poems not about any ONE particular person: 2011
It’s hard to write a poem when you don’t trust yourself
or the people who ripped you into life, their bodies
plastered to each other, touching, reaching, entering
in ways that catch flight with the imagination, exactly
what you don’t want when it is your own mother and father.
There are some fathers who bring alcohol to work,
get drunk, and get fired. There are some fathers who crash
the car while blurred and slurred on Vicodin. There are some
who sneak away for cigarettes, burning secrets, hastening death.
There are some who cheat on their wives. And those wives
find out the week before you are born, on the same day they
discover their best friend has been killed on an icy road in the dark
and she breaks and so does her water and you are falling
but it is only stress and they give her some drugs
There are some fathers who scream with pain, migraines bursting
colors across their tightly shut eyes as they writhe in cold sheets,
and then spend more nights glued to blue light, hours of intellectual surrender
to save them from too much thought or feeling or life.
They are gentle and they help raise you. They braid your hair
and read you bedtime stories, and take you to dinner on your birthday.
There are some mothers who stay with these fathers, separate beds,
separate chairs, separate lives, intertwined responsibilities and Silence
and Looks and Thoughts Kept To Themselves. They fight when the
doors are closed and the children are in bed and you never knew.
You just found beer bottles in the bathroom and threw them away and
looked at wedding pictures and assumed your parents were happy together
because nothing else would make any sense. You didn’t know about the drinking,
the drugs, the affairs, the lies, the sneaking, the self-destruction. You knew
you were loved. That’s all.
But now you know. You know now. And you don’t understand.
You don’t understand how she pretended to trust him.
You don’t understand how she pretended to love him.
Maybe she did somehow. You don’t know. You just try not to date your father,
whirling through paranoias of alcoholism with boys who like to drink and like you
and don’t see what the big deal is. You don’t trust anyone when they’re drunk.
You trust few when they’re sober. You try to protect yourself but you’re not that
kind of person, and you fall in love and you give yourself completely to people
who are beautiful, heartbreakingly beautiful, who drink their depression away
You didn’t get to fix your father. Maybe you can fix him.
(You don’t realize you are thinking this)
You can’t. He leaves. He loves you but you’re too afraid. He refuses to stop
drinking despite blackouts and forgotten kissing with other mouths and you cry
and you love him but he’s too afraid. You cry and he leaves because there’s
nothing wrong with him, but there’s something wrong with you. Alcohol is for fun
and what’s your problem? Why do you assume it’s so destructive?
What’s wrong with you? And resentment and lying and it all ends and you’re alone.
And new love blooms in responsible eyes, the color of the ocean, or is that
the same thing as the color of the sky?
But you’re still falling. Look up!
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poems not about any particular person: 2017
Wishing to be a panda plant, fleshy leaves tender and peach soft, inner arm soft, back of knee soft, new rabbit soft, and remembering when I was despite
never having been. To need so little water.
White garlic flowers rising out of mint,
wanting to crawl beneath on hot days,
not minding the disagreement of smells
for the sake of the small, soil-cool,
bee-singing, petal-dropping, tender, soft space wherein there is nothing but light dripping and I never need to speak.
Every plant a friend, each wild animal
a hand or foot, extension of self, the self
that looks with fear but I ache to see me
as brethren, as same, as panda plant,
as arm or leg. Hair of milkweed, body
of buddleia.
Man potting plants at my feet like birthing foals and I’ll pull him under the mint until we are soft as soil, bruised-petal-tender, and get wet each time it rains.
-
0 notes
poems about sean going forward in time
He picked me a wildflower every day.
Forest, lake, brush, meadow, roadside, from life to life
in whorled, toothed, irregular ecstasy. Asters, thistles, lilies,
spikes, white-wool undersides, the colors of a rusting canoe,
a snake’s back. We found a devil’s paintbrush and let it grow.
The mouse made it to shore. Defending our wooden kingdom,
we watched years of lake history swim below us.
Gentle man, following ducks, eyes of rainwater, enter the sun.
Love its own axis, we rotate around jointed stems and basal leaves
into soil, warmth, water, and lovers’ quiet.
-
“I got lost in the plip-plops,” he said, clutching his paddle, startled by my voice. We had both gotten lost in the lake. The bloop-shh of fish jumping, the sssss of our canoe going over the lilypads, the meeeee of bugs in our ears. The baby dragonflies following us like we’re their mother. The hope of water snakes quietly passing. The breath of the mountain. His eyes are turtle shells.
-
Savior
I gave you the broken pieces
you breathed them in close like rosemary
I love you
-
Looking up at the soft, warm shapes that make up my lover, the humid silence settles down across his spine. Thoughts rise of sloping, cooling lava flows, the earth at its most intimate. Your hands are pockets of air, essential, the space that allows the form. You are my warmest moment.
-
0 notes
poems not about any particular person: 2016
popsicles
maple pollen fever dreams
magnolia blossoms crackling melting like ice
crocus back into soil, daffodil noon;
tulip out of reach
blood orange popsicles and you taste the wood of the stick on purpose
blood orange popsicles and the fever comes and goes
-
marigolds
tufts of saffron
garden drenched in scent, swaddled by
the aroma of marigolds, keeping at bay
those who would eat
before you can eat
protection not always so lovely and soft,
I am struck by the poetic grace
of a favorite flower also possessing profound purpose–
usefulness–as though its beauty is a clue–as though it draws us in on purpose
fed by the grace of flowers
-
april 2
manic freedom of late
knowing I can control and be
knowing I am soft and loved
being okay with being alive
I may not be truly me, but bones are close
and quietly approaching
what else can I do
-
april 4
the way I wanted people
the way it grew in me like poison, like heaven
the way I was knocked into the dirt
the way I begged for more
the way I broke for them
the way I hurt myself with love
the way it coiled up and twisted and brought me to my knees
the way I looked up at them
the way they didn’t look at me
0 notes
poems not about any particular person: 2015
quiet quiet quiet quiet
the thump thump thump of nothing
pulsing against every vein and inch of skin
this is not where I will rise
it is in the fields; soil, drinker of water, salvation
answers growing out the tips of leaves, flowers, tendrils
let me be a root, spreading apart toes knees hands knuckles shoulders mind
let quiet be full of sounds of worms and rain and bees and wind
music
-
Wildfire
the prayer of buzzing cicadas, whirling dervish crickets
every space brush grass trees surrounded
slowed down, a symphony
rippling like wildfire
does the soil know quiet?
-
books like dark honey, words congealing on my skin my hair inside me
bathing to coat yourself in filth to scrape it off to feel that hum that clean
sweetness burning behind eyes like sorrow like burnt caramel like sun
let me sink down to this–I belong–let me be glory let me break let me hurt
hurt me
-
I thought I was too quiet for spoken word poetry
but—the constant spilling out of words, breaking fast, in my mind:
it's sound—
I'm broken up by sound
and this place could be somewhere to break
Quiet doesn't exist in nature.
There is sound in roots growing
in soil shifting
in leaves fading
in coral reaching
Everything is here to be heard
Everything
No quiet
Forests
No quiet
Ocean
No quiet
Where there is earth—no quiet
and in me, there is earth
so no quiet
I first knew mania at age twelve and had no word for it
it was a break from sadness and then
it was the frenzied rearranging of my bookshelves
it was drawing in sketchbooks on walls on skin as though without it life would go out
click off
as though if my words and shapes went unexpressed
there would be nothingness
it was dreaming of divinity, sure that musicians were prophets, and that if my dimension could merge with theirs
salvation
Assured I was depressed, assured that my brokenness was in a book, I was put on meds at age sixteen
They don't tell you that the last thing you should take if you're bipolar
is anti-depressants
Nights spent in metro stations,
writing roughly on my skin with sharp smudging ink,
avoiding curious men, who see insanity and see opportunity
when I was just trying to get home
I saw people I knew as prophets, and crashed myself over and over into the lines that I could see between their dimensions and mine
I could feel mine collapsing
I looked for salvation in touching, touching like
if I satisfied him, he would let me out
and everything would open up
The ricochet of glory and then devastation that twisted me up and made me feel like
there was no quiet
inside
so I would be quiet when I could
For a while I believed I was a bird—I hate the word delusion
because in moments I was one
Collecting feathers like finding clues,
gently washing each one and arranging them in a box
Maybe if I found enough
they would become something
and I could just be that
and not me
Bipolar
that word lived in episodes of TV, full of violence and complete detachment from reality
that word lived in news reports
of murderers and suicide victims
that word wasn't a girl who craved love
that word wasn't a girl who sought quiet
that word wasn't a girl who wanted her teachers to like her, who sang with her friend in locked cars, who auditioned for plays because she liked Shakespeare even though she couldn't stand for people to look at her, who baked lemon bars when she allowed herself to eat
there was no quiet in that word, only sound
there was no love, only anger
It wasn't said to me in the soft rooms of psychiatry until I saw spirits in the shadows
swirling darkness coming for me
and I had to be taken to the emergency room
where they made me take off my bracelets
and I lied about wanting to live so I could leave
Medication
symbyax made me fat
lithium made me sick
and now—
my meds help me sleep
and
they disconnect me from the divinity that I could always feel bleeding into my dimension
that crippling, overwhelming connectedness that made me believe in salvation
they keep poetry quiet
they keep art quiet
So I have to dig for them
Where they once spilled out, faster than I could drink
they now come only if I pull them out
filament after filament
and—they don't feel the same
Except, sometimes
in shocks of moments, they hit me
and I have to grab hold
and dig my fingers in
and let there be sound
0 notes
poems not about any particular person: 2014
I tried green tea today
to help me quiet down
a cardinal perched outside the window
as I
brewed in mint and ice cubes
there are bugs that look like hummingbirds
at first glance—so what do I know
about the weight of birds?
-
cultivating nostalgia
Listening to songs that buzz and ache like dreams
Wandering familiar neighborhoods; old trees, new flowers
Talking to old friends, letting old pains arise, holding them
with compassion
Driving with the windows down; nothing else but air and this
Trying to feel free again, although it only came in moments
Trying just to feel again,
the sky pulling up, the earth pulling down
-
Mint and green tea leaves
Tasting mania
I just want to feel
-
I’m not here
strawberries spreading possessively
mind sticky with music
light burrowing through leaves
forests of empty space
-
illusion ache, soft edges of space
sleepless forest–an animal moving in every moment
reaching out, fading in
nothing else–snow, holly berries, fallen branches, bare skin,
dreams of icebergs
the impossibility of silence, each bird a prophet of sound
-
Whittling myself down, shavings on the floor–fallen leaves–silence
digging to feel, to reach that deafening nothing–quiet salvation–delusion
Feeling more like shavings than art– scattered apart
treetops shedding, hibernating, foxes in the dark, yearning, drowning in sawdust
0 notes
poems not about any particular person: 2013
There are no separations
Only that which veils water from land
One drowning love
One sleeping shelter
Ages in the middle of labor
Love in the middle of one
We hold in our bodies what can bind us
We hide in our fear what is free
There is an animal that leads us to breath
Name drowning shelter
We are the wet soil between water and land
-
I don’t get hungry when I sleep
Trees begin to fall around me, truths exposed, tearing up soil
Lost in what I’ve become, I search for deer all afternoon, looking for myself
in their frightened eyes and rough fur
Pine needles to gravel, my path turns man-made against my will
They want to fill me with heavy metals
-
An entry in my journal while losing my mind in Ohio
It’s when the dimensions converge
Like the brackish blur between river and sea/
fresh and salt
That things begin to rock back and forth, things move, everything falls, my body tries to follow the motions
My brain is lost
I JUST WANT TO FEEL EVERYTHING
I don’t even have any poetry in me to express it
Every single night’s all right,
Every single night’s a fight
I can’t face how much of a burden I am right now. I can’t even look at him. I’m a waste of his time. I am barely human.
