why are all the beautiful people brokenshe showed me her scarsnot because she was proudbut because she needed to show someone
a ribcage drenched in dusti have your ribcage, you said.what should i put in it?i told you i'd always wanted a fire,the kind that would fill my eyes with starlightand pump my blood full of passion, butyou're made of wildflowers, you said.a fire would burn you to ash.you wanted to fill my chest withthe sound of a train, whistlingfar away in the night;with the sound of rain smacking leaves;with the sound the wind makeswhen it seems like it's trying to speakand you wanted to throw in thesmell of midnight in augustand the feeling of sand beingsucked out from under your feetwhen the ocean inhales,and the strange little moment ofbittersweet joy you get whensomeone else puts your soul into wordsand you realize you're not as alone as you thought.i told you that if i had all that inside me,i'd ache all the timeand you smiled a sad little smile,because you already knew that ache.because you were a writer, and you ached all the time.i've got it, i said.tell
mutethings have been easierwithout words &we pretend neither of us care;we stuttersplutterlaughing and chokingon puns &when you bend me over nounsi screamloudergrowlmore fluent.the words are there waiting to be spokenme . you . lovemy dear, we've been mutefor so longspeak to me.
A+Pyou bare your muscles,threaded in tight knots, bundled but beautiful, yourslike those fibrous eyes,irises in maple coilsunwinding me, asunkempt synapses.a glance inside your lovelyskin, bones, nerves, I'd liketo press your pleasurepoints, to scrape against your thighs,my fingers trembling,the dimples on yourshoulders, enzymes, waiting foran induced fit, mine,thumbs brushing your hips,lips lain softly twixt your veins,a complex of us,your latticed, protein-laden pulchritude, pleated,folded into sheets,await just one touch.
Autumn AutopsyAs lovers,we were reckless;Childrenchasing firefliesin a field of mines.We traded kissesand carefree caressesfor shrapneland blackened skin.Short momentsstolen pawnedat the costof darker afternoons,the twilightof the dying season;We didn't ask,we never questionedthe interestof our expenditures.I shed my skinin the Autumn of youth,peeled backthe viscera andbared the bone --Rising up,a scarecrow of wormsand raw meat,amongst the stalksof reddened corn.Tonightshe clingsto dusty artifacts,shelved trinketsandwrinkled sheetsladen with memoriesof decaying potency;The wispsrising from the cooling wickwill never beas sweet aswhen the flameburned brightest.
Lightning Bug CosmosI lace my skin up like a corset, peel back the blinds on my eyelids, and take a step forward, waking from the poppies to the lightning bug glow of truth tapping on my eardrums.In front of the mirror I stand, but what I notice is not the awkward crook of my nose or butterfly lashes. I look into the lighted mirror as if searching for answers hidden underRibbon-like sets of veins, arteries and nerves.Sometimes it all flows correctly; sometimes everything becomes knotted up in all the wrong places. Skin toughened by beatings brought about by the
You can't have it allbut you can have the glazed heat bursting from the blacktop like a brokenfire hydrant. You can have the jangle of keysswinging from your hip with each stride.You can have the tactility of leather and the graze ofbathroom mosaic tiles under a cold shower peltingbullets and when the water cuts offyou can have dry book pages. You can have happiness,though it will often be bitter, like finding a stranger’swallet full of pictures of smiling children until youreturn it to find that the couple is barren.You can have the scratches on the back of his knuckles,faded, yet raw. You can have the translucency of sheetsin the sun, silhouettes but no details,never revealing anything more than a fringe of hairand frayed laces tripping over themselves.You can drop obscenities like bombs untilthey don’t mean anything anymore. You can pull out the Monopoly boardthat broke your family. You can’t put it back together,but you can pretend the thimble is your mother and the
despondenti."are you sleepy today?""yes.""but you were sleepy yesterday.""i know."ii.she stirs her pomegranate green-tea until it turns from clear to purplesetting it on her bedside table and climbing back into bed again.her fingers follow the bluer-than-usual constellation veins on her wrists and downto the freckle on her forearm and then the scar on the inside of her elbowcrossing the tendon as if it were crux.and then she remembered that God hasn't been with her lately.iii.today is long and sunny but when she steps outside the humidity creaks her bonesand her skin starts to inflame.she assumes that if getting the mail is a struggle, having a child would be too.iv.often times when she sets her tea down she remembers that her Bible is in the drawer beneathalong with the crucifix necklace that her mother made her.v.her husband comes home late nowadays and she never questions why that may bebecause she knows.she would do the same too if she had a wife who took four different
