soft like silken honey.
Your words ever venomous,
glimmer like sugar,
itty bitty sugar crystals,
bending light as they
pass between your lips.
The Desert in MeSomething in me feels of sand. Of flesh slowly
rubbed against the grain of the sort used
to strip the surface of wood. Each minute
of everyday, though I walk with my back straight
and eyes forward, I feel it scrape. Every organ
and bone in the center of my body is felt slowly
worn by the movement of being. In being alive
I feel the sand like coarse salt in freshly cut
meat press into my gut, into the imagined hollow
where the soul is supposed to be. Though I am used
to the sensation of the sand in my ever present wounds,
I can never get used to the sand filling every vein
and spilling over the breach of my waking mind.
The sand grinds in more than just my gut,
but in the corners of my eyes, in the corners
of my lips. It grinds in between my teeth
and pours out of my mouth in obscenities.
Work in Progress: Matchlock PoetStand the gun with its barrel up and remove
the cap from the powder horn. Tip a little
of the powder down the barrel. Ram the shot
and a paper wad with the rod until you hear
the packet sink to the bottom.
She sits all alone eyeing the letter in her hands
curiously as if the letter would talk. Her fingers
move as if trained to do so, shaking as if it is
the first time she traced a line. Her lips purse
as if to kiss an unseen person before the utterance
of a word. Issued from her lips, she reads out loud.
Thumb open the cold lip of the breach cover
to expose the pan. Pour a little powder into
the small bowl and close the cover shut.
Take the match cord in your hands and blow
until the cherry glows. Pin the match
to the firing arm, and lift the gun to your shoulder.
Her lips tremble as she issues each word in a voice
reserved for the quiet corner of a library. The tip
of her tongue dances around the curve of every vowel
and consonant. Gingerly the tongue meets teeth
and the teeth meets l
Valentines Day ChallengeThere are no songs that I could sing
above a whisper's pitch,
no tone or sound to match
the humming bird flutter of your breathing.
The feather of your sleep, dances on your lashes;
the soft smile
warmer than down across my chest. I place
a single kiss, upon your sleeping breast. I watch
your lips part at my affectionate intrusion.
In silence like a dreaming bird, I listen.
SorrowI feel it. Water, salty to the tongue, fills up the cup
cut into the space in the hollow below my sternum.
It fills to the brim, flowing from nowhere, and overflowing
it spills into and over my veins. In waves that ebb and thrust
in the canals of my nerves, the water rises to my brain. It
sinks down into my legs, buckling my knees in the force
of its weight. The tide is rising, and I am made an ocean
in the form of a man. The water trickles down from the corners
of my eyes becoming a channel for the ships of my grief
to sail out into the world that does not recognize the man
I am. An entire ocean bubbles and rolls behind my face.
A slow steady wave becomes a beast that cracks the green
glass surface of my sea. In the wash that sweeps
my sandy skin, in the sheen that shows where water once
rose, the man is lost in the wake. I break.
GnatsMy mind is buzzing like a million gnats
swarming over the fruit of my thoughts.
Though the mouth of one gnat is small,
together they feast on the flesh like the fangs
of a salivating maw. Obscuring the luscious
globe of imaginings, the zipping and zigging
waves of annoyance that no amount of
swatting at nothing, or nervously rocking
eat at me.
PebblesLittle by little the flint-stone of my soul is worn away into whatever time will make of me. Am I destined to be another pebble in a shallow stream, or a blade like those of ancient dark eyed people? Am I destined to weep at the loss of my being, or will I be honed, sharpened, a thing with a purpose? One more stone is skipped across the pond, but in the depth of the pool I find myself sinking.
It's Pretty Humid OutThe sky is layered in consuming grey,
like a balanket on a day too warm for the covers.
The patchwork sky is quilted in the cotton fluff
of the grey that stagnates the air.
I languish on a couch meant for lovers;
alone, all I have is my bare shoulders to hold.
It is not the sweat of passion that dampens the folds
of the mute brown cushions, but the stale air of inactivity
condensing on my skin.
I lay in silent stagnation, no wind to stir in me
the breath to move me into action.
Without warning, the grey quilt tears.
Rain taps on the sidewalk like fingers tap
on a pane of glass.
I am up and running,
down the stairs.
A WispShe is menthol on my tongue, minty
with flashes of green that tickles my eyes
as I fight to keep from blinking.
Her kiss burns like the cherry of a cigarette
held firmly against my quivering lips; ashes
are all that she leaves in her wake.
She rises above me, a wisp,
wrapped around my finger tips.
I have no choice, but to breathe her in.
She fills my chest in the span of every breath,
like a tide made of smoke, rising and falling. I have
no choice, but to inhale and taste her on my tongue.