There’s something else IN ME
I am SOMETHING ELSE
percolate my mind
I hate this.
-
Sweet fire, flat tire
Craving cigarettes, taking the rain into my body, turning it out
like growing leaves
Three fans whirling at once
I am not alone. Click on electric candles and curl in
all soft and grey
Is there a song for every feeling?
-
hidden bones— that wasn’t why you loved it anyway
it was the hunger, the clouds swirling inside, the nothing
it wasn’t the bones, but it was
you try to remember what it was
it was everything
you try not to fall in
-
trying to look up
A positive outlook, he says
resting at the bottom of the lake
trying to look up
A quivering, separate universe
under my tongue, showing what is known and unknown
Does it matter who I am?
trying to look up
Feeling the odd silence just beneath my skin,
the dimensions that separate my insides from the world around
trying to look up
Looking in every direction but the one
-
There’s a reason she doesn’t Feel anymore
But she doesn’t know what it is. Age, medication, some sort of inner failure?
A wicked numbness that still lets her feel the sharp edges of things,
but not the perfect soft curving in of every moment
She tries to make herself be who she was, who she really is,
but it’s gone. She tries to write instead
Every night it gets dark again
0 notes
poems not about any particular person: 2012
Lie down in the snow
The light is dimming by that purple line of sky and land
It’s soft and it’s quiet and your destination is disappearing
Let yourself rest
You will be buried quickly
You will be free, you will be your own
You will be me
We will be all
All will be you
All will rest
0 notes
poems not about any particular person: 2009
here on the brink of 11:11 and I’ll give you some words
ripped out of my palms like flowers, cast across plastic
held, cusped close to my petal ears and silvergold jewelry
as if there were any sunshine to be had in June, where
Frost’s leaves subside and seconds trickle down trees
see, now it has passed
-
July 01
and with this shock of a month I will start
pouring down daily, throwing off edits and
perfected phrase. summer is for a new poem
with every sunglimpse. haunt me like a hollowed
tree, this is my time. evergreens and oaks, I
slip into the stilled skywater and breathe throughout.
-
July 02
or maybe I will write when it happens to spill out
like light particles or communism. lenin needed trotsky
but didn’t always want him, and they split
into history like old pages of a novel made for nothing
but they took death into their hands
during the mad whirr of their lives, and spat on it reverently
-
Wild, with respect to Mary Oliver
The Human Body: rhythmic to a fault
Clasping to some cacophony, forgetting the silence and
mountains that made it. Touching the timpano, restless flesh..
We settle into requiems.
The fade of an electric note, set to highest reverberation;
some prayer. We have only our tragic bones and skin,
tender muscles, burning nerves
to hold up before us. The gentle space between our limbs,
cradles between fingers, messiah of our spine–
our palms alone sustain us. The grime of music caking our soles,
and that’s it. We tread on your ballads, your minuets,
folk ditties, we swim through symphonies, and shake on the shore.
We save nothing, but are formed of residue. We touch
but don’t mean to touch. We forget to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves, lungs forgiving oxygen. Unspoken treatises of the skin.
Roam your animal with mine,
and disregard inherent pulse.
And if you must beat, syncopate,
remapping my tempo and strapping me to the earth.
-
Where Have My Mountains Gone
What is it about language
that picks me up, fragile and egg-like, with giant talons of desire
and places me in nests I didn’t know I belonged
But if I’m here, I must, in some way or another, or another, or another
and this home isn’t the one I left- I may not even be here now, elsewhere, a rest.
Strange familiarity, as if I planned to get lost, mapless, questing
to quench the driving thirst I pack into my lungs by the fistfuls, breaking
fresh habits with my fingernails, swollen ravines in the flesh of the face
of every enemy I touch gingerly, some dangerous intimacy of A B C
Pressing my face into the palms of everything I can’t, don’t, won’t stand for
falling down like Elvis, tapping my feet to a page of prose
Never forgetting that I’m the only living boy in New York,
but that says nothing to what I will be as a man.
Half of the time we’re gone, but we don’t know where, we don’t know where.
-
Tripping
Who’s that girl with the tired eyes
and the red, red lips? Tell her,
I’m sorry I fell asleep with my
penis still inside of her.
Tell her that when the werewolves
come, all they’ll take is what
she meant to say anyway,
so she doesn’t need any guns.
Tell her she is as rough as a
woollen scrub brush, and that’s
why I screamed when she kissed
my ear lobes. Tell her we’re gravity.
Say that I don’t need anything
from her but the things that
she knows I don’t want,
so my beard can grow long and she can
sigh as loudly as she wants to, but I’m
never pulling out. Tell her.
-
“I hear words I never heard
in the Bible.”
Judas turned to Maria and he
hummed through his teeth.
She understood the difference
between solitude and sacrifice.
-
Scribbled Thoughts
With every jab of the needle
she swallowed deeper and
begged harder to be released
from art. She didn’t put
on these boots to sit in
a room all day. He moved
down her back to Africa.
Golden thread under her finger
nails. Like she wasn’t just
touching herself in a bathroom
stall, like that wasn’t art.
-
The last time I told you to
be quiet you didn’t blink
for five minutes. I’m sorry.
Let’s fit in closer. I never
meant to do anything to your
breath. Should I touch lower?
How do you want me to use your
arms? I’m sorry. Take off your sandals.
I’ll rebuild poison ivy from
your childhood expectations,
unreceived presents and
prison visits.
-
but it’s known in this town
that he walks upside down
I’m not tired in the way I should be
but I promised a friend he could sleep next to me
if that’s enough for a singer,
it’s enough for a thief
-
My Empire of Dirt
Dried royal mud stretches up thighs, an armor of grass, water, dirt, bacteria.
Streaks down her back from where her soiled hair rested, now cropped close,
sawed by stone. Nothing clothes her breasts. Leathered feet dip fearfully into
pure water. Cleanliness means nothing. It is the eternity I have brought you
here for, animal. Close your feral eyes. This is the ocean, marshland queen.
0 notes
poems about stefan going forward in time
sonic youth
it was 2:45 in the morning
sunday morning
it was two songs nestled in my ear, beat & struck
with the chord of time that I keep curled inside
my seventeenth rib cage, this year’s molecules. it’s
east out here, but i see in every direction
eternal sin
sky eyes again
falling or rising to this, the sun is broken on a mist beam…
kindred, what a word, just like people who are made
out of clay or something else you would use
in elementary school
muse
-
I’ll teach you to sleep
She said into concrete, baseball field lights
singing at trees
It’s meditation, really
Air for skin, feathers replacing hands to brush-
you could be from this same bird
Who sang up that we should love each side equally,
with sleepless bedroom eyes
Buddhism aside, this is gentle suffering
-
body blue as toes, shriveled with moisture but glowing
bursting out with skylines and horizons on your shoulders
shuddering through daybreak, clutching to nothing
jump the fence
undress
using your eyes as lungs
breathe-blink, breathe-blink, breathe-blink
skinned by the second
-
The Way We Get By
Another dappled late summer afternoon with papers in hand,
golden sound waves beneath my fingertips, rising and falling
with the leafy pressure of my palms- hoping you will taste like
this air, nothing shining, whistles, cicadas, cigarette, honey bees
braided through my clean hair, like the stillest, tallest branches
of every tree in this circle of a day, tugging at my morning lily terraces
like a gentle reminder of how I used to lean my arm out of the window
and count each breath in french, un deux trois quatre cinq six sept huit
neuf dix onze douze treize quatorze quinze seize dix-sept dix-huit dix-neuf
vingt Just waiting in the most being way possible, purple glow across
parking lots, lettuce climbing out of garden beds, rustling light. End
everything and begin again, remembering to stretch afterwards
I can receive anything from here forward
Tender sky, flailing grass, feather tucked behind one ear and pure lungs,
melting ice, blue dictionaries, the way we get by firmly in hand, freckles
and nothing and no one, but everything. Smooth skin fresh like soap,
childhood whispering away and your eyes a song 5 minutes, 41 seconds
long. Clouds beginning to realize to fly, airplanes made of twigs–
leave all your treasure behind, you need only oxygen in your lungs to float.
-
Your Debutante Just Knows What You Need, But I Know What You Want (a head full of pesticides)
and
old
river way
silent amongst thunder, rustles in its creaking waves and breaks through every one
I can use my words my way. ambivalence no more
Red wine makes me suicidal/
Blood in glass/
My mind grows idle/
and I curl up beneath
and I hold my breath
and I hold yours in
and I cup each hands, a Dickensian prayer
And I touch the Mona Lisa. and like a fool I mixed them
and I have no sense of time. Bun nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh nuh Well I see
Honey
Please
Don’t
Soaring through the keys, I sit on blankets and know what he really loves you for.
But she breaks just like tiny girls, enter Saxophones
From now on I will call you Cellar Door. So touch my hand and my shirt
and swallow down every liquid cure you can find.
-
Another 11:11 on Another Sunday Morning (a description of a surreal, visually intoxicating dream I had last night)
“When do you have to leave?”
“Oh, you know, after,” those widening eyes, the knowing giggle of rainstained grass
I lead you by the hand through my mountain home, the sun ricocheting through
yellow green rooms and sheds, moss beneath bare feet, like therapy.
Your fish-blue eyes darting, feeling everything, content in your five senses,
your biology, softly giving the laws of nature
your small redeeming glance.
You know already that we will be sleeping in a Spirit Ditch. Small talk with my
father, and we explore into a basement reminiscent of trashy middle school
fantasy.
Subtle hands, featherless, at my waist, my neck, brushing and gone, some
salvation across a Western-set sun, and a kiss beneath my ear.
Has-been fireworks strewn on sidetables, tumultuous furniture; we immediately
acknowledge an abandoned silence in this space, with the soft impact of
hand on hand.
Becoming a force beyond a presence, your arm turns my body in place.
We in your motion turn and you may move us.
Three words released, convictionless, significant, searching, bare, unexpected..
Not out of the blue; some warmer color: “I love you.” Your words like a rumbling
resonating electric guitar solo soaring over highways, cathartic, a blanket
or sheet of static and pounding, threading nothing
and I think of songs as you press in, a rolling pin without a coat of flour,
pulling me in your motion, moving me, Gentle Brother
“Will you still mean that in the morning?” Because that is the mark.
Some movie-scene answer of always meaning it, and I know exactly where you are. You have adapted to the mountains, with so many places left to go. You have forgotten your restlessness in my little shoulder touches, my kingdom.
We will never show sleeve but for when we show arm, because we are good men
and Luciana is lost.
I brought you to this house as a partner in crime, fellow renegade, to dip
into lakes and leap down stone thousands of miles high. We sit in the bright,
lampless basement of broken glass and blue mattresses, and then you are
somewhere else, but this makes every sense.
