chilly air.Max paces back and forth next to me, holding a clipboard and waving his pen like a conductor. My body is so full of electricity from the anticipation that I want to slap him as hard as I can just for the sake of letting go of the tension. Instead, I crack my knuckles again, making Max cringe in a satisfying way.Shaking it off, Max checks his watch before pushing his glasses to the top of his head. “Four minutes,” he says, reading off the clipboard. “The race starts at the fifth period bell. That way, you won’t meet any teachers in the hallways who are running late, but there might be some girls still rushing to class after lunch.” He looks up, scrunching his eyebrows together. “Although I really
SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,not without the children of the sun and moonto guide her weary lids home.Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?Braved the heaviest of storms,yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.He wished he was too.He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,he became convinced that somehow she would.
StrengthMy grandfather was the strongest man I ever met. If you’ve ever seen someone on TV perform some superhuman feat of strength and thought that it wasn’t real, you’ve never met my grandfather. I have seen him rip a telephone book in half. He reached his full height of 6”4’ at the age of fourteen, and by the age of fifteen he had left school to work in the metal works. No one thought twice about it, because he was more than capable of the work and looked older than he was.I am not strong. My joints frequently hurt, although I do not think I can convey to you how much of an understatement the word ‘hurt’ is in this situation. Most people didn’t understand why I didn’t run as long or as fast as the other children, or take delight in the frequent football scrimmages that almost all the boys I knew took such delight in. when I told them “I can’t, my legs ache,” they just told me to be strong.My grandfather didn’t.
His lap was reserved for science...i still see his handscoated in soilmuddirtplaying godcoaxing seeds to lifebringing his creations to usmaybe that was his lovethe calluses from wooden shovelsfrom making wooden fencesfrom the circle-purple grapesthe quarter-blueberriesthe furry peachesmaybe he loved usthe same way the cat didsecretly perched atop my toddler beduntil dawn danced on my fluttering lids,leaving before the morning sunwould make stark her black in the lightmaybe he loved usthrough the water and earth and windthat fed his garden plantsmaybe he loved uswith the force of sunlightbut we just never knew
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernovato let the stardust andcosmosslide down my parched throat andwash over my intestines,like a pebbledrowning in the sound--
an irrevocable truthi.snowflake child, you are a fine exampleof the incandescence of a human lighteven under innumerable umbrasi see you- ruby and bloomingferociously fighting your wayout of a pile of rubbleii.my anemone, my halothat comely wraps around my moon pithdo not fret if i self-stumble, fumblewith my fingers, and mumble to my toesmy center of gravity is oft frail andmeek to begin withiii.you are lead cause of the diamond flecksscattering about the carbon of my pupilsyou do not leave meyou teach me to besnake-eyed yet shotgun-hearted-a sapphire wanderlust lividfor life and star-gazing sights, you mapconstellations on my freckles and fright iv.look now at how i'll find my lighthouse loverthen tend to some kidsand grow out of my gills and into grey hairsthen tend to some kids with their own kidsand reminisce about friends and phenomenai signed my name on a patch of sky withall on my own exceptthat your hand never left minethat if i were to crumblelike the sandcastle
Fingernails, Please“Fingernails, please.”The girl smacked her gum, fussed with her hair a little, and turned her attention back to her phone. After a few seconds she glanced up again, clearly irritated: “Well?”“Right. Um.” Thomas suppressed the urge to look at the fingernails she was currently wearing. “Color?”“Green. Do you have something in a sort of limey chartreuse, maybe?”“Uh, yeah, the list's over here –” But his customer had turned her full attention back to the phone, and was clearly ignoring him. Thomas cleared his throat. “Do you want lime, or chartreuse?”“Uh... yeah, lime. Sure.”“Length?”“Eighteen millimeters.”Thomas winced. The long ones were always worst. “I'll be right back.”He had 18 mm lime in stock, still in their larval stage, pale and wriggling under the blue light of the stasis chamber. He tried hard not to look at them too closely as he de
