white silver

spoon people

with their indelible grins

and white bloated cheeks

cloaked in tablecloth at sunday dinner

like corpses eight days buried

eyes peeled open and skin pearly

if when we die we're smiling

and if the children tunnel around us

with such small white plastic shovels

all freckled in dirt

like little moles blind in soil and sun

if when we die we're blinking

hiding from the flash before our eyes

and if the insects find our bodies too soft

too warm and killed too quickly

we'll rest in space made for lovers

beneath a slab of granite and our family's feet

black heels poking into our sides

if when we die we're together

in cemeteries like silverware drawers

let us be two spoon people

cloaked in sunday best

grins indelible

hands cupped to catch the rain

this is what i'm looking at

my wings are growing in

my skin is splintering and

all the blood is rushing to my shoulder blades

these aren't pillow wings

all feather and quill

ruffled by a slight breeze

buzzing and electric

they hum and sting like wasps

a steady trickle of sparks drips down my spine

and when i shrug the wind changes around me

i'll pry your filthy hands from my wings

i'll wave to you from between the clouds

waiting for something that resembles sleep

something is different in her sighs

when she smells the bouquets of lilies

blooming in december sunlight

and we're running out of vases

****

not able to sleep because your brain thinks louder than the silence

****

i see you in my dreams

standing behind shadows and blended into crowds

but it feels like software

like you're there because you were programmed in

once upon a time

not because somebody invited you back

and when we lock eyes in that place

it feels like lacing fingers again

but your heart and hands are cold

and you melt into someone else's arms

a liquid ghost

you slipped between my fingers

i'm not sad, my palms are just damp

and something squelches in my chest

****

i should be in bed, but things are too quiet in there

****

my lungs are filled with paint

it balloons when i breathe in

splatters against the walls when i sigh

it seeps into my blood

when i run through the thorns

everybody knows which way i went

my legs beading cerulean and magenta

sometimes all the colors collide

pooling and congealing around my heart

until i feel an explosion coming on

and my throat is raw and rainbowed

****

sleep may come with daylight

****

cowardice

i always end up crying when i tell the truth in person.

to dollface:

please stop doing what you're doing. i may be naive, but i'm not blind and neither are you and i can see your eyes no matter how tightly they're closed.

to friend:

i'm sorry, it was stupid, i was stupid. it's over but i'm too afraid to tell you that because i know i was wrong and so do you and i don't deserve you.

to you:

i'm not sure what this is, but i'm liking it. i don't think it is anyway, but i'm liking even that.

and to you:

there's a part of me that tells everybody the regular painful stuff through the pretty verses and metaphors. there's a part of me that laughs at everything and sweeps all the uncomfortable stuff off to the side. recently i've discovered this other part of me: it's you, coated in dust and hiding behind a broomstick, stirring up all these feelings i thought i was lucky enough not to have. that's all i have to say about that.

between sleep and insomnia

we took the sleepless roads

talked until we couldn't ignore the time

our voices pressing against the silence

in that space between moonlight and daylight

where the streets move like ocean water

slipping between the shadows

dawn chasing darkness

sleeplessness looks good on you

palpitations

it feels like i swallowed a grenade

the pin between my teeth

something tastes like fire

everything is masked in ash when i breathe

silhouettes all gray and purple like clouds before snow

and instead of a pulse

it's unsteady detonations

erupting and charring my stomach

contained so nobody has to run

the smoke inside my lungs is stale

HY4935

I think about you a lot. I thought you should know. I know you're not really worth the time. But certain songs sound like you and certain people look like you and certain shadows feel like you when they embrace me.

You probably don't look good in an orange jumpsuit.

the cosine of my latitude

the world moves around the sun at approximately 67,000 miles per hour

from where i stand, the world rotates at about 1,000 miles per hour

times the cosine of my latitude

sometimes i can feel it before i fall asleep

between dream and awake

where everything is warm and chilling

and everybody whizzes by without faces

if God pricked His finger on the axis

we'd all stumble with arms spread

and fall down like dominoes

molasses words

conundrum (noun)

1.

a riddle, the answer to which involves a pun or play onwords, as What is black and white and read all over? A newspaper.