A girl walks in and suddenly she shows me television in the absence of your
eyes of blue;
I wait for the men who want to rule the world. She needs to record something,
and I direct her towards the box of VHS. Her pixie hair and sullen face suggest
she’s not alone; soon enough a party seeps in. I only wanted moss.
You return looking for me, become spellbound by the lights and heroin, and watch
with an arm melting into mine. We stand in real-time together as the party
becomes color streaks around us
Buzzes to us: Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;
Lay open to my earthly-gross conceit
Smother’d in errors, feeble, shallow, weak The folded meanings
of your words’ deceit. Against my soul’s pure truth why labour you
To make it wander in an unknown field?
Are you a god? would you create me new? Transform me then,
and to your power I’ll yield. We are princes in the galaxy that spans
from where they are to where we are now.
And then we return to light. In a simple country room. “Will you still mean it in the
morning?” But I crawl in.
It is thyself, mine own self’s better part, mine eye’s clear eye.
Gently, with the minutes, we are air, too real, everything I knew was beneath and
above.
-
as though, if you touch
gently enough, you’ll believe
you don’t have fingers
tendrils of nothing
seeping out of sea silence
evaporating
like haiku is breath
(marble binocular eyes)
like you are exhale
my palms melt to milk
I feel your quiet shaking
me awake; last touch.
-
“im not concerned with Love and law.
im not saying these words to impress you.
i will die alone but that in itself is destiny.
i need you to Know.”
Honey & Gravel
I laughed and I don’t care
I love sin
the fact that you are married-
sleep
I burn to touch everything with a heart of darkness
but some things make me pure (the one I really need)
Linger on
because what the fuck
are we here for
anyway
but to feel that emptiness, but to convince Somebody
that we are nothing.
Don’t forget astronomy, honey, please don’t. As if we are here.
I don’t care
about any
destiny
What is
is
is is
and destiny doesn’t care about me, daytripper, nighttripper, mindsoul nothingness
WHAT are mirrors made to do, and why does my mouth crave everything
So who would I be
if I didn’t want you
inside
I mean that with incredible writhing warmth
is
is is
pure
pure
pure
Children of cathartic silence, soar across me
feel me into earth
I will never Know anything but mountains
so give me nothing that is not green
and touch touch touch touch
no, shhhhhhhh
Jimmy
the strings of everything, and destiny on a wheel of Jesusblood
my
entire network of matter is there already
the way you should be held
Nobody Has Eyes
so I do not care except for the muscles throughout my frame
who remind me to crawl in Crawl in like something that once learned to fly
FLY
everything I knew was beneath and above
crawl
inside
me
fly
inside me
if you have a voice
(I am the sun, I am the air)
You can break your molecules apart by sheer will.
-
Let Me Play It
When morning is like the sugary sensation of wing-bone ripping
the delicate flesh of my shoulder bones, there is a readiness,
a readiness to let me in, let me be here, and count the curvatures
of my spine into the cigarette-strewn robin blue paneling
beneath even water
My Sweet Lord, somewhere nowhere eyes, parting hands and lips,
wounds, wing-membrane and tender ginger headaches
sprinkling spices in my hair, sandalwood oil between my fingers,
sex and absynthe and disfiguring, luminous heroin like levitation
and you the patron saint of travellers, or the first Catholic martyr
stoned to death, but who would not feel so alone if everybody must
Palm to palm, you breathe nothing like I do, a separate anatomy
and chemistry: I a bird
You a feather, borne out on nothing, brahman nirvana heaven darkness
making pure even sorrow, granulated and unadulterated, white opium
of mutual understanding, two bird cages wired together, doors swinging
wide open
-
hear me make a noise
I have felt your ears and know
they received sound once
choosing not to hear
is just to break me, is just
blue swirling forget
you felt everything
in the pale whites of your eyes
linger on, hear me
-
3D
There’s the part that loves, and the part that still loves
There’s the line folded, twisted, the möbius strip, the breath
Color flowing with shape, sound, taste interchangeable
guitar strings, warming air, pain unacknowledged, and being pulled
by my center to all the things I would like to be a part of.
There’s whom we love, and whom we still love
One the heart, one the hand
-
My lost muse
below the blanket of chemicals, I remember you
The pure messiah,
a field by the road, a man-made lake
We jumped the fence and took off our clothes
Songs of honeysuckle and time
desperate hopes in rhyme
It broke me in two
my fickle prophet
My salvation, the one
from days long gone
0 notes
poems about greg going forward in time
My father’s pouring wine down the sink
As though if he pours faster he won’t need the drink
And the look on his face
is the furthest from grace
While my mother’s warm breath
murmurs slowly to rest
The world’s on a chain round my wrist
I fall to my bed with a radio kiss
And if you can hear
through the static veneer
I’ll come to your home
But from there I will roam
-
summer
faded into fall and we laid in the grass
hidden by the tall trees but illuminated
by street lights. on the edge of the woods
but at the beginning
of a vast asphalt parking lot.
marginally placed
residing in our own purgatory.
on the verge of a new beginning
a new life we were alone
but together.
nothing else mattered.
i was broken.
damaged.
destroyed.
but for the first time in what felt like a lifetime,
i felt
some flicker of hope.
in reality i knew nothing
of you but small superficial
pieces strung together hastily in those
two
months from when we first met
but in my heart i already
felt like i was a part of you.
i had spent every moment aching
to just know a little more about you.
i was completely consumed. you
captivated me.
and when we laid there together
…i felt whole. i was
safe.
we talked of nothing, we talked of everything
i sat there and listened
just appreciating the sound
of your voice and how comforting it was
i looked at you and wanted
to remember
every curve and freckle.
in that moment
in that beautiful consuming agonizing moment
i saw a glimmering spark of love
for the very first time.
-
First
Searing pain, piercing, invigorating, soaring, pain pain pain,
oh
Yes, I’m sure
Quiet eyesight, pupil in pupil, irises strewn like light across arched spine
Pain, yes, pain, yes, I’m sure. I can’t breathe, but I promise you I like it
I like it
Ah ah ah Ah you, you, you are the gentlest.
Are those hands? Deep, soft, hard, searching, they are sparrows
You are flying inside me
Love, an inadequate word for this honeyed everything.
Velvet daggers
across my internal organs, evaporating through my skin
You are the gentlest, you are the gentlest, I’ve never been so scared in my life
I’ve never felt so free, I’ve never been so safe. Let me relax
I am ready to receive, I have always been waiting to receive you, I have always
I have always been here
Yes. I’m sure. I like you inside me. Even if it never stops hurting, we are flying.
-
You are moving velvet inside
of me. You are blue shirts
and parting mouth.
If I find my wings I have
to breathe them into something
fused to bone and outstretched.
Shake them out. Remember
the shaky, emanating movement
and the devastating pleasure-sky
of leaves and light and
absolute resting, flying Oneness.
There was no time, just
rock podiums, crying into
leather jackets that think
on themselves, blending film
and yellow holy trees. Deer that
run and joggers that don’t
care. Velvet body and
crawling, carpeted stairs.
Laughing cartwheels, tangled
limbs, unbuttoned contact,
eyes like a deer I will
trace the length of.
I brought you to the tree
that made me a woman,
or whatever you have felt
me be. Let your tongue
roam, let my body sink
into soil and rise into
something you can see
move when it’s supposed
to be STILL. Move time.
-
Moth-wing eyes draped somewhere between waterfalls
and sunflowers; you where nothing else exists.
Dragonfly whisperer
Some sort of inside never imagined. Involuntary movement,
eyes ubiquitous. Hands made of quietest flesh, taut, a leap
of doubt and faith. Perfect lusting fire as everything
If I take your hands, from them I will make boats and cities.
A body of incomprehensible presence. How you are here.
How my hands become the perfect, rustling shape for searching.
Trees, balconies, honey, pistachio, Italy, blue sheets, water,
nothing dark, everything purposefully broken, a grin like sugar tea.
This time, only poets on cars, palms on my spine, breathable air.
-
Fire
you seep
tree-wise, soft delicate flesh stretched over bird hips, nectar tongue
every color, sound, scent follows your hand in a shaky ripple as you move
I am how you will
graft into tree bark, run for fields, tear branches, like we planted
your fingertips and the energy streaming out of them together
-
WWT
If I strapped you to the garden soil with music like wild animals, where do you propose we go next?
If I planted morning seeds and waited til sunset I’d have lost a world of germination in my dirt-tipped fingers, tapping rhythms into the mint plants.
This is how it works. Don’t let the silence.
Miles from where you are, trees still grow like pilgrimages, flowers are still a hajj to sunlight. But the question is how anything operates with sunlight without your skin.
Supernova eyes,
kayak heart, bicycle feet
rollercoaster hands
-
WWT
Outpouring of thought because there is something that has been hovering over me and I’m not sure if it’s loneliness or a silence or anything else that has to do with exhaustion and not knowing where to put the snow that has entered the fields here and red buckets sit gently on wooden planks like a william carlos williams poem, simple but not knowing anything but knowing everything, and I have grown to like any part of you that I never expected to like before but what about when I reach and there is nothing to touch and the piano man plays to the screaming women who need to hear of distant love to prove that even the beautiful feel pain. examine what you believe and what you fear and see if they are the same and if there is love there for black holes and nebulas, star clusters and come home to me. a man who wanted to love me is picking up the cocaine and growing plants in his room and stealing pool cues from stores and I am never going to be with my father, who is thoughtful in many ways but helplessly self-destructive, and his eyes were beautiful but he was my father so I had to let go. but it’s okay it is all right it is okay and all right because I have found the one who doesn’t make me silent in bunk beds and turn away from a kiss, he is all gentleness and understands the things I am trying to say, understands I am not human, but his body loves the chemicals and I cannot end up in that position, I am not going to be with my grandfather, I am not going to be with my father, I am not going to go through that process of being helpless in the face of addiction, not with my lover, not when I can help it, but can I help it, but can I help it, I can’t help it, ah
-
3D
There’s the part that loves, and the part that still loves
There’s the line folded, twisted, the möbius strip, the breath
Color flowing with shape, sound, taste interchangeable
guitar strings, warming air, pain unacknowledged, and being pulled
by my center to all the things I would like to be a part of.
There’s whom we love, and whom we still love
One the heart, one the hand
-
WWT
There will always be silence because love is for everyone. I have been in love with you for what feels like years and months and decades and centuries and seconds and loves of my life, but it has been trees and plantlife. no not a but a silence a love a word a cord a dance of silent butterfly children living in a dark tree branch that sways in every thunderstorm and shakes the children down like stars into the moss where they grow into the underbrush and become a different species, a quieter, gentler, softer species, until they eventually soak into the soil and become everything. in about two hours it will have been 365 days since we first kissed and I feel like I loved you then as much as I love you now but what has been growing inside me has not been the love for you, it’s been the ability to recognize and understand and know that love for you. it has been there all along, but you We have been teaching me to hear it from a thousand miles. you are flannel bedsheets, you are an orange by the lake, you are an ice cream cone by the water fountain, you are a green woven blanket in a private property field, you are the far away city lights, you are the gentle, the tender, the quiet, the love. you say you can’t play the guitar but I am a guitar and you write sonnets with me like shakespeare on the wall in a used book place with a wheelbarrow in the center and you pick up a book on the silly couch and fall down beside me and sink in even further into the folds of the cushions and I tell you my pin number and you get money for me from across the street so I can buy you a present and you buy me a donovan album and you read kant while I make mixes and rub your back and we kiss every kiss like it is our last one and our first one and I love you greg you are the one true love, the one who has cared for me as much as I have cared for you, you are the one who taught me what love can be and how it doesn’t always cut my flesh like the eyes of those before. your eyes mend. milk-eyed mender. I love you, greg. I am forever your blueyellow bird and wildflower of the field. happy anniversary, saint francis.