longingi scuff at sidewalk bottle caps,mouthing your name as i pass shriveled milkweed stalks and snuffed-out cigarettes.once, the clock hands pointed north. they mock me now with each degree elapsed,each angle pointing to a slew of compass-rose regrets.mouthing your name as i pass shriveled milkweed stalks and snuffed-out cigarettes,i hear the second hand’s advance tally my silences like rosary beads,each angle pointing to a slew of compass-rose regrets.if only i could pull your name from this unmerciful stampede!i hear the second hand’s advance tally my silences like rosary beads.every dull tock measures out those quinine conversations, sly unripened smiles, and yet i knowif only i could pull your name from this unmerciful stampede,the cobwebs binding me to mute labyrinths of time might let me go.every dull tock measures out those quinine conversations, sly unripened smiles, and yet i knowyour redwood hands could be the ones to rescue me, and thenthe cobwebs
tense shiftsand here's the first letter:there are some things in life you can't escape.the feeling of his fingers entwined in yours,for example,and maybe the way the wind blows on your ears lightly,teasing teasing teasing because it knowsyou blush when your cheeks get cold and the tip of your nose goes redand it knowshe's going to have to give it a kiss to warm it up(also because he can't stand how adorable it looks).she thinks that maybe there ought to be a coffee shop on this corner-she tells him so, with a wide sweeping gesture thatknocks her scarf into his eyesand he wears it like a mask and smiles-but on the other hand, maybe not;it could be a park, you know,overlooking the bay right here, see?,and the little children could watch the boats come in,steaming toog toogs out to make them smile and clap and wave.and he's watching with a half-smilethe way her eyes light up and brighten the lonely shoreline sidewalks,and frankly,he'd spend a lifetime making that corner i
may as well buy another packcollapse, and breathe into the carpet:sunday mornings are notfor falling apart, but damnthe amphorics, thisis not an atmosphere.you fell in love like you alwayswish you didn't, made all theirsmiles replaceable, interchangeable,fell asleep with shadows and keptdrinking, just letting yourself sleepwith blue pillsand tried not to scream.(keep this image in your head:fire and nectarines, a sudden jerkof realization, inspirationbreaking your neck and leaving you foreverfloating.)breaking bones is not so differentfrom breaking hearts - it's all aboutthe leverage, the angle, the modeof attack(and at least it wasn't personal; it can color in your own guiltfor starting lines and never endingright.)
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.sweetheart, let's head out. let'sdrink up the desert asphalt and that last bottleof johnny walker blue--one last toast to the copper sunsets,to the good earth. a pair oftailgate stargazers, you and i:roaming curves across the glove compartment map, untilevery foldline is worn flannel-softand it'd rather stay openthan closed.let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget the numbersand pick up terra cotta dust--breathe in the mojave. let's pretendthat the world's already endedand it's just us.let's leave the door unlockedand gowest.
we're all drunk and always have beennoi haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause i don't breathe poetry inand out -inand out,inand out -i write it under my eyebrowswith the precisionof a drunk snipertoasted into admissionwith irony s-st-tutter-eringdown his throat.you wouldn't take a damned bullet for me.beautiful is a word keptfor the riseand fallof her tidal chest,not my shallow breath,not my sunset, heartfelt,hollow silhouette.i would have disappearedbetween your accusing index andneglected thumb -rub me,rub me?rub herrub herdon't you feel calmer?noi haven't felt smaller than thisbefore.i haven't felt smaller than this beforeand it could bebecause you found a home betweenher stroking index andcomforting thumb -i haven't forgotten,no, i still remembernow twenty two penumbrae in the pastdidn't stop mefrom settlingin one of several crevassesat the bottom of your oceanic mind;you may have forgotten,and slept inon the details,but i haven't,not yet,not ye
intimate thunder in this microcosmic corner I have stolen your alcohol & I am missing the color you made the world turn
in this microcosmic corner I have stolen your alcohol & I am missing the color you made the world turn