2.

anything that puzzles.

isn't that a great word?

when everything really feels all mixed up and shaky, like you'll never get out

and you say

"conundrum,"

it feels (almost) impossible not to smile at the fact that

yes

you just said that

and though it may have gotten stuck to your teeth on the way out of your mouth

it doesn't matter what's black or white or read all over

or black and blue and red all over

barely beating

because you've got enough air left in your lungs to laugh at the absurdity

of your present situation

it feels about the same when you say

"God"

maybe a little different, a little more solemn

but sometimes that doesn't roll off the tongue as easily as it should either

baby food

the way people whisper

their L's ooze out like bananas

mushed between tongue and teeth

internal bleeding

i can taste her in your mouth
her tongue snaking between our lips
salted with cheap booze and hash

your hands are on my body
twisting her clothes around your fingers
her skin smooth beneath your fumbling touch

i can feel her pulse behind your ribs
bruising my chest and the matter beneath it
widening gray space

your eyes are her eyes
when i look at you i hear her laughing
you never look at me

i can see her in your words
bubblegum and soft against you
i am sharp elbows and crooked teeth

raggedy [andy]

i'm not sure who you are yet.

you might taste like cigarette smoke. your winter coat might have four-holed buttons and weak thread that frays anytime i pick at it.

your heart might be made of broken promises and your head full of superglue, and your hands hold out to me a jigsawed collage that creaks when you tell me who made it.

you might move like a ragdoll, flailing around because gravity hasn't decided which way to pull you yet. i hope it pulls you closer to happiness and i hope we collide on the way there, our legs trailing behind us, chests forward in anticipation.

transparent privacy fences

i've been living life on the tip of my tongue

for once i know exactly how to say it

then someone else speaks up and it slips into my stomach

a bitterness settling in my mouth

my face in my head is different from

my face in the bathroom mirror

white and owlish like roadkill

pinkish gray organs scattered in the street

my name tastes funny when people ask who i am

it slides between my lips like an underwater murmur

sticks to my teeth like butterscotch

it's who my mother wanted me to be

mended fences mean someone is happy again

broken fences mean someone was never happy before

and when they got the chance they took it

i've never broken a fence

i used to swing as high as i could

the night swallowing the ground beneath my bare feet

i'd fling my body into the air to see how long i could fly

when did i become so old and afraid?

did it make you feel alive

sighed, thought you'd have a glass of scotch

the amber flame licked your throat and

burned in the bottle until you swallowed it all

you sank into black dreams

of your wife writhing between hospital sheets

her sallow skin shifting under final breaths

of her skeleton hand falling slack against the bed

the ring on her finger clinking on the hospital floor

the metal as cold as her lips

you woke, scotch stale on your breath

groped in the dark for the drawer

blinked the booze from your eyes and saw

it rested heavy against your head

the trigger hugged your finger

the metal as cold as her lips

you felt the grinding of the barrel against your head

heard the click and prayed she would be there

her skeleton hand out for you to grasp

you woke, writhing between hospital sheets

the lights peeled your eyes open

this wasn't heaven

the blood crumbled as you touched your temple

you wanted to run

but your leg lay slack against the bed

your hair grew back, covers the scar

you lean on a cane, grip its neck

the metal as cold as her lips

love, almost

you are just a story i will tell my daughter

when her head rests heavy in my lap

as she asks me why her heart is breaking

when i say i love her father

i'll think of how he studies me

and how i hope to god he doesn't see your face

when he looks into my eyes

all the clocks tick different times

and in all their faces i see you

and they shriek through the night

shake me from someone else's dreams of you

i'll look into her beautiful eyes

eyes that shimmer with tears so familiar

and as i look for you i will find my own shadow

lurking in the blackness of love, almost

things you can't explain that everyone understands

the moonlight draped across your back

a silver shawl against the shadow of your body

the grass shook in the wind of your whispers

and i shivered as you snaked closer

for a moment, the world blued

and we blushed behind the darkness

one L

all mechanics have the same handwriting

it sags to the right and the A's are more like n's

wearing loose belts

and there's something about it that makes me think of you

and i can smell the gasoline under your fingernails

you wrote i love you on a piece of paper once

pinned it beneath a pen on the kitchen table

and your love was a jungle of capitals and lowercases

all sprawled against the white like a sloppy embrace

i collapsed on the paper but didn't hear your heartbeat

i think you've carved something into the walls by now

maybe on the cinderblocks next to your bed

when your hands are feeling idle and the lights are still on

counting the days, maybe the years

remembering the children you abandoned

but then

can you even spell my name?

the Hours, the minutes, the moments

tell the ones that need to know: we are headed north

at least, my heart is already there

she says my shoes are worn because i never rest

but i walk a thousand miles in my sleep

tracing brick walls with my fingertips

and though the city is dark i can see

everything

she says my hands are tired of being clenched into fists

but they've been tangled up in busy streets and

roads less traveled and roads more traveled

and my fingers cramp as the loose threads fold onto themselves

as i try to untie all the knots around my knuckles

she says it's not smart to go so far away

says i'll be sad and lonely

but she's talking about herself and we both know it

and i can taste the buildings under my tongue when i swallow

they slice my lip but i like the taste of blood

"you cannot find peace by avoiding life, Leonard"

vintage, skylines, lomo effect

I like scratching the paint off of barns and garages and feeling the thrill just thinking of the splinters that will inevitably bury themselves beneath my fingernails.