-
I got two sets of headphones, I miss you like hell.
Won’t you come here and stay with me?
The peace that the cigarettes gave her was the closest she could come to how she used to feel when he held her. They burned ominously at the end of her life, eight minutes of old age lost per stick of tobacco. Each drag was a conscious choice; her health traded in for thirty minutes of not missing him.
It was exactly a month since they had kissed and she was driven away, a month of him being happier without her. Happier without her–it felt as though every pure moment between them was being pushed through the shredder even as she cried out. At her job she was all smiles; she had a nickname and bantered with coworkers. Every evening she took her ten-minute break at sunset and went outside. She lived in the sky, but her wings had been clipped. Maybe if she spent enough time looking up, something would happen.
Sitting naked on her bed, music swooned across her skin and her breath took in nothing but the notes. She wore her headphones like a chinstrap and drew with colored pencils an abstract story of loss. Across the room, on the floor, lay her second pair of headphones.
At the beginning of their love, he had always corrected her pronouns to “we.” We will travel the world. We will find ourselves. Together. They were traveling partners on individual journeys. She was in love, and she was happy to be loved.
They made each other feel more free than either of them had in a long time. Until four months into their relationship, when he drank so much alcohol he blacked out and put his tongue in the mouth of a girl he knew. He sucked on her neck and left a mark. This was when their relationship truly ended. She cried and she changed. The absolute trust she had naturally given him from the moment they first kissed was gone. Alcohol in his system made her sad, and he resented her for this. Nine months later he was happier without her.
In the past, she had longed desperately for people. She had ached, she had cried, she had kissed, she had touched. She had never been loved back.
As a child she wanted to be an astronaut, then an astronomer.
Now she wanted to be a farmer. She was realizing who she wanted to be. She wanted to work with the earth, she wanted to live close to nature, she wanted her own home, she wanted to live self-sustainably, she wanted to take care of animals, she wanted to make art, she wanted to have a lover, she wanted to have a child. Once, thinking about him, she had started to cry with happiness at the idea of bearing his child. It felt like the ultimate expression of love, to make a person out of their bodies.
His love had propelled her blood cells. Now they felt like malnourished Japanese soldiers pitted against Soviet tanks in the desert wasteland of Manchuria.
A large box of the debris of their relationship sat on the top shelf of her closet, save two items she couldn’t bear to remove from her room. A photograph of their shadows against the earth from one of the most honeyed days of her life, and a model of a red airplane that he had made for her with popsicle sticks, construction paper, and cardboard. They had agreed that they would get married when they could afford to rent a little red airplane for flying to their mountain wedding. She proposed to him in crayon on a children’s menu. He said yes.
He had been with her when the only house she had ever thought of as Home burned down. He had cut her hair when the cat she had loved her whole life died a terrible and painful death. He had held her as she cried after bullies at a summer camp raided her. She had loved him close when he was angry and disappointed with his sexual performance. She had rubbed his back when it was hit by splitting pain. She had held him when he cried on a dark street in Philadelphia because his cousin was dying. She went to the funeral and fought back her desire to hold him the entire time, and tried to give him room to mourn. They gave each other the best orgasms either one of them had ever had before. They ate the best meal either one had ever eaten in a small town in Vermont together. They both said, I will always love you. They both said, You’re the One.
They started replacing new words and phrases for “love” when they told each other how they felt. The simple word just wasn’t enough anymore.
Turning up the music, she pulled the covers over herself and looked at her extra headphones. They looked lonely without ears to rest on. One of the first things she had said to him was that she wanted to kiss his mind. This mind was happier without her now, unburdened by headphones, by love. She had two sets of headphones and she missed him like hell. He hadn’t stayed with her.
She turned it up louder.
I was in a train under a river when I remembered what
What I wanted to tell you, man
What I wanted to tell you, man
I got two sets of headphones, I miss you like hell
Won’t you come here and stay with me?
Why don’t you come here and stay with me?
-
Maybe
“I’m so attracted to you right now.”
He undid the buttons on her shirt, biting her nipples,
pulsating his hips rhythmically against hers with deathly sensuality
“I love you,” she said, eyes holding his
He lifted her up and they moved together like heat waves
She took off his shirt. Her hand reached below and touched his velvet skin
“I love you,” she said again. He looked at her fondly.
They launched at each other, she slid down his chest, his pants came off, he
moaned
Grimacing in pleasure
He gasped out as she swallowed
“I love you,” she said again. Something would change now
Something had to change now
“I love you too,” he said.
Nothing changed.
0 notes
poems about miscellaneous romantic interests for whom I did not write many poems
a terrible poem
a balmy december afternoon, two days before christmas
guilty chemistry and a particular awkwardness
we decide to just walk until we find our exit
you are an apple found, seemingly not poisonous
without taking a bite or cutting in
I will never know your parasites
what I will not do is waste you;
you will not be still-life, you will not be compost
you may not be anything
the question is, should I wash you first, and how
would I even do so?
-
kiss like
you speak like an actor kiss like an explorer
I have been to India and back, worn flowers
eaten them, and not been afraid
Something is off
I watch the dashboard
Waiting for you to kiss like you’re looking for something.
-
Sun Eyes
Invisible eyes form rings of liquid perception but
how can you see?
When I want my eyes to be
especially beautiful, you said,
I look at the sun all morning
to soak up the light
Personally,
I think you just breathe
-
Park Closed After Dark
You are shy
not entirely unexpectedly
I sit still when I don’t know where
to move
in a dark forest
under a pink sky
we listen to passers-by discuss
killing a man and taking his soul;
they think they are alone.
“Do you believe in man’s immortal soul?” one asks
jovially, pulling his sniffing dog along on a leash
A yes from the man in the black cowboy hat
“Good.”
The dogs run ahead
pulling their own beasts of burden.
We are not allowed to be in the park after dark.
But who gets to decide exactly when dark is?—
this is our defense.
this is the music I gave you
You were wondering when I would notice.
-
“you look lonely
.” I am. distance
again. love
- r you may be
if you really do
want
loneliness
or something else
easier to lose.
-
July 29
your hair was long when we first met
regina spektor reminds me of this, although really
my world runs backwards
she is correct in saying, though,
that I can’t even remember
what your
ears
look like
-
Because
Because the world is round, it turns me on
Newfound glory, it was your soft rest that made bliss
of a sweet rainy city night, draped in the shadows of purple trees
Your breath on my neck, conscious enough for shifts but
little else–so small, yet endlessly spanning
Because the wind is high, it blows my mind
Collapsing into my space, I held your presence
with the care of a scientist, letting hands brush and
knowing nothing
Love is old, love is new
Love is all, love is you
Waking in the morning together, rising to make tea
for the three of us–you, me, and your guitar, who sang
to convince me of my existence–, I watched your movements with
the silence of a lover Because the sky is blue, it makes me cry
We found something,
complete strangers, because the world is round.
-
En cours
Il faut être l'été, because I need to write a poem
And I can write one about you, can’t I? It can’t be that tough
You’ve got eyes, hands, quirks and whims, anything and everything
necessary to be poetic muse
But what why won’t you, pourquoi won’t stanzas come? C'est comme,
you’re a bright spot- There’s no shadow
from which to spin out les mots
Nothing dark to aid my craft. Which sounds bon
mais si tu n'as pas mes mots, tu n'as pas mon cœur, and I couldn’t take it
if there were nothing of you inside of me. If none of your blue
held true significance. Parce que, so far,
où es-tu? Pas ici, dans mes mains. Ni dans les mots.
Attends, peut-être
Attends
-
So I don’t know who’s supposed to break here,
but I have trees and water and can last a while
without human contact. Hold, hold hold hold hold
me. Only take what you need from it.
-
Reality bites- enjoy
You want to make me
love you. The most honest thing.
Optimism in the gamble.
A hand where it shouldn’t be. Lips
You are not the one
Deserve
Time should only serve to help
-
k
you were aggressive tenderness
touching in an idling car
first glimpse in a field
rain racing towards us across the pavement
raw music humming into me
pushing too far
I loved but not how you needed
I loved but not how I needed
I had felt free with you
“releasing from need”
but it twisted up
screaming out a car window that night, losing control
I remember the rough of your face and your smell and how angry I was
you were beautiful but couldn’t save me
you weren’t a messiah and I didn’t feel glory,
just ache
you were fucked up
I was broken and needed transcendence
with someone who would help me emerge
and not swallow me
I was swallowed by him anyway;
he was salvation at first, then the ache
I was fucked up
I still remember the dream in soft, bright bursts
it still hurts to think of you
and if I hurt you
I fucking hate you & I fucking love you
I don’t know why I didn’t need you
and I’m sorry
-
april 3
I drowned in your potency
scratching your back like a lover
a lifetime of seeping you in
unyielding need
broken stems
I would break anything for this
0 notes
poems not about any particular person: 2008
a poem for Lincoln’s birthday (Feb. 12)
there is entropy
growing in alwaysgardens
needing only soil
and water and air.
Sunlight’s irrelevant to
photosynthesis breaking out of haiku, loosening all form,
casting aspersions on carbon dioxide, our favorite exhale
down
the soil needs Sunlight too
(ultraviolet cravings
and a tendency to ask for solidthings).
we are moving towards chaos, leaving glucose as our only trail
of rebellion
-
prosetry
There was nothing in her eyes to feed his heart. He looked at her. He always looked at her. She was always standing next to him, looking away, mouth hanging slightly open. Every light fixture in the room strained to illuminate them.
Inconsolable, his heart was made of plants that grow only when spoken to. He blinked as her silence withered his body. He was a man who was tired of feeling worthless. He began all his sentences the same way. He wrote so slowly that his typewriter had begun writing ahead of him. He.
All of her sentences varied, and she never blinked. Blue eyes never need to be moistened, as they are already water. Fruit trees grew in her apartment; their branches and vines were cruel and wonderful, growing out of her occasional words. When she would laugh, all the lights would flicker, straining to hear the soft sound.
He wanted to be her light, but she was a woman who promised nothing but erasure.
-
Summer Rebellion
Looking at love that is stranger than mine,
memories of sweat dripping down to a place
Really, the reminiscence is soft, like the
light we would bathe in, feeling nights
on northern streets, flying out of cars
out of breath into stores for liquor
or for old, used things we never needed
But God did we want
Lying on cement, tar
beneath our backs, hands close,
we were Awake like owls in a lightning
storm
There was a river that June night
you whispered away the fog;
we tore off our clothes and swam
until it was morning and we couldn’t
ever go home again.
That afternoon the guitar strings broke. You wore
thinner clothes and asked me to hold you
less
Rolling stolen cars into lakes,
practicing escaping, practicing holding
our breath and looking in each other’s eyes
through water and moonlight,
as though we were made of universe.
As though we were in love. When really
we were just musicians.
Real artists kiss with their eyes open,
you’d say quietly firmly transcendentally
touching the red tired space beneath my eyes
opening your mouth
for a last breath.