Expunge It starts like the bristling detachment of Velcro or the arrogant snap of a rubber band on your wrist. The cringing, ripping sound, the reflexive quick sting, ringing vibrantly on in the moments after. Like a bell that tolls a beat of hours that is overlooked in the passing, then counted by recalling rhythm afterwards. Instinctually, you want to keep going, keep climbing, over rubble and debris. The day has long since ended as you move through stark jagged blackness. You check the breast pocket of your jacket for a match. You strike the little brown line, once, twice, three times and light the now apparent hallway. The match burns down to your fingertips and dies. You let the remnants of stick and ash fall on the floor of the thick carpeted rug, decorated like elevator music, and see that your panoramic view of atmosphere stays alight, and right in front of you your eyes are beholding a door in your path. You can’t open the door by force. Your elongated appendages, unique
plumbumshe has a heart of goldand she, a heart of leadand she, a heart of uranium.and they go walking sometimes, the three of them.gold is confident in her worth,untarnishablebought and sold and bought and soldthe virgin whoreand lead behind,heart heavy in her chestguilt from bulletsand pride from pipesand anxiety from irreparable brain damageand somewhere off to the side treads uranium,tumors growing,white skin glowing,thin frame for a dense core.
FiftyPlease understand: I do not wantto want this (you).I realized at poem nineteen-of-fifty:You (college-borne) are a new you,I (weaponized) am a new me,and the new me still wants the new you.
moondust.we live in a world where our lungs are black and outlined with angry streaks of red. we plant diseases and destruction in the holes of our stomachs and watch them grow they shoot up fast and clog up our throats with ashy leaves.our fingernails are ripped, jagged edges digging into pale skin and leaving white hot lines in their wake. our wings are crumpled, feathers bent and pressing into the expanse of our backs they're the weights on our shoulders, and there's no space left for anything else.your tongue is cracked and so is mine. words no longer form, sounds no longer rise. dreams and wishes fall into the cracks as nightmares rush past them out into the open. that breathtaking sequel to life you were hoping for no longer exists we are now aimless, hopeless, and craving for sin.we swallow moons and exhale moondust; we stray from orbits and into vacuums. but all we ever wanted were the touch of lightly powdered lips against our flesh.
ISLNDSyou like the waythe i slants,an error'sguidancein a seaof hyphens.sans-serifin cropped crestsmade to full-stop breastsbeating;an obsess-ion breathingin lost chests.now a motiveis seethingwith options;play thiefand proceed greedily,often.dive deepand drinkthe leap's froth;breath is onlyas sweet as thespeech that breeds thought.
the tease of Earl Greywhen leaves speak they rustlebut shan't talk of lost cattleout of bags like cats lyingpurring perhaps stirringgainsaying the languageof pictures - much fewerthan one thousand wordswhispered soft - softerours to read intoby catching a hint ofsome spiciness breweda sugaring of love -or upcoming dangera giving or takingfrom whom in this strange landonce was a strangerby this chance assessedthrough one's cup or glassdarkly lit yet it befrom wet leavings of teahopefully let it bethe sugaring of love -llp - dA - jan2013DD - feb1/2013
My Husband Tried To Make Love To Memy husbandtried to make love to me.he was topaz, he wasgrim, he was the chalkand smoky fireof fear and gnawed-atangels-he was the bright face of fruit.he was horrible and strange. he stared,licked and rolled me in his palmslike a cigarette, wordlesslydragged me from my grassy bedby the bones in my legs andpinned me down in that darklysmiling, jagged place wherehe put his hands on me and draggedthe crushed moans from my chestmade me yelllike a dogand oh how frightenedand tremblingand in awe i was of his caverns,his black and rolling eyeshow his pomegranates bledand stungand trickled, bitterin mymouth
Worn Out Siren TalesI was once the moon-rippled, crystal cleardisturbance at shoreand you found hope, restingon the borders ofsand and wave.When I moved, you breathed,It just isn't worth it,and IwishIhad listened.I was carved on ship hulls for areason,and I was summoned from sleep todrown myself in the clutchesof a sea that disowned mefor one too-and I wrote on woody parchmentsfor more attention thanstory-telling.So when you moved, I stopped,Tell me this is eternal,And Iwish-I reallywishI had not.