I know it should hurt, but I never feel anything. Before I know it, there's a neat little pile of ash at my feet, speckling my skin with freckles, freckles like someone took a filmstrip and held it to the sun, looked at everybody's black teeth and laughed as the sun burned orange and pink on the heads of all their friends.

I wish someone would take a picture of me when I wasn't expecting it and it'd come out looking on purpose. I like those kind of pictures that everyone else likes, distressed and antique and new, from the 40s and the now.

I like it best when the paint peels off in wide strips and it stretches across the rotting wood beneath, but it doesn't break. It's as moist as it was when it was painted on, and it lies limply against your skin, a few crumbs of it breaking off. But you can shake it around and nothing happens to it.

I wish I could remember the names of all the books I've ever read. There are some with crinkled covers and some that are blank and cold. I remember one, The Dragon Garden. But I'm not sure it even existed. I found it in the school library with "WITHDRAWN" bruised on almost every page. I wish I would've stolen it.

I'm determined to defy all the expectations I've created for myself at least once. I'm determined to chip the paint off someone's wall while they're in the bathroom, to scratch my name into a windowsill with a pen. I need to make a mark somewhere. I need to learn to live before I just start to survive.

ma, ma heart like a kickDRUM

when i think of everything that's coming, i feel all fluttery and excited. then i realize i have no idea what's coming, what's going, what's staying. what's leaving.

and my heart slows down and speeds up and swells and i think it's choking me. and i can't exactly tell if i like the song that's beating against its thin little ventricles, all dried and shriveled. i think i do. but it's one of those songs that turns and bends and flips and steadies without any warning.

bum

bumbum

bum

bum bum

bum

bum bum

SWF

when you promise God that you're going to hold things loosely, He wastes no time in shifting things around.

it doesn't make things any easier, knowing it's divine intervention. hell, what if it's not? what if this is some big, human mistake that is utterly unfixable?

all the lightbulbs in the room keep dying with an ugly pop and i find myself blinded and blinking in the dark. i feel an earthquake under my feet and i know all the plates are falling from the shelves with a sick shatter. and i can feel the shards snowing in my hair, gnawing at my scalp. i feel like all my brains will surely spill out and there's no way i can gather them all up before the lights come back on.

what next, God? I'd like to say I'm ready, but I really shouldn't lie.

felo-de-se

looking down, the cars and

people are just a silent film

everything below is moving and motionless

kind of like a funeral luncheon

when people socialize and pick at deli sandwiches

with cemetery dirt still under their fingernails

up there, all you can hear is the wind

whispering that it won't let you fall

and you can taste the smog but

this time you don't mind as much because

you're going to create more of it

when all the ambulances rush to your body

(or lack thereof) smeared on the pavement

and all the children wonder what you are

as their parents shield their eyes

they'll never forget you, the little ones

your feet have never felt more planted

and your heart has never been so still

as you spread your arms like an angel

wings nailed against the sky

and your chest falls forward

your eyes fall shut

and all you can hear is the wind

and the lines of your favorite song

someone turns the century and all the people scream

but the song in your mind only grows

and the peace you feel is suffocating

and you've never felt more alive

open your eyes

happy things come in prose

certain songs make me wish I had a car to drive really fast in and feel the wind through my stubby little hair. to watch the lights whiz by, charged with some silent electricity, splattering electric streaks all over anonymous boulevards and buildings and me, alone in the front seat. solitude and i keep pretty good company,

but sometimes, certain songs thrust me into some clunky car that's headed nowhere in particular, the sun burning the dashboard and my feet as boy turns up the radio and rolls down the windows and tells me not to take a picture when he's singing along and i say okay *click* and my beach hair and my white shirt and my straw hat all threaten to blow away in the wind and, when i breathe in, i taste the heat and sip on my sweating tea and everything is ruffled, shifted,and nothing is out of place. solitude and i keep pretty good company,