-
June 20
so there’s this fear
swallowing the strands of our color but we never
ask it to calm down
to slow the trickle, no we only
breathe in and feel the burn,
and say thank you like good children
as if we have no right, no birthright to honesty
But hey, this is how the world turns
and those who grow cacti shouldn’t complain
about prickles,
you know?
-
June 22
there’s a cold storm rising
on the mississippi river
pulling out its tendrils to the mist
it washes up the ocean
whales and seaweed vanished
letting us drown in our own piss
there’s a sad way you look
when you smile at your mother
as though you know she never
wanted this
there’s a sweet little flavor
dusting o’er the hilltops
as though it could find the way
to my mouth
or some other orchard
dust on, old mother
dust on
you have found your own boundaries
but they do not exist
-
July 7
the ocean that reaches out its hand
to feel out the features of my face
as though a blind man lingers in its waves
will find itself also my bed, my home, my landlord
fingernail shells and seaweed tongues
promises against my ankles in and out,
a tide of words and purpose.
-
July 13
In a storm, the car can be the
safest place, they say -
All that rubber underneath you.
I disagree
no lonely place can ever be
a safe place.
Purgatory’s the word.
Purgatory.
-
July 14
once I found a weeping willow asleep by the side of the road
it was weary yet nascent, drooping into
its beginnings
cradling each branch, I picked it up
and gently silently set it down
in the back of my truck
I took it home with me, fed it
some sunlight
(which was really
all that I had to give)
and asked it, please, to wake
if it must weep, understandable, but to lie
so listlessly? no, it must open its eyes
I told it, Oh you are just becoming
you have so much existence
to look forward to, I promise
the next day it awoke
and humored existence for an hour, before . .
I would have cried, but salt water
wouldn’t save a weeping willow
-
July 15
so I hear that you’ve been raining
in santa monica,
little cloud?
the sahara
will be so disappointed in you
-
July 28 (Rollercoaster)
I find this innate bursting forth from every living thing.
Even the trudging existences seem to inevitably flow
from a center of energy beneath it all.
It’s not so much the thrill of the risk as it is the
appreciation that you are hurtling through space
unscathed. One doesn’t enjoy happiness just because
the alternative is death.
There’s a moment
for existence
and you don’t refuse. That is the thrill of such a giant machine.
-
July 30
little lies turn into pavement on my tongue,
furnishing this purgatory highway, rain-strewn
and sullen, like a teenager
doesn’t have to be. let me taste morning
dew, let things run their course. each person
to their own mistakes. fly. I’ll hold you.
-
July 31
Each knuckle of my spine
clenches with the road, ears quiet
as horses underwater. The most
comfortable the world has ever been.
For once, on this hope-strewn highway,
there is no need to be anyone else.
At peace.
-
August 2
It’s like the difference between jam and jelly–
one with pieces of its origin–one
smoothed–purified–cleansed of its form–
broken in a jar by the porch–green, ephemeral
rain lifting each leaf–above the mountains, mist
warns (it will not always be so gentle)–
there once was a time when spiders spoke
and mountains disappeared.
-
August 3
Like seahorses, an incredible delicacy–
Wings of tinderdust–they make love like pendulums.
Rewarding our silence with gentle alighting,
these neon fish of the air.
-
August 4
Each quiet is its own.
Opening my eyes underwater,
a different sort of clarity
brushes in ripples across my vision.
For every silence that we hum into being,
a loon rises like a phoenix
from the ashes of the lake.
-
August 5 (a haiku)
the mountain has left
but in the moss you can find
other ways to breathe
-
August 6
fields of corn off the side of the highway condemn
any person who says that there isn’t beauty
in the every day
-
August 7
Who would have thought that I could
find New Hampshire in the middle of Virginia?
A hidden portal pocket takes me back to my
peaceland, but now I am with two gems,
curled up in my hair like phosphorus.
I have always found the semiprecious stones
to be more beautiful.
-
August 12
Work. Try to complete. Try to
succeed for this new bursting forth? Try.
-
August 13
This old shaking. Listing the people I have loved
I come to face with this sadness I have mostly
expelled. I remember the ancient need to reach
out. A rainforest mist of good intentions
keeps a constant dew of uncaring hands at my waist.
Songless prophecies.
That first saffron love pirouettes between your
legs. Many people set up butterfly nets for love,
but I have begun to just fly with it.
-
August 29
sliding through the sky cracks of the school summit I am faced with an absence of familiarity, and my ankles feel naked without grass licking at their skin- i am weighed down I am weighed down before I even sat upon the heights of new adventure.
-
September 3
I saw you brushing your lonely hair today,
outside the locker room. There isn’t much
a person can hide. Hold on to it. Let
everything else roam.
-
a haiku for you
it’s been a long time
since I sat down and spelled out
one of these flowers
-
lost and disconnected
This is not your year, the turquoise water
informs through the rusted iron fence,
luring into a sinking sort of dance, each
forlorn creature floating with a lassitude
unfortunate and inescapable. It is mine.
-
0 notes
poems about phil going forward in time
shadows grow with our words
he sees in videos
with a confidence in motion and breaking things apart
she sees in photographs
a flicker of an image and their world is defined by film
-
unintentional guilt trip
taken out of context, you mean just as much
as you always have,
but there is no incentive, no pressure out of (platonic) love
to reciprocate these feelings.
So if you could just change this,
this situation,
before it falls on someone
else’s shoulders to move us around,
to make lives function again?
-
wreck
out of every word written in these books,
the one I see is scared,
like a convict who sees policemen everywhere.
looking across the room with sadly smiling eyes and knowing
that it’s wrong to, because
what if you see?
I was so scared.
These books are full of someone’s sentiments,
but absolutely no explanations for what shouldn’t have been said.
Scared and all there is to do is think and sing your songs.
-
and the walls of jericho come tumbling down
isn’t this exactly the way it happened last time? is it horrible that I remember every thing about every time I was with him, but with you I don’t? stop thinking. Grape vines lead to wine. earth leads to intoxication? natural leads to manipulation? This is what we can learn from vineyards. Sodium Na Iron Fe Silver Gold Magnesium
Susan B. Anthony, Sb Antimony.
Keeping me pushed aside, I guess, is the way you are handling this.
Oh, never. never, never, never. Love
Your throat is loud as you swallow during the quiet moments. and throughout you lay your hand next to me, wanting me to hold it but I do not. But if you reach out for my hand I do not resist
It’s not the same as when I dream of ties and button-up shirts.
I gave you a book, remember. when you were out of my realm of possibilities. I felt safe when we ignored you together.
The sound of the door, is it that loud when I come in at night? And now I must be civil, and try
try
try
to stop running to you, but still visions of cold days and hands on arms and mouths on mouths and movies under blankets haunt me, what is this?
-
nails all painted black
maybe if I turn the water up hotter and scalding
it will melt each part of me that is here and feeling
when you looked at my hands and remarked on my nail polish
and how it reminded you of some song, except you thought
you had the lyrics wrong
in your head
and said that I would fall in love with a lot of jerks,
well, maybe not love,
you were right: I fell in love with you
well, maybe not love.
-
tu vois, je n'ai pas oublié…
you are not going to get love from me if you are going to drink yourself away. you are not going to get love from me if you are going to make the alcohol your means of dealing.
if that is all you have to go on, then so be it.
-
the human guitar
each determined strum shakes
the seat where I sit perched watching
your hands as they press on strings make
music your eyes have been steadily glowing brighter
I move
towards you slightly, then fall back
to hear your song
your hands don’t differentiate
between my back and your instrument
you play my shoulder blades as if notes
should come rising out of skin
like water vapor
and for a moment I think I hear them rise
-
all I know
some sort of warmth
Spring in my hands and under covers twined
between your fingers like strands
of my hair Spring is upon us, the air
pear blossoms open at night
as you cannot retain warmth I
paint you as an artist does a canvas
pull the blankets over us curled like a song
the tips of my fingers energy wings
planting flowers under your skin
while undoing shirt buttons, butterfly hands
pressed against you love
Springtime comes in like a lion goes out like
words whispered against my neck
a kiss becomes a crocus bursting out of soil
and your skin, well-
all I know is living
-
June 23
falling silent is the way to cure the mountains
not to get anywhere
-
June 24
so when it falls on your shoulders
you’re going to pick up and go?
admit it, you’re floating
just as breathlessly as I am
and no experiment
will yield
the data
-
a break
A safety net you may have been, but in
what way is that negative? Without it, trapeze
artists around the world would fall
to their deaths. It is not inadequate to be
the support someone else needs in order to fly.
The clowns are in negotiations over whether
it’s time to remove the net. The elephants,
older and wiser, wish to leave it, but you know -
You know the charismatic will win every time,
rainbow afros set on the table and briefcases
full of rubber red noses. They’ve got spunk.
What have the elephants got?
It’s hard to see across this tent–is there
someone there waiting to catch me? What a
time for hazy air.
When negotiations are over, I’ll know.
Will every swing be a midair russian roulette?
Or will you stay fastened down, one of few comforts?
Keep me safe and I won’t rip through you.
This is all I can guarantee. Trapeze artists don’t
stay in one place for very long.
-
0 notes
poems not about any particular person: 2007
Restart
let me break expectations
so all will seem new and i can excel.
and when it’s Nothing that you see
past those ridges of your fingers
you can restart
(with a little caffeine)
and i promise you won’t be decoration.
no more Tinsel You.
so solid and cement.
elicit contrition but let me
Sweep it away like the needles
that lie dying or dead.
no more Main Attractions.
-
inhibition
with all the threads holding us (too Fragile)
back from the cement walls,
tangles are inevitable but just
Lift off
and they may snap and bite your skin
but
You won’t mind
because exemption can come
faster than Light.
-
like a lightbulb!
you can’t
Jump through the glass.
Measured Success is made of
behavioral patterns,
and we could hear you
break the mirror.
-
a character
swallow the prickles burn and
temptation you might expect
of a city girl,
but not a belle like me and
my bonnet may shatter
sooner than you thought
to reveal a head of snakes.
-
high alert
there might be a thunderstorm,
so
it isn’t safe for you to be up there Alone
letting the wind excitement thrashing water
short our working circuit or—
the hope of one.
Come down to where it’s safe
to where the danger lies only in
yourself. Because,
my term of endearment,
this is all a lightning bolt
and if you don’t protect yourself
who will? Certainly not I
Certainly not your words
not the coast guard or God
not promises or
Understanding.
realization is a
light bulb,
so is
possible
mutual
Love.
if the power goes out we are in the dark and that is when we will see too much.
-
ghost of a chance
the ghost of a chance is moaning I can hear its chains rattling
marley!
and it is ethereal and above and nothing more than cobwebs
take one last chance before you fade into the candle light
oh marley,
good bye I think maybe I could have Loved you.
-
yoga
the thinnest comfort let your breath protect you
can you feel this
it’s the rain, you’re evaporating
do
you
feel
weightless?
Just let your hips move, breathe louder and lift
I am a praying child in my calmest moment.
-
it’s not you, it’s your DNA
even if this is the same mistake
I have made most of my life
it is new like a child when all people are the same
and, like a child, it will grow
make a difference
and won’t ever please everybody.
-
We swam through the lake and pushed ourselves up on the bank, through the mud—it dripped as though it could not bear to leave our bodies. The trees were not dry yet, we couldn’t feel rain drops on our backs, for the leaves caught them and kept us from being attacked by the wind and eroded. I have no idea what turn you took in the forest, or if you fell. Watching you would have overpowered me. It’s clear now that you must have left me somewhere because the weather is louder than my heart.
