She asks me
She asks me how I did it,
rid myself of it
Separated him from me like the
milky membrane of raw chicken breast…
I am flattered that she looks to me,
that I’ve been tossed in every flavor of storm to
survive and spit its rainbows at each end.
“It takes time.”
Though not always in that order;
there’s no order in heartache,
just questions in tongues we don’t speak,
in eyes we can’t
see ourselves in anymore.
Yes, time takes it
and loves it till it breaks,
drops shards of it in our paths
to remind us as we try to tiptoe
through the day
unnoticed
or at least unmutilated.
But I can’t tell it like it is!
I am still it
and it takes me
back to the place where that picture was taken
back to that frame that somewhere lost its picture
It is that picture and It is probably in that box you never open It is open and
IT TAKES.
I am still It and It Takes Me.
She asks me
how
But I’m undone,
postdated and exposed,
still gripping his old shirt.
I write
I write.
Call it a stigma,
the real writers do
were they to say it more or less eloquently.
I feel that I can’t compete…
too many perfect words written,
appropriately sung against silence.
Even the cliches have a sacred chicness
that “status quo” sounds like it has.
That my words can’t compare…well,
I just hope that they exert enough energy
to cause notice,
a nod, perhaps a smile.
Were they sticky enough to stay and dance
fitfully in someone’s thoughts…
That might be refreshing.
I can’t keep being so human
if I don’t have a moment to
rip & scream and just Be Uncomfortable.
Not debate the words that simmer inside me or analyze
Sacrifice my what-would-ideal-me-do
I WOULD be free
I could be expressive
I want to feel that rage
if not beautiful, it is HONEST…
and the capacity to despise does not
fill rooms that could house love;
there are kitchens and closets in buildings of stories
waiting for the space to bleed.
no passion will go unposessed, at least within my pages.
The Angel
Subtract the distance and age does not matter
With two guns to our hearts
It is the words in autumn that save us from rage
I can not be anymore truthful
And this can not be more than what it is
Late nights, no sleep, and my wings are bleeding.
While one great light has developed a spot of darkness
The immaculate darkness has found one piece of light
You crawl, I smile, and you know.
Is it better to be a fallen angel
Or a messenger who has never fallen.
Will we crawl out of the darkness to be that light?
Or will we just be that moment?
Porcelain Doll
A broken, beaten, porcelain doll
with dark curls and pale skin
emerald eyes and rosebud lips
revealing nothing and speaking none
because her eyes are closed
and her mouth is shut
and her curls fall limp
and her skin is cold
and she does not move
because she’s afraid to live
and afraid to die
so she does nothing
because it’s easier than something
and it’s easy to be broken
and beaten
and silent
and limp
and cold
and still
and afraid.
Sometimes
Sometimes he sits
For hours at a time
Staring at the wall
Waiting for nothing
Because nothing is all there is
Sometimes he cuts himself
Because there’s nothing else to do
Sometimes he thinks about
Buying a gun
Sometimes he believes he will
Sometimes he sleeps
For two days straight
He has no reason to wake up
The endless nothing is all he has
To look forward to
Sometimes he wishes
That he were never born
Sometimes he begs the creator
To kill him
Sometimes his prayers go unheard
physical memories
On the inside of your palm;
one faint pink indention
On the outside of your thigh;
two bold scars
On your arm just by the shoulder;
three jagged lines
On your arm just by the wrist;
four leftover slashes
On your heart, deep in your chest;
ten bloody marks
that are dripping
as if weeping..
Slow Motion Rush
I’m breaking down beneath my breath,
Your craving hands unclose me.
Conflagrant conversation, a hundred summers,
Melt the holds below me.
The whispered din behind closed doors
Pulls us both below,
The waves of what we’re waiting for,
Crashing on the lamp-light glow.
Our turning hands together tangle,
In knots that tie themselves,
Around, around, in every angle,
As shadows dance on bookcase shelves.
Your outline blurs my twisting frame,
Your face a reddening blush,
Green eyes flow about as flame,
Dancing this slow-motion rush.
Carlos & Blue
Maybe he can drown thatthere love of his
like his liver–no bigger than a dime now
but still worthy of the ten pennies in his pocket.
She’s covered with dayburst all the way up to heaven.
80 days gone, six foot deep like an Ophelia
once read about 30 years before. Nothing hurts
much like death expect for swallowing
the distilled tears of moonshine breath,
he thinks.
only nerves
A feeling, emotion
that you call the physical pain
below your ribs
above your stomach
below your heart
above your hips.
You’ve waited for this,
nearly half your life was spent
hoping, wishing for it.
It’s not what you expected.
The feeling doesn’t sweep you away
or cause a warm haziness.
It’s a stab of worry
a pinch of unease
a slash of doubt
a throb of uncertainty.
You dared to hope,
but instead feel only the things
that replace the love
you long for.
the way of the world
We are all born alike,
created in love, conceived as a blessing.
But the hatred of the world usurps our beauty
leaving lustful, voluptuous, vultures
in our stead.
Is the love we receive a gift out of truth?
Or does obligation slip resent into play?
Mother loves her baby
Groom loves his bride
I question these bonds:
for mankind’s too naive
Life is a downward spiral to death.
Starting strongly in love,
growing first- before waning
leaving space for time to take it’s course.
And hatred feasts n the ageing souls
who’s love has been spent.
Such, is the way of the world