but when we speak, everything is heavy

and i'm not driving to meet boy for dinner or to see a movie

playing a prelude to a memory

instead, i'm just crying to solitude

but he tends to ignore me

and he's simply not worth it

but i think i found you anyway

i caught you smiling at me

when i said something not particularly funny

you smile wide and long and i find myself

counting your teeth (twenty eight)

when you talk with your hands

my fingers fan out at my sides

and i hope you might brush them this time

you stand close to me

and i can feel your breathing

flutters like a moth

thin and light

your father has a twitch and a cane

and bright white shoes

your mother's a replacement

and your sister is adopted

i ask questions but you don't talk about yourself

you ask me how old i am

i say i'm sure i told you already

i say guess and you just smile again

and i just count again

one, two, three, four, five

why drive in new york

when the traffic chokes the streets

why have a license

when you can have a passport

canada's niagara here we come

why be the seeker

when the easiest thing to do is hide

why spend the days looking for redemption

when you won't be able to find it

devil's hell here we come

everybody say trees

I've been hearing an obscene amount of tree analogies lately.

In the socialist forest, the tall trees are cut down to an even height with the saplings so everybody can have sunlight.

In the fascist forest, all the saplings are plucked out and thrust into the wood chipper.

In God's forest, the roots (you) derive their nutrients from the soil (God) so the trunk (you) can grow big and strong and then people who don't shower can hug the life out of you. Literally.

I'd like to be a big redwood. Or at least a beech. But I'm just a little sapling and all the world's dictators want to shove me headfirst into a sea of blades. And God probably wants me to grow taller. My nutrient-sucking things seem to be lacking in sucking power, but I sure am not. Ha!

jim morrison looks like you

i sit with your heart in my hands

your tendons wrap themselves

around my fingers like noodles

tremble with each staggered beat

your blood tickles my palms

it splats onto my shoes

explodes like red fireworks

i asked you if i could have it

but you were too distracted

your leg like a jackhammer, pulsing

to some silent song beating against

your eardrums

i took it as a yes when you nodded your head

to the beat. took your heart through your skin

i carried it everywhere

in bags i picked up at flea markets

the labels read fifty cents

the cargo was priceless

but it bloodied the pages of my books

and stained the crumpled maps of

all the places i wanted to go with you

you sit on a bus

reading stephen king

and glancing at the nameless faces around you

gripping the knife in your pocket

eyes are glued to the hole in your chest

like it swallowed your skin in one breath

but you don't even know it's there

the rubber blue

i remember a girl
she threw a blue ball into the air
but it disappeared against the royal sky
and she froze like she was waiting for something
to fall from the clouds onto her open chest

the wheat wilted around her knees
dry and heavy with heat
it sagged onto a dusty path of the
same wheat hue
there were no footprints behind her

i remember a man
he traipsed along the path
a straw hat refracting spotted sun onto his wrinkly brow
spears of wheat pricked his overalls
and his hands were hidden in his pockets
he crawled toward her, age weighing his steps
and i think she may have been afraid

i’ve never seen her face
but i’ve dreamt of her smile
i’ve climbed onto her shoulders and lifted my arms
i’ve felt around until rubber skidded against my fingertips
grasped the ball and held it out for her
she still waits, frozen
for something else to hold

like Jenny on the hotel balcony

stubbing her body against the cracks of the pavement

she laughed at the blood pricking her skin

she shook the gravel from her hair

and laid back down

she looked at me

and i saw a thousand colors i'd never seen before

swirling in her eyes

they made me dizzy and i felt sick

but in that moment

she was so beautiful and

so broken

and i couldn't turn away

she looked at me

and her brain flipped me upside down and back again

she laughed and told me this

and i watched her watch my body cartwheel

as i sat in the trunk of someone's car

she glinted in the streetlamps

and her finger traced confusing shapes between the stars

she swore and writhed as invisible ropes snaked towards her

and her stomach racked with alien coughs

she looked like an angel

she moved like the wind

and i couldn't bring myself to look away

a single tear met her lashes

it clung to them like she did to me

but she flicked it away and

i felt it sting my cheek

her smile quivered, strange on her lips

city slickers with scales

sacraminnows swim into plastic cups

and miss the polluted sunshine

as they drown in country air

i'm not a sacraminnow but i sure am a small fish in a big pond called everyone around me is more eligible for scholarships than i am.

i wouldn't mind swimming in sacramento for a little while. but i know i'd drown in smog. also in debt. so nevermind.