Remember that day when it snowed and we tried to break through the ice and drown but we couldn’t go through with it in the end? There are days when I feel like that all of the time and the only thing keeping me from getting the chisel is you, so I breathe. Air rushing down through my lungs reminds me what this is all for and what I have yet to see and know: everything.
Unless you cry out I won’t know where to look—it’s getting dark and I have no sense of direction. I know that you hate to make a scene but sometimes it’s okay, and I’m the only one here.
Your hands smell of ink and your heart smells of wine, I forget the difference, they both always smell like mine, because that’s what you are. Try to find your way back by the morning or I’ll have to go, I work in an office and they don’t know what this is. My mind clings to you like the mud that you never wash off.
These feelings aren’t exactly regulation.
-
A flare escapes from the wire extensions of trees that are scraping the sky until it bleeds—the explosion is peaceful. Trickles of white falling off from the gold center, this is some metaphor for hope but I don’t see you, only it. The ground is covered with grass and my hair. Dark strands look like seaweed in this light, growing from the dry soil, which I know is impossible. So is this.
My watch does not work anymore, it could almost be day or it could be the beginning of night, there is no way to know. I could run towards the flare but it’s risky and there’s so much to lose.
The closer I get to you the farther I get from the road that leads to the city, a reminder of my past. We don’t like who we used to be, and I am still unsure. But you, you’re a man.
And in a way I hope that you never come home.
-
A word in my mind is the same as the word on your mouth, so it’s not hard to think and agree that we’re over. There’s no point in touching, we’d only feel mud upon mud, and my skin would recoil from you anyway. Know that you’re stolen by thoughts that have not yet been said. And thoughts are just thoughts until you give them a sound, then they swim in the air, evasive and new. Just try to be silent, it’s not difficult, it just takes some noise.
You are quick to be slow when it comes to smiling, and that’s why there’s no warmth, that’s why your eyes are not eyes.
Who really knows what can be said to a ghost made of tap water, needles, and plastic grass? In all this reality such a ghost is practically whole. And that’s why we need all this mud, why my hair is so long and why this needs to break.
-
close your eyes
Distinctly, I see the gates descend, the eyelids close
Only in this does closing create more openness.
shutting out images, true,
but Close your eyes, and there are new ways to see.
-
often when she speaks it is not her voice
but the nervous swallow of God
when He is sitting close to somebody
in the dark, arms unsure
and hands like butterflies across skin.
And if this somebody reaches out and
touches ?
then He will touch back
with the fingers of her laugh,
all warmth, as if
she never cries.
-
two people
why does it seem like you are incredibly sad?
Unfurl and there is filth
a break from worry is time with you, and unbidden smiles
You have become defensive and distant, despite your protests
jumping thought to thought and silly to silly
What kind of goodbye was that?
stepping in puddles that are portals to another world, you are happiness, however momentary
I want to save you, but I am afraid to even ask if you care, and I do not trust you will be honest.
-
Upon Belatedly Reading Your Valediction
“Meaningless and used” is frighteningly accurate;
those words were a prophecy read too late.
On the couple of cold days that you are here,
instead of dialing your number I’ll remember when your brother said
he didn’t trust me because you didn’t.
And he drove you home. You’d had too much and
kept saying how green I felt, and how all my words were like velcro.
When this paper is lost and you think you’re in love
with some boy from your linguistics class who has never gotten you drunk,
the kind of boy you have to call to tell me about and I pick up because I deleted your number
and don’t know that it’s you,
I will repeat those words to you.
I hope I leave you feeling meaningless and used.
But I will say it in a warning sort of way, in a loving voice,
which will confuse you. Then you will ask if I remember when I slapped your best friend.
We are going in triangles, cyclic but with sharp turns.
-
summer, the converted pacifist
on days quieter than expected,
when the swirls overlap the leaves brightly fading flowers of an end to discontent
each backwards word beneath the unparalleled blue
lends to a nihilist who has only just discovered evolution in a textbook
that is decades old, and drinks in iced tea like it is the world.
-
promise me a few things, he cupped his hand around his mouth and breathed.
wake up for my birthday,
and try to remember our vows.
Here, I’ll read them to you.
You can hear
me, right? The doctors said—
yes, you said she could—
listen, do you remember them? Can you hear—just listen.
Julie, we are above everything today. Today we are
forever. Do you remember this, Julie? It’s not very good, I guess
I thought it was better back then,
he laughed papers.
It really was a long time ago.
white papers sheets faces white, he noticed the white.
Julie, wake
-
maybe break away
how recent was it that thoughts of no regrets swirled where
they so wanted to be? change from a comfort that was self-induced
but not delusional to a paranoia, a saddish hell is just the kickstart
eveything has been asking for. without excuses,
paths become evident, to self-destruction, or weak enlightenment.
if only we could choose our beginnings. if only the end did not
throw memory off-balance.
regular laughter infused with watery eyes, no longer by mirth,
how does one apologize when no one needs them to besides themselves?
-
subliming in air
I need to write
biting out from my fingers sharply sinking their teeth into the page,
my words.
there is a bubbling that begins in the bottom of my stomach and rises,
rises crystallizing my lungs and opening my chest and turning my throat
solid and carbon dioxide,
the dry ice of literature.
my breath, I suggest, is the gas rising off from
this undeniably atmospheric pressure.
colder than ice
accelerate me,
submerge me and as things lose clarity, you dance faster
to a gaudy nightclub trick, and my words have mixed their metaphor.
please tell me my enthalpy of sublimation—
how much energy do I need to reach sublime?
-
I am angry
but it is that kind of silent angry that no one notices,
or if they do they mistake it for sadness or confusion,
though that is not entirely incorrect.
it the kind of anger that comes from everywhere, can’t be pinpointed,
leaving you wondering what you are angry about,
even though you know you should know. because you do.
but what you are angry about doesn’t seem bad enough to make you
feel such horribly containable anger.
the worst kind of anger is the kind you automatically contain.
Am I angry at myself or am I angry at somebody?
I think there should be a different word for this.
-
tomorrow will be tiresome
let us kiss when it is cold enough to see
breath.
And let the exhaustive rendering of our day
be lost there,
in the pillow of floating carbon dioxide.
Let us flicker on flashlights at dusk, when
it is dark enough to see the difference
between our beam and all else existing
but bright enough
that if we were to hear a noise
the silhouette behind it would be revealed upon
searching
Let my exhale be visible on
your neck and shoulder, while other things become
less,
in this dusk, this final dusk below zero.
-
words out of dust
mornings of silver
draped over dusty chairs, the filmy layer
broken only by the imprint
of a recent body.
A body, and this is mere imagination,
that walks a little tilted,
brushes its fingers against its sides
as it moves forward,
with new eyes and dust on its back
every day, really,
because it only wakes every thousand years
or so—
though it is just as likely the body fills up
an office with its size,
buttons popping; unseemly.
This body could be
ashamed of this, already, so why
remind every day
like an alarm,
or obligatory “I love you.”
And that is why so much dust is gone
although, like rodents, some people
move constantly, sliding on the seat,
wiping away the eye-sand the air has gathered over years
mornings of silver, disturbed—
as though it is that mindless to make something clean.
-
poem
under the covers, nothing but your skin
can so perfectly seep, strengthening boiling water
adding
aching flavor, you are the tea that i drink in dark spaces
to calm and rejuvenate and so slightly spill
out on the black floor of scratches and history, but soft
the covers will contain, immortalize
i will keep some of you, you see,
saved for a cold day where my mouth slips
over air, the ice wind breaking teeth like porcelain,
filling and rounding the shards with just a sip
of your lipstick-stained thermos
and when there is nothing left of you save
the whispers of water inside my lungs, the covers will grow old
threadless and bare around your naked sleeping body.
-
solid as words
and how is it that your skin is made of atoms?
questions pressing past mostly we are empty, you teach, and I say
But that is not how it feels,
your skin can’t be mostly nothing it is knit so tight
If we were truly made of such nonexistence couldn’t we
slide through each other and walls, they being just as
empty as we? And how can you
tell me these things and then prove
yourself wrong to me with your skin solid as words?
-
of course you feel like this
it is not okay
and you are not okay
that is never the word
I just want someone to open their voice up
when they are not allowed to speak
open your voice up
people choose how to live and consequently forget.
The mistakes I make are the ones I know I will.
I have to think about which way my head is turning.
things do not seem to be plugged in
you cannot ignore your mold, your basic that
from which we all come
we are all made of the same stuff, only some are not
aware, or do not want to know
these are not questions coming out
My mold has warped
I have realized how everything works more times than there are answers
and so we stand, telling the time, holding in our hands the mold, the original mold we have just found under the bed
we are shadows telling the time
we are shadows making shadows
how thoughtlessly to speak
it would be better to rise higher above before
letting go and falling back inside
I don’t think you have the answers.
0 notes
poems about friends or family, going forward in time
drop the cable
pass me
there’s no neon sign
no string or leg to pull
no conductor with your best interests
at heart,
just varying sights and sounds
you could replicate
and technology could duplicate,
but how long would they
resound, your reproductions?
You’ll miss your stop
looking for the Repeat button,
“baby.”
-
Nakupenda
Pain
and of course there’s some pity
but mostly there’s love I’ll try
not to deny you a shoulder
a voice to rely on for
silence.
Swallow
and this will burn going down
but I promise you, baby, it’ll make you stronger
yet you seem to know that—
You would, it’s you after all
and I’m just listening
I wish I could be there and it’s not a fault
nobody’s
but the World’s that you’re going away
and my dear you are filled with sadness that may be endless.
-
fun is up to you
Realize how awkward you make me feel
you’re almost a man it’s strange too interested and no banter what do you
expect?
loaded questions really aren’t fair, you know he means more
I can’t make decisions and
you need answers
I don’t think we should.
Oh god why can’t I just say things simply
?
-
this is?
you start your endings with
This Is
so often that I can feel
your want to know how to
define
-
so this is loneliness, he said.
you don’t remember I am here? the girl who was younger
and loved his words although he never heard her asked.
He didn’t hear her.
so this is loneliness,
as though he did not know.
And she smiled as he ignored her
because there wasn’t much left of the english language
and it can be easier to be detached.
He never heard her but she woke up last week
from a dream where he cared and remembered she was there,
and warmth.
But reality’s like filth upon waking:
so this is loneliness, he said.
it can be easier to be sad.
-
Would you go out on a date with me
fuck you
I hate confrontation
something said at 11:11
doesn't have any more finality
than something said at 8:07.
oh these things that come out of my mouth
you tell me
“Possibility 1
you say you want me”
I honestly don't. why can't I bring myself to be blunt?
probably because I want
Something.
-
Your eyes make understanding out of warm October afternoons
With sleepy thoughts like mine and an empty foamy cup
between us.
Flooding with words, explanations of situations fill the coldly white store
As we drift from shelf to shelf, looking for a way to organize,
to make sense.
Last-minute turns on busy streets, warm hands touching
We careen and share how in our love lives we are also careening,
directionless.
Your unexpected real night, the kind we think never really happens
With the boy you’ve watched and discovered a little late,
so beautiful, shows there is always more to find.
-
a poem for marisa
i’m looking for a boy with curly hair
to plan the unplanned
step out of the rain and find my
someone to lean on.
