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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
here's to losing youhey, wow,you look...great! you do!I'm well,and you?good, good.are you happy?great!am I? no, but here, have mynervous laughter, see me turn myselfupside down when we runinto each other.while you are shaking handsand kissing babiesstill smiling for smiling's sake,I've seen the real youcrying into wine. I've felt youstain my shirt black-streakedwith hidden away thingscreased things, folded and-tucked-under-heavyupturned-lip thingsand in the process, yousoaked my soul in everything you.spooning your vulnerabilitywas better than exchanging virginitiesin one blind night,better than the electric joltsyou sent burning up my armswhen you grabbed my handone day, out of the clear blue,better than that first kiss when both our tensions dissolved into each otherlike butter in a hot pan.nothing has quite matched the nightwhen I saw you naked, saw youemotionally undress for the first time:I'm fine,
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
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
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.
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
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
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
MercyOh sweet God how the grasslandignites in moonlight tonightI must thank you for creatingher tangled fingers' slow pacethrough the handsome rain Hertrochaic kinesthesia to rhythmsin Stravinsky's The Rite ofSpring Is this how you meantfor us to love you YahwehTumbling clumsily down hillsof sheets into perpetuallyimmutable silence I could loveyou like that I think I've beenpracticing on this Savannafor days and months Lost inher crystal canvas Rolling crestsand troughs And when she touchesme Oh fair Lord I'm dragged intoyour city past Gethsemane'spulsing green and goldPlease hold us togetherunder this luminous stretchOh Father We are livewires swayingunclothed Our reflections awashwith the skin of your sun
when i dance, it isthe only timethat all parts of meare no longer lyingaround in placesthat i long agoleft behindand the piecescome back intoan order that althoughcracked and gluedare usefulenough to use again
weekends and cigarette smokeI knew my father in weekends and cigarette smokethe two cases of Budweiser he shared with a friendmore often than I wanted him tooI knew what it tasted like because I used to drink itout of a child size Maple Leafs novelty mug,coveted by my siblings and II remember my tip jar that had been a jokebecause I knew my way around twist offs and bottle openers;the plastic yellow cup, wearing a card reading "tips,"only housed dimes and nickelsuntil I got a toonie from TJ because "I was pretty"I also remember the car ride after those two caseswhere I, at age ten or eleven or twelve, didn't know if I wasgoing home to see my mom againthe car swerving back and forth as the two men in the frontlaughed, my hands gripping the seat belt and cup holderI knew my father in late night walks to the Little Man storeor the Price Choppers,my brother and I fighting over who got the cartI knew him in pennies strewn around the apartment,waiting to be found like easter eggs and counted,the pr
telephones and cortisonePuerto Rico is still asleepwhile we starfish aimlessly in the sea -We are like lost men seeking shelterin a place where the sweating sunis forever at high noon,ceiling fans turning slowlyand dewy drops on upper lips.I am like the skinny girl in an indie moviewho lounges around in her underwear,a cigarette dangling limper than dirty hair.A phone rings somewhere.I am grasping at a dreamlike I am drowning and watchingthe surface float away, fallingso deep into sleep thatthe stars seem to sing.
to icarusin the next life you were a phoenixa fiery resurrectionsongbird of ash & second chanceswhen you flew south for the winter,you made it every timesee for you, the universe was an olympic mountainjutting out of the ocean, a temple you would never set foot inan elaborate maze you'd been lost in for too long;the only love you'd ever known was from the coalfireof your father's hands in the dark, they were the most angelicmonsters, they were beaconshis mind was the gears of a clock that never stopped spinningbut the light,the light was a promise to be seenthe fire, a dancing enchanter that never leavesthe future was an echo on the labyrinth walls:prince, dream of dove and swift and nebulae,dream like the lone at night for the warmth of dayyou were a golden child, waiting to be found in the darknessthe earth is too flat;you said you'd go up,thought you'd be a little closer to the godsyour downed shoulders caught wind of the whisper in the air—the ground is no place
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
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--
five hour energyi supposelast week was only an aftershockof the earthquake you were before.this place used to vibratewith metal strings and melodic,off-key shouting-testimonies to life,emitting coffee-scented moodsand the burn of it too.i had memorized thesounds of silence,a cacophonyso despisedi couldn't help but relish it.no longer had i knownthe sounds of folkand scent of mocha-you became nothing morethan an echo of the laughteri so desperately needed to hear again.then the echoes got louder,bouncing ferociously off the wallsto be made manifestand dissipate.i walked into your roomexpecting exactly what i found-an unmade bed,bare desktops,and an empty beer(the one that you insisted you neededjust days ago).i pressed my noseinto the pillowhoping desperately,begging silentlyfor incense and cologne and starbucksto penetrate my mindand thinking fervently"you bastard,i already knowwhat a clean sheet smells like."it's amazinghow strong an aftershock can be,but st
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