electroclash musical terrorists

the devil came to me

asked me for a gin and tonic

he sipped it, swore it tasted like heaven

and laughed as he licked his lips

he asked if i could dine with anyone

living or dead, would it be him

i said of course

and he said lets eat

he had a slight tail

it brushed my foot beneath the table

but he apologized, blushing

said that doesnt happen often

he wiped his mouth

held out his hand and asked for a dance

my fingertips burned a little

but i took hold of him anyway

he had two left feet and two right feet

they forked like his sharp little tongue

he crashed into the coffee table

and i galloped behind him

he liked to drink

and so did i

and soon we were singing

and i heard coyotes howling

some call it daring but i call it living

they tell me i think too much about shaving my head

fear i'll look like a boy or a maniac

but i say screw them

i'll hear that buzzing sooner than they think

i miss you so much closer or something like that

we buried a time capsule

you and i

we hid it beneath the dirt

like we did with my guppy

his scales peeled off into your palm

as you cloaked him in ivy

there was a photo of you

and one of me

we hated them both

all squinted eyes and crooked teeth

we uncovered it a week later

i, too impatient, ignoring

your pleas

we looked so much younger then

i need you so much closer

i and love and you but mostly i'm just confused

sometimes i think of leaving, brooklyn, of venturing out and walking on the sidewalks lining your blacktop veins, of jumping off of high-rise buildings just to test the wind, to see if it catches me before i land like a spit wad on somebody's head and we both explode with an aluminum thud on the roof of an angry taxi.

sometimes i think i'd like to try you out, brooklyn, to feel far away from everything familiar. not to feel independent and rebellious, but to feel alive, to feel awake. and also maybe a little rebellious. i've always been the good one and i think i'd like adventure.

sometimes i think of you, brooklyn, but not always. more lately and i'm not sure why. i think i'd like to get a taste of your strength, but i fear you'd eat me in one ferocious bite. i fear i'd be living out the rest of somebody else's life, and then someone else would maybe live out mine and feel the same uncertainty.

sometimes i think i think too much, that i don't listen as much as i hear. my head often wobbles on my neck and once i looked down at my feet and felt it start to slip off so i jerked myself up and felt dizzy and things have been swimmy since.

things you do / things i hate / things i like

1. you look at the wall when we speak seriously and i can never watch your eyes.

2. you keep a song beneath your tongue, but i don't know the tune.

3. you ball your hand tight when i accidentally brush it.

4. you walk with a limp from a wound that never happened.

5. you drum against the air and sometimes i think i can hear the beat.

strange

it was another one of those strange ghosts

his lips moved but he didn't say a word

his nails dug into my brain

when he picked it up and shook it

he pried it open with his teeth

shoveled it into his mouth

and spit it all back out at my feet

he picked a thought from his gums and

tied it around my wrists

his tongue flicked phantom songs across his lips

and i hummed along

ache

you miss your mother

she died when you were young

her ghost is in your eyes

you smile when you talk about her

but phantom moonlight shadows your face

and clouds cover the tiny sun in your pupils

you look at me and i wish that the small sun

would emerge because of me

that i would be blinded

instead its rays stay buried

and your eyes are dull in the instant they

flick up to meet mine

you always pull away first

and i avert my eyes so as not

to stare at you too long

your face shifts when you laugh and frown

and i love to see its wild dance

but it is static in our encounters

you miss your mother

you drift into a shallow sleep and dream of her

your pulse hammering against your wrist

i cannot see it but i know that tiny sun

is lighting your eyelids, tracing the veins

in the red light of your mother's sweet memory

i know you would never dream of me

if

if i were an old man by the sea

i'd roll my socks off and

step into the sand and

wait to sink into the grey water

that creeps beneath the beach,

growing close to the sunset and

melting into the tide.

@overthinker

even if you find a way to

split the knife down the middle

you'll still only have

one sharp edge

pound

drum a steady beat against my chest

hard like you do when you chant for foodfoodfood

a fork and knife knotted in your fingers

crack my bones with two hands

as if they were glowsticks

shedding splinters of light that dance in the dark

dig through that mess of organs and clutch my heart

like you'd pick an apple

be careful of the worms inside

now hit it hard with the heel of your hand

it's choking on its own veins and chambers

bruise it until it pounds again

can anyone

you, with the calloused fingertips and the

petty change glittering in the velvet lining

of your instrument casket--

you, slapping the end of your monogrammed pen

against a maze of scribbled diagnoses and

arched eyebrows--

you, charcoal in hand, setting fire to a

canvas, black embers settling on your

skin, cool and white--

you there, perched on a thundercloud,

spitting lightning and brushing the finger of sin,

knowing--

can anyone make sense of it

?

backspace

i've taken the eraser from my pencil

(that should've been more eloquently stated)

(i shouldn't use adverbs--show, not tell)

(do i have too much punctuation?)

the lead is going to flick out of [crap]

(that doesn't sound good)

thank goodness for backspace

no, that gives away the meaning of the title

well

damn

--fin.