-
On the threshold
Is it funny that last year as it grew warm I detached
from you and this year it is growing cold again?
Is it funny that this winter I will not be in love with you?
Is it funny how long ago a year feels?
Is it funny that I let myself get so thrown around?
Is it funny that probably
I never fell out of love with you?
Is it funny that no one ever falls out of love?
Is it funny that those thoughts of you
aren’t in my head anymore,
because I forced them away
and buried myself in others?
Is it funny that I still think
that was the right choice to make?
Is it funny that it’s hard to tell what is funny
and what is just sad and cold like the last winter
I loved you?
-
pastime
you feign stealth, but the smoke
pours out from your lungs, the air
made toxic by each breath’s release
each one a tick of that always-clock
towards death you hasten inside
to lie in charred wait,
until people are less forgiving of self-delusions
(you are weak)
and I am left
noticing long trips to nowhere,
the guilty burning nowheres
where health and respect are furtively
lost,
as though hiding from love hides you from death.
-
Atmosphere Through His Fingers
He is carrying pieces of the moon with him
little geodes in his pocket
the earth in front of me scattered with pebbles that have fallen
from his clothes;
a jealous little dusting of the moon
The first man to walk on Jupiter will descend into the gas
no quaint craters or moondust flying up beneath his boots
a planet is a very different thing
He has always carried pieces of the moon with him,
but somewhere he has found a piece of Jupiter
So he reaches into his pocket and lets the air run through his fingers—
he has no need for the moon anymore.
He will let atmosphere run through his fingers.
-
Tonight as I walk the streets of the city and touch
the sleeves of you
I will sleep.
Tomorrow I will wash your shirt and give it back to you
as though I didn’t love it black and careless.
-
July 4
i can’t shake this feeling of gunpowder
crackling where we can’t be found
empty lakes and fields
fireworks under umbrellas,
french fries past midnight
and the two of you
independence
-
July 10
this is friendship at its best
rolling around, laughter tears
in and out of each others’ consciousness
it’s really absurd how
nice life can be
once in a while
-
July 11
it’s okay if we don’t get married,
just turn up system of a down
and break the speed
limit
-
July 12
free on the road, hours away
we are independent for a day
spontaneously resting, avoiding
your empty house,
my night is filled
with you
my day, my night, thank you
for buying me that lemon bar.
-
July 25
I wake rested, despite having barely
slept. Did you sleep for me?
-
August 1
Blue-tinted fields kiss our midday journey,
Handing us something we could never find without peace.
A sort of exclusive land, nestled in water,
Establishing a hierarchy of meditation.
Take a blueberry in your hand and break it,
Unbidden purple liquid dripping down your wrist.
Wipe it across your breast. There are hidden deer
Here, but they have nothing to say.
-
August 27
a kiss to your metal wound
and you’re off !
it’s dangerous out there, beautiful.
come back in
only a few pieces
Love the sorceress, love the storm.
-
I see everywhere that you are going, and I will even
draw you a map
to help you get there.
Sprawling lines of blue, shades of wandering green
for your feet to know where they belong—
moving,
roaming, with purpose, over scribbled mountains and highway numbers
until the edges of the map curl
and you are ready to drop into the sea, into maplessness, into the free.
0 notes
poems about Julian going forward in time
aimed for what i hoped i wanted
but fell short and your shadows
and your shellshocked morals
drew me a picture of new Wanting
impossible to escape.
-
first kiss
I don’t feel weird
I don’t know how I feel about it
All I know is I can still feel your tongue on my tongue
you taste so sweet
I want last night back
-
it’s difficult to say what is mine
your breath your words your heartbeat
your thoughts your smile in the moment?
I take what I don’t know and
make it mean so much.
you have not been mine
and contrary to popular opinion
I understand and accept that
you will not be mine
and contrary to popular opinion
I know and expect that.
but
in the moment?
I swear you were mine and I was yours
and our breath our words our heartbeats
our thoughts our smiles were for each other
so fucking fly far away
because you’ve not going to leave here
-
after that night I’m more unsure
close the window
I just want to feel your breath
soft
softly
softer
there is too much fear of you caring a little
of you never having been
but not as much as with him and Different
because you have a touch and a smile
Oh so different
-
I hold myself back from intimacy when it’s possible
Wistful is an understatement when I think of
how much more that could have been, But
I didn’t know, I was too unsure
I lost myself but not to the moment.
This is what you have left me with.
-
unexpected
After something that should change me
I find myself cynical
Where is my afterglow?
Well,
it’s here only when I’m not.
-
mating rituals isolate species
There is so much we could make of this
as the leaves are dripping with a ruined night
my mouth has begun to taste like his
the flavor in the transparent black is a discovery of bright.
There is so much we could take from there
his hands are rougher than your words
I didn’t know what to touch but his hair
was mussed like my mind—we are not free, we are not birds.
There is so much we could remember
car doors are wings but we are rooted in the moment
clipped wings, in a sense, or frosted by December
and unable to fly, but we can be wistful and we can lament.
-
I am here in America and I am in my room
pens a notebook a bed a door four walls
(not you)
I am missing something
it is very apparent as I feel alone and as if
it has been whole country since you touched me
I am here in our state and I am in my bed
sheets a comforter a frame a me two pillows
(not you)
something is missing
it is very apparent as I do not feel this empty
when you are here and you touch me
I am here in my town and I am in my mind
personalities confusion images words and imagination
I am thinking something
it is very apparent as I exist and your name is constant
and memories swirl like your breath when I touched you
I am here in my home and I am in my heart
arteries a muscle a strength and a life
there is so much here that changes
(like you)
-
oh god
the end
is in sight
where are my safety goggles
-
welcome back
A month
passed much more quickly
than expected
How to measure?
inches of rain, dying conversations, wasted time
but not in minutes, this isn’t a fucking season of love
and time is relative anyway.
-
mutually noncommital and more
no promises at all,
but I am already looking forward.
it feels like a memory, I have
imagined it so many times.
There’s an empty parking spot
and it’s waiting for you. Silent,
I am tremblingly careful to make no noise,
and then your presence.
parks at night, secret, dark,
our habitat.
it is unclear now what is real and what is hope
-
I could make you fall
The harder I try to push you down,
the safer I feel, the more I am enclosed by your arms:
a feeling I long for of late.
My laugh is strange in your mouth, but you are perfect on me.
-
let’s get lost
there is a taste to this
spiderwebs, pinecones, trees, and wire fences?
spiderwebs are reflections of what is always being created
and how you cannot control something fragile.
pinecones are just artsy observations, it’s all a laugh
like the leaves against the sky that look like pools of water.
trees are the only walls here in this forest of
five roads collapsed in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel all.
wire fences are filled with the curls of ivy and your fingers as you
support this connection, so close that I rise with your breath.
-
texting is silly
it is funny how
waiting for the vibration
makes me insecure
-
see (the quiet in everything before
summer is over and you are again too
young for this empty quality of freedom
we dance to and call escapism) you
(who are here only to water your
plants and kiss girls and wax philosophical
and other such chores) later
(a promise one learns to not trust).
-
early on
me, with my papers and you,
with your high laugh and magnetic mischief
Desire rises and falls
behind classic novels and tiring worksheets, I emerge
-
our bodies know
For a few days, you are near, and for a few hours,
you are close against plastic and barely hidden. My breath is so much more nervous,
shaking with every freedom.
Resounding against my palms, your heartbeat’s slower and instinct’s faster.
This is me holding back. Daylight and deadlines hinder
the progression of this that we want, but I realize that our bodies know
it’s still summer.
-
third wheel
when kissing becomes a necessity
(almost a commodity)
there's little that can be stolen.
on a night when everything's contagious
and distance is in short supply,
words can become a solo effort.
if you aren't careful
you'll begin to care
and then when it's stopped being easy
your incompetencies will come out of hiding
and comparisons are inescapable
-
sick of hearing about, sick of seeing the face of
who I hunted once
this is nauseating
while everyone else flutters around
longing has passed
but sadly I admit it will return as it did before,
inexplicable
-
an apron dusted with flour, the dough is condensed and sticky air, chemistry really, molded by your hands. a flick of a tail and the whole building of ice has shattered, there is no time to melt. And if you ask me how I’m feeling, don’t tell me you’re too blind to see. Never gonna climb these stairs of appreciation when there is nothing at the top. I should have said something other than “happy,” although it did elicit a smile. The box of cracked wood is eroded by hands, the oils and pressures of years of being opened wearing down its engravings. There is a sound outside my window, like bells in the dead of summer. Shakespeare said it best when he said “Now, away!” Sometimes what looks like a spider is a hole on the wall that has been there for years. A mark in my house I should know, but still makes me look twice. Are you that spidery mark? Please do not come back in the snow and tell me that it is nice to see me. Grass survives everywhere, it is the most versatile and durable organism. an accented voice makes me think this, on my television with Never Before Seen footage that everyone has seen now. A slow day for the newsroom when my heart is spilling open. I thought about you on the way home today and how I am a fast learner. I thought about you and I thought about the work I had to do, and I thought about how I learned you faster than I did this equation. Learned you in a way that doesn’t matter. there’s a reason pretension is made up of “pre” and “tension.” Tension always follows when people are pretentious.
sometimes the pretty ones do not win, and sometimes it is unclear who anyone is. Goodbye, my lover, goodbye my friend, James Blunt sounds like a horse all shaky and ridiculous like your breath
Rolling to lie by your side, mask me, last chances. I have given you what you wanted from me. is that it.
-
Crawl in with me. I remember when that locker with pellet-like streams of light fit only me, and you kept me contained with musical instruments.
-
Upon Belatedly Reading Your Valediction
“Meaningless and used” is shatteringly accurate;
those words a prophecy read too late.
On the couple of cold days that you are here,
instead of dialing your number I’ll remember how you think I’m
too young to love but old enough to get you off. My silence will be the close.
But it won’t and you’ll pull the door open every time because I’m weak
and the way you want me is a drug. Sometimes there is nothing but the truth
of how much I want you. A night spent sleepless and quiet thoughts of rhymes that bruise
and separate you from caring. That’s it. I hope I leave you feeling meaningless and used.
-
A Sprout In Your Wake
What I hate the most is that you stole
from my willing hands,
And what clamors the loudest
is that I do not regret,
after thought,
the highs and lows of your enabled theft,
because there are no treasures I have lost—
they have simply been replaced;
As you ran, a seed fell out of your pocket,
a creeping vine that I watered, enriched
with my exhales and lost days within,
enfolded.
With the progression of time the leaves will mold to my shape,
stealing my breath in a way
that is reminiscent of a past someone,
with eyes quick to break and arms that swallow up.
-
some haiku in an absence
at least now I am
aware that there is nothing
that could feel like you
in body and thoughts
you will be the only one
to have held me first
and my hands will keep
you imprinted in their grooves
like my empty mouth
calls out noiselessly
as though there were ever a
person who listened.