INSOMNIAIt's like trying to drown, but
Not being able to let the water take you;
Swimming is out of the question, let me sink.
Oh what it must be like, in the deep blue and
Murk of the rest that comes with sinking.
Not even the water will pull me under;
I am denied the peace of letting go.
All night, I lay awake hoping to let go.
UntitledGlide through the heavens
in hopes to evade
the crimson wings
that holds you down.
When will you shut the pearly gates
and walk away?
When will you cut the crying chains
that paint you grey?
είναι μια σιωπηλή διαδικασία αλλαγής
που αντιλαμβανόμαστε εκ του αποτελέσματος.
Δεν Μπορεί Να Είναι Ο Στόχος.
Like a vagabond.
At a four-way
street, past any signs
that I comprehend.
If I had I had it my way,
I would cruise on the highway
and never stop.
pillow talkthere are thousands
of tongues i could
memorize; new words
for love tucked between
teeth often biting
my chapsticked lips
could learn to bow to
grammar laws in
i could master writing
symphonies in syntax,
spend hours penning
volumes in languages
of longing and love,
but i'll never find a
phrase that fits you
the way your body fit
to mine, back bent.
i'll never find a name
for how our lips tucked
together, for my hands
in your hair, for the
rapture in your eyes.
Five Reasons to Not Write PoetryI.
Sooner or later,
It'll mess with your head;
You'll be taking a shower, or
Lying in bed
When the "inspiration"
Hits you hard
And when you miss the bus and first hour
You have to use the
"I over-slept" card.
It'll have you thinking
At every point of the day;
Twisting words and making rhymes
Prodding until the language sways
To your fingertips
Lower case letters nip
In hopes that you'll use them
Abuse them until you are at
They will mock you until
You simply can't think;
The words swirling around,
They will push you to the brink
Of complete denial,
Of absolute insanity;
"Yes, I ate enough" and "Yes, I
Feel fine" are the words you
Have to beat.
You will not care how people
React to what you say;
What do they know of
What we do everyday?
You think that to yourself,
As a way to not seek help
In the comfort of real
Love and not the fake kind
You write of.
You will lie and you will
Cheat and scoff and say
For all your most
Important words are
adolescenceWe look up into the sky
and see the stars as millions
of possibilities for us to wrap our hands
around and try, picking and choosing
our favorite constellations like apples
in the fruit aisle of a grocery store.
We talk about our dreams
of leaving this town
far behind and far away,
but we don’t talk about how
leaving home means leaving each other
and each constellation we wrap our hands
around propels us into completely different
directions. We want to hold on to each other
as much as we want to let go of this dustbowl,
but we can’t have both,
and that scares us.
We look up into the sky
and see how big the galaxy is
even when we can’t see 90% of it
and we are suddenly aware of how
small we actually are, barely grains of sand,
barely specks of dust, barely here at all.
We stop looking up and look
down at our feet shuffling,
worried and afraid for each other
because we barely sleep and failing
a class means failing high school,
failing to get into the dream college,
What Rape Can't Tell YouHe parrots the word, over and over until it sticks
Like the bruises on schoolchildren's hands, when they realize purple hurts more than red
While others mourn the translation lost in between
The definition he wrote
And what they want to scream to the world.
All you know is a word,
The hell hidden beneath it is nothing
But the trace of a memory that doesn't belong
To you, and you're so glad it isn't yours
Because then that pain can just be a word,
A beautiful illusion of pretend-this-doesn't-happen and
You deserve prettier words, better words, you think
Ones that stay silent, can be hidden across a page
Victimless and longer than the four letters they warn you about
You don't know how that word is strung
Or why they tie chords around their wrists
In protest, why the memories they drag are drugged and
Filthy with the crimes that can't be forgiven
You don't know how that syllable can hurt,
What it can do
You don't see the gashes in their organs
Or the fissures tha
EmbersHer hair was orange
and glowed in the fire
turning black and ash
not a single moment later
the scissors were cold
The embers were
glowing just the same
hungry for her tresses
the royal red burned
yet no burn was left
Her hair was short
uneven with amber roots
outgrowing the dye
showing her natural shade
mom and dad took the scissors away
Orange locks tickle her neck
fire cannot fight fire
mom and dad breathe easier
she does not touch the scissors
though she always looks
She is eighteen
leaving home is a blessing
her hair bundled in a hat
she does not like to see it
the brightness keeps her up at night
The hairdresser mourns her hair
more than she ever does
as it falls limply to the ground
the locks have lost their hue
she smiles as they fall
It is easier to tell people she is happy
now her hair is gone
orange roots don't show on a shaved head
she stands proudly now
she doesn't keep scis