"The key is...just don't edit yourselves. You suck the life out of your writing"

dear matt

I.

i dated your little brother once,

if you could even call it dating--

we hugged with stiff arms and whispered

"hi" in the hall and that was the extent

of our courtship.

II.

i spoke to you every so often

at school plays and fundraisers and when

you and your friends followed me and my friends

on the walk home from school, shouting after us,

a cackle bubbling in your throat.

III.

i remember when you ditched me at Arby's

at my going-away party,

but came back because you felt bad

(though you swore it was

the curly fries)

IV.

you died today.

electrocuted. they told me you had to be

"put out" because i guess you decided to light on fire, too

the streetlights and houses closed their eyes and

turned their heads. you always turned heads.

i haven't seen you in four years, and i'll never see you again,

yet here i am, thinking of ways to please an audience that's still alive.

i use personification and parallelism to keep them awake

but the fact is you're dead now and this poem doesn't matter and

there's nothing more to say.

for Matthew Nunn

"happy birthday, murrka"

cheap beer dripped down his chin and
he kept the beat alright,
clapping and sloshing around.

library lawn

we flattened our bodies to the ground

listened for a whisper of poetry in the turn of a page

we asked each other the meaning of things

discussed the weight of words

we flicked away the horseflies

shook our feet at their flitting touch

we questioned transcendentalists

sighed and wondered if they had it right

we shredded blades of grass

scattered them for ants to drag winged corpses through

we spoke of fate and God

and found we cannot live deliberately

and it sounds like

* at SYWC, we wrote poems from a limited perspective, i.e., ourselves as children. or martians. i chose the former:

pack a bag, you say

and i look up at you. the

beauty of your mouth always

catches me by surprise. how it

soothes me, lingers in my dreams, laughs

at my jokes. we're leaving,

you say, and there is a dissonant note

in your voice that i can't identify

but it doesn't sound like love.

get in the car, you say,

looking down at me. the

shape of your eyebrows always

tells me if you're happy or sad,

tired or excited. but this pattern is

less familiar. hurry,

you say, and there is a break

in your voice that i've heard before

and it sounds like tears.

i'm taking the kids, you say

and i look up and see the two of you. the

clench in your jaw never

gets that scary, not even when i said

shut up or when Jordie hit me. i want

a divorce,

you say, and there is a knife

in your voice that glints with rage

and it sounds like aching.

i'm hungry, you say,

glancing in the mirror. the

smile you're wearing almost

looks like a big fake and it

doesn't match your eyes like it does

when you are really happy. where's daddy,

i saw, and there is an unbreakable silence

before you sigh and tell me.

and it doesn't sound like love

anymore

extraneous

i cannot shine in a crowd of shadows.

i am a lone grain of sand beneath

the swelling sea,

swept away by a slight ocean breeze,

wavering uncertainly among the ships

and seaweed.

i cannot stand in a forest of redwood.

i am a mere sapling buried in

the ground;

even clusters of soil pile taller than i

shall ever grow.

cannot, cannot, cannot.

when will you, you

timid creature?

i cannot speak in a room

full of voices. i am a shy whisper

swallowed in a shout.

585

your area code changed which means you

really aren't coming back anytime soon

i think i miss you most of all

what about you?

i loved you once

(sometimes i still do)

what about you? did you ever love me?

i lied once

(sometimes i still do)

what about you? did you ever tell me the truth?

i believed you

(sometimes i still do)

what about you? did you really think i was nothing?

what about you, dad?

fuck you

no, dad, what about you?

fuck you

no, dad, what

about

you

?

happy father's day, padre.

momentary pessimism

this is all pretty disheartening

sure, we get the satisfaction of seeing each other

every seven months

but no matter how often we say hello, we'll just end up saying goodbye again.

people always leave.

sometimes they come back,

and sometimes

they don't.

and i know i'll soon regret this post and say

"it's worth the pain"

but now and then the smile sags and

you've just got to frown for a little while

the lemon tree

i crouched behind a white
curtain. it danced around me,
tangled me in its hands. the
floor on which i stood snarled at
the sunlight staining its face,
groaning beneath my feet.
but i knew i couldn't fall through.