-
analyzing
unsure if I have been used or not
define used; a simple concept but when attempting to pinpoint spins
the grid, beep
beep
beep this alarm falls dangerously into the background of everyday sounds
not perpetual, occasional
pulling back into place, I once knew how this would go and prepared
myself for both of our restlessness, approaching dauntingly like
the law, which we aren’t exactly abiding by, although it’s a
faded line that separates
us - this is not something planned upon, it just breaks out claws reaching
hungrily, maybe gentle
if I stepped into this I have not been used, I suppose but still my mind
switches to body heat
-
my first semblance of a poem in a while
i find myself to be the strangest colors raw brilliant curving under
my fingernails, fending off contracts,
handshakes, and other ways to bind one person to another.
even the oldest books were written for eyes and hands, but my throat, will it
see what lies just beneath veils of colorless, irredeemable noise?
noise, which is only really air expressed
it is in love with somebody it wants to change; that is where aches arise.
-
Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you, Julian
I see the sidewalks lined with him, and I
place my foot as though a monster's in each crack,
leaping like a child; I am a child, and so is his name
Julian
the child I envisioned as a child
There are ferris wheels passing, and in each one
Julian sits in the topmost car
He is smoking and wearing that expression that
disturbs me—the one that is almost loving and kind,
the one I hate for him to make,
the one he wears when he thinks he is being romantic.
Julian, Julian, oceanchild, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julian
And I jump back to how he is done, how he hopes
he has left this place,
how he has had the same Chemical Brothers album
in his car for months
and months
Julian,
in cadence with a Beatles song I sing a song of love
to Julian, Julian does not blink
because he thinks he's been around so long.
He does not have the answers, he is still a child
working things out. Oh, he is a man
Julian, seashell eyes, windy smile, calls me
So I sing a song of love, Julian
Asymmetrical eyes and the smallest spot on his shoulder
where he can't feel my touch, or anyone's
there was once a day where he said he just discovered
he was not going to die,
and I had so many questions but instead I only
gave him a drawing I had made for his eighteenth birthday.
Julian, windy smile,
he calls me, and so I sing a song of love
that he hears but is done giving energy.
Julian, Julian, morning moon, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julian
His name hurts to hear and see
When I cannot sing my heart
I can only speak my mind, Julian
I have gone on standing,
his thoughts vibrating into nothingness,
as each time I decide that he can't break what isn't his
half of what I say is meaningless and used,
like what lies in his wake, as he hoped
I remember how whenever we were out at night he
had to pee in the woods, and how I always laughed,
Julian! but I was speechless when he stopped kissing
and hung suspended over me, asking
How do you feel?
Julian
happy? When he came back from Europe and caught me
unawares, in a store,
with his little message, I smiled a loaded smile
loaded with the friend I kissed when he was gone getting high,
telling his friends the things that we did, and
how he was my first, isn't that rich
that's good, I wouldn't want you to not be happy.
Julian, sleeping sand, silent cloud, touch me
So I sing a song of love, Julian
he met me at the door and held me gently
in my living room, with his arm in a blue sling and the
construction worker in my kitchen
How he made me want to touch until my hands fell apart
I think I do not really hate that expression,
it's just that it strikes me
as a little insincere,
and I wonder if it is the one he made for the girl he loved
He did not go past my boundaries,
I did, and I did not ask permission
so I sing a song of love to
Julian, who never called me but to say he was on his way
or that he needed a place to park.
He used to think of me, that's the thing
calls me
So I sing a song of love for Julian, Julian, Julian
and those eyes on me
and those conversations turning night into morning
He had his own taste—I was wrong to think everybody tastes the same.
It is something I used to taste on command, but now
it's gone
Half-meaningless, I write this just to reach you, Julian
still my cravingly remembering mouth must be
satisfied with not his own, but his name
Julian
-
My mouth does not miss you.
I am sorry, but
My lips twist in remembrance and they know who you are, and when I am cold sometimes a flicker of something alights them, and your wandering, unsure smile is still there in my mind, but no,
My mouth does not miss you.
-
Inherent
It would be a lie to say I no longer think of your skin-
subtly sticky on humid nights
Your chin rough, a few day’s growth sweetly
jarring in contrast with soft shoulders
and soft mouth.
It is a memory- I decidedly make you a
memory
of skin that was never close enough.
I will never touch you again-
I cared, against you,
with more than my hands.
-
I don’t want you here.
Not in this garden.
These plants weren’t grown for you, rather
grown away from you–
like sunflowers grow away from the dark.
I don’t want to hear your voice, despite
how the plants love
the carbon dioxide of your exhale.
It is a fading exhale.
3:23 in the afternoon and I am caught
unawares, watering can
in hand, warding off what could be called
your thorns.
You are a human being, not a plant,
and I no longer want to be touched.
Save your poison. I am not
on your side.
-
June 21
It is only a moment into the moment
but still I have this tremor, this
knowledge of the night unfolding
although all I am going to do is sleep and wake
and sleep and wake again
as though you weren’t pulsating through me
as though I didn’t shake in every moment
this is the process to all things
you wouldn’t know
you never close your eyes
you never really open them, either.
It’s okay. We all find our way alone.
-
June 25
kept alert, I speak to you and you speak to me and I write this poem lineless because I don’t feel like putting any effort into shaping you
-
June 26
As if people were machines
that could be oiled
Who do you think you are? We all waste
What does it say about human nature
that the beautiful ones
are the loneliest? It says that we need more
than empty validation,
a point you seem to never have
gotten
I can only hope
that my hands don’t fall apart
-
July 1
Maybe I don’t want to operate within your metaphor.
Not the page that you were afraid of,
but a different page than yours.
Yes, that sounds right.
You were all there too. “Adorable.”
A string of thoughts, like the world
then set aside.
-
July 2
our heads can float forward as though
underwater, when really they have just
been resting on a car seat, music the only
tide pulling us apart
the sudden memories that you can’t
shake the feeling of, and that keep you up
past tiredness
finding the right melody to sing
the right song for the moment
finding the Right in general
-
July 5
it was really my thoughts
that were messy
right then
so strange-
give me some air
-
July 6
defragment me
the key is hidden
in my properties
give me blue space
I don’t care how long it takes;
I can run all night if I need to
but I am tired
of being spread so thin
because you can’t remember
to press a button
-
July 8
raised skin
blurred sky lights and human instruments
we lie as far back as the chairs will go and try
to become fluid
fighting with headrests, you take my hand
but there's this inconquerable ingrained wariness
and a floating lack of trust above the music
lighting matches with empty fire
you blow mechanical cigarette
vapor into my mouth
the earth is expanding beneath us,
you say, so slowly-
the only way ancient gravity
makes sense
your explanations are truthful, yet still disingenuous
-
July 16
this is really getting
frustrating
I don’t need you, I just need to know
the reason for the radio silence.
-
July 24
even if we light all of the torches, i want
you to keep your clothes on.
if this is made to decay, it’s all right;
i will compost with you
Someday, maybe, you will treat me fine
but for now, I feel comfortable having nothing.
-
July 27
if indeed there is a god whose attention determines activity
then I am in his peripheral
clinging to the flurries of life, dreaming of book jacket biographies
dreadlocks and cages of birds. you have these theories,
which I enjoy, and pocketed eyes that once (but
no longer) rested on my skin, but now there’s a net
below the trapeze. I am what I love and not
what loves me, nicholas cage whispers unabashedly.
there’s a sequence to each sparrow.
-
August 8
stereotypes aside,
you really are very gentle.
-
August 9/10
You’re scary.
I find it all the more calming, this unsurety of yours
in the face of my serenity. You want to know my thought
process? I am doing what feels right,
and I am releasing from need.
-
August 11
I must confess I’m glad
I returned to this. The softness of
stomach on stomach. I’m glad I don’t need
to touch you, but I can.
-
August 15
nighttime rebellion, the boston tea party of sensation,
leaves dropped one after another by indians into the
unsuspecting harbor, laughing around the foreign substance
as water tends to do
your fingers unstoppable
and determined to claim.
a post-coital cigarette perches out the window,
matching the moon with its fire
as I nestle into your body with
fingertips like graveyards, inhaling
I will let you treat me like this
because I like to be pulled around by my hair
and held gently, if uncaringly, vagabond hands
pressed close. broken breath at my touch
as I set sail
for new zealand, your skin in storage
and your moans tossed overboard.
-
Your Name is the Only Word That I Can Say
Your skin should have been named Laika, making
love to the Arcade Fire like this, tucked away
in a neighborhood, silently screaming your touch
through my veins, the gentlest brush of tongue,
painting the songs all over my body.
-
Addressed
I’m buying your music -
building off your ruins.
You burned down what never existed, I construct without materials.
Loveless and striding forward
-
Past
Why is it YOU who makes me want to quilt words? It’s like my fingertips
were lying in motionless wait to be let down by you again. Not that
you let me down; I wasn’t trying to change you. It was you
It was you, just how you were. It was your disregard, it was the way
everything was thoughts. There were fewer questions than I imagined,
and a quieter ache. And when you lit
And when you lit, I was tumbled over down the mountainside. The
log sliced my leg but I went on. You don’t have time for Hallelujah
but you have a lovely peace. We had this connection
We had this connection that wasn’t what you needed. Just like
every one before. Just like every one before. But this one
But this one touched your back. I will never be sorry for how important
you were to me. You released something. And even then
I knew there wouldn’t be wildflowers.
-
words without thinking
quiet this is a place where promise is rain and nothing is ready for what it craves it begs for quiet for nothing for what I want from you as if the song I smiled to never settled my soul as if that rainy ride wasn’t a promise of peace as if there is ever a promise. you are candy apples and succulent flowers, ephemeral and sticky and not pure but dirty with meaning to me dirty with what I see in your asymmetrical eyes. you are rain spattering on a wooden deck, you are wooden popsicle sticks I bite on purpose you are wooden you are metal you are earth you are nothing that is good for me. helicopter pollen and my throat hurts but I sit outside in the yellow dust because I can reject the earth but it can’t reject me.
sleepy orange peel eyes cat fur lilacs the stench of a flower the ache of the grass. chocolate with lemon and ginger and black pepper you are the ache in my arms and legs, you are not you, you are everyone I ever wanted; I don’t want you I want to be wanted in return for all the desire I stockpiled and stored away but fills a room that could be open windows and air and sunlight.
if you could listen to music like I do you would collapse with the sorrow of it all–if you could love like I do you would be a blade of grass or a beetle crawling on its belly through the rain. you wouldn’t know anything, you would be denim and canvas and quiet.
inside me is a pear, too ripe and breaking apart with fluid too sweet to swallow too much syrup for what you can want for what you can be a plum apricot any fruit a burst of sweet in the back of the mouth and if berries the seeds in your teeth that want to be in your throat and planted inside you. rain-swollen leaves heavy above and dripping like my eyes are frozen like they need to melt like your hand can break the branches like your fingernails are tree bark.
why is it when I think of your hand on me I think of swollen raspberries in thickets of thorns and sticky sweetness that I could break through and run through with blood marks across my skin why do I think of blood oranges in my palm and want to clench and let the juice run through my fingers into the grass why are you the heavy haze in my heart when I don’t admire or trust you why do your eyes and crooked smile break my back and fill my spine with need and hunger why are you such dark honey that never washes off why are you a strawberry that stains why have I always wanted you
now that my mind is less fire I can see the quiet in you and the kindness that is peach honeysuckle music volume car seats essential oils and cotton. I can be the soft glory of my longing without it being you, without you pulsing through my veins–now you are a soft glow warming my mind towards sublime glory of feel, apart from you. you are a wicker bookshelf, a music box, a paper crane, a poem on a wall, not a punishing ache. you are, that’s all and nothing more– you are you are you are
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