i peeked through the open window,
watching blades of grass flutter.
among them was a lemon tree,
waving at clouds with new leaves.
it looked around, rustled lullabies
and danced as a man in black came to
trim its branches.

i knew this man.
his footsteps, hard and loud,
smashed the whimpering grass and
shook the trunk of this tree.
he raised his eyes to the budding blossoms
hiding beneath the leaves. his hand reached
and snatched a yellow fruit with violent grip.

i gasped and cursed this man in black as
he plucked the fruit from the tree. it yelped
as its branches sprung up and down and
the man cackled, throwing his head back as the
fruit landed with a thud.
it spattered, spitting caustic tears and searing
the white drapes i'd cloaked myself in.

i shifted and the ruined curtain
fell to shreds around me and
i finally saw the truth.
the floor cried out and i cried out as
my world fell through the cracks.

for you, nobody

this poem is for nobody.

nobody is perfect.

nobody tells me what to do,

and nobody tells me who i am.

nobody is perfect.

nobody makes me lose what i love,

and nobody questions my intentions.

nobody is perfect.

nobody made me laugh,

and nobody made me cry.

this poem is for Nobody,

whoever you are.

skeleton key

i hid the heart of a recluse

beneath a locked cage of ribs

and i stowed the key in the

outside of my left sneaker

but i was always running with my

shoes untied and one day

you found that key lying still in a field of tombstones

its stem glimmering, untouched

you found my footprints

skidding through a blizzard of ashes

thin contrails whipping behind

and then you ran to me

the key groaned in your hand

as you fitted it between my bones

a sharp click and you were alive

and i was alive with you

we were always running with our

shoes tied together and the wind swirling around us

but one day you leaped ahead and dragged me

and you watched me fall

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you hid the heart of a pirate

beneath a locked cage of ribs

you buried the tarnished key

with the rest of your stolen treasures

i always walk with my shoes tied

but i catch them loosening and

i know they miss the runningwind

like i do

[dad]

I have a brain of tangled rubber bands

that keep getting caught on you

they snag onto your crooked sneer

snap back when you bare your teeth

and I trace the rising welts with weary eyes

they stretch to the darkest corners

bundle up your haunting whispers

and I play them in my head a thousand times

they bind together our broken house

forge a phony link between us

and I mourn your life as you die alone.

the dark side (out of cookies)

it's that silence.

after you say sweet dreams

and i'm saying i love you again

because what if you die in your sleep

but you're already gone.

and you're six hundred miles away.

it's this emptiness.

after i scan the horizon for you and

my stomach folds into itself

with the rerealization that

i can't listen to your laugh with

steady static separating us.

it's also this fullness.

while my heart swells, its stitches taut

and all its contents threatening to pour over

but it chokes and drowns in loneliness

because you can't join in its timid song when

you're so far away.

it's that silence.

after i say i love you another time

because what if i die in my sleep

and then you're gone

again

wading

it will take time. thousands of

ticks will sound from the second hand,

its impatient little foot dancing on our eardrums.

we will watch the sun inch above the soft treetops. with

each tick, it will grow higher; with each tick, we will

grow closer. it will take time, darling, so

wait with me.

it will be a while. hundreds of

waves will crash over our heads,

their strong swirling hands tangling our hair.

we will hear the waves sizzle as they recede. with

each wave, the sound will grow louder; with each wave, we will

grow closer. it will be a while, darling, so

wade with me.

"Or...are you a tease?"

“Daniel,” she croaks. The shifting gravel in her voice drops into her stomach with a feeble cough. Her pale legs are spotted with the alcoholic rage from the night before; only the whites of her eyes show as her heavy eyelids droop with fatigue. Her papery lips crinkle as she takes a drag of a newly glowing cigarette. The ashtray balancing on the tattered arm of the couch is a graveyard, filled with half-buried skeletons and fading embers. Muscles writhe under her pockmarked skin as she lifts her arm to pull away the cigarette from her mouth. Her bones shift as her clenched jaw opens and she calls: “Daniel, come here.”

Silence.

“Daniel, I said come here. Don’t make me come up there. Son of a bitch.” A half-hearted chuckle escapes her shriveled lungs. “I guess that makes me a bitch. Well, cheers.” Heaving forward, she snatches the glass of wine off the table. The glass sweats nervously, tickling her dry fingertips. She sighs as the familiar burn soothes her throat.

(I don't know if I'm going anywhere with this...)

iamb a fan of free verse

i have outgrown the sweater my heart
was pinned to. i have cast it away to pout
with the rest of the rags on my closet floor. and
there it sits, stained with salty rivulets, tainting the
groaning, ancient wood.

i have no use for the shoes i was asked
to fill. i have cast them away to weigh down
the world's expectations. and there they stand,
worn soles, treading on the groaning, ancient wood.

i have put on my old suit. and it still fits just right.

as we tarry there

look up, child, and forget your

stumbling feet. drink in the stars and

stand in awe as Orion spins cartwheels

above you. but shrink down as his arrow slices

thin clouds and topples over great

mountains. skip between the avalanches and

laugh with the nightingales--drown out the

whispers of your troubles. hide between dull

blades of grass and wait for the shadows

to pass over you. in time, downy feathers will

fall from the circling vultures.

look up, child. It will be alright.

nightmakers

wetting their lips with swallowed dusk their

faces invade the twilight.

crouching between the leaves sharp shoulders

slice through the sky

and the night bleeds constellations. kneading the

light-spattered ground trembling beams

slip out of sight through

new pinholes sparkling on the horizon.

a rustle in the bushes like reeds on a shore wind

sneaks beside their shifting bodies, twisting the grass into

disturbing dances, dissonant against the silent rhythm.

they grow still a chill slides down the backs of the

trees; shivering leaves turn back and forth, anticipation

flooding their thin veins.

they pounce the sky shrieks and tears refract the starlight and the grass

bows to the breeze and the trees bend their croaking bodies and

the night begins.

(you'll be loved again)

smiling and sobbing do not go together

mostly because tasting her sadness makes her

feel pathetic. familiar tears fill her, blind her.

she scrapes her bare knees as she

stumbles and falls onto the path less traveled.

bits of broken hearts jut out of the broken road

and she sits between pieces. she wants them-

to see if they have her broken edges-

but the ground has a strong hold and bares its teeth

when she tugs at one. bleeding hands cradle her

weary head and she sighs.

she lifts her eyes and sees a small heart,

chipped and broken, glinting in the darkness.

it drowns in her tears; she makes a boat from

her own heart and rescues this drowning soul.

the hearts share a beat and their scars continue each other.

this newfound heart bounds down the path and out of sight,

but she dries her cheeks and picks herself up

and shakes the brokenness from her shoes

because she knows there will be better ahead.

city

a shadow snakes down

a brick building.

its twisted frame winds the

barred windows around its every step,

only to turn away and run to the edge.

stopped, panting, staring at the street below,

wishing for a way to reach it. but

clichéd visions of true escape bolt the

ghost to the wall.

lanky trees yawn and

the breeze snags on their sharp fingers

they waver on skeletal heels and

hold onto to the stars for balance.

they stretch their arms into the sky

and button night coats around their bony bodies,

but clouds bite their hands and

their coats shred and

they shiver in the wind.

faint lines divide the street and

the darkness slices down the middle,

leaving ragged edges and crooked contours.

the city opens its thousand eyes and

gapes its thousand mouths and remembers

when the sidewalks danced and the

buildings laughed and the

music of the trees set the tempo for

surging life.

the city closes its thousand eyes and

closes its thousand mouths and

readies for another

fitful sleep.

lost

the bridge rocked as you

fell to your knees. you peered

through worn slats and caught

a glimpse of your reflection rushing past.

timid lovers who saw your sprawled limbs

changed direction and whispered behind

rapid steps. you didn't know what you were

looking for, so you didn't find it.

the mirror fogged as you

sighed. you tried to see beyond your

desperation so you drew a pair of glasses.

you didn't blot out the middle of the

frames; you knew you would see just two dim eyes.

the fog melted and scribbled thin lines

onto your blank face. you didn't know what you were

looking for, so you didn't find it.

your heart was beaten

blue and black and one day you decided to

zip it shut. every knock and tick and bump that

touched the clasp teased the strings of your soul, but your

mind told you no

so you lost those maybeloves. you lost something you

didn't know you had in the first place.

you know what you're looking for, but you can't find it.

music

you taste the words leaving your

lips but the erupting crowd swallows

your sound and you embrace the old feeling

of believing in a simple verse

of finding that moment of peace and

that instant of understanding how finite

it all is. and the echo of your song

illuminates the shallow outlines of every

face. and the simple realization that you're in love

with music

overtakes you and your soul collapses into itself and

everything becomes clear and once you

feel this

you can never turn back and once you

know that

you accept it and fade into this swelling symphony.

[untitled]

If I could write while I was happy, I'd write about you.

that bottle

searching for answers in the bottom

of a bottle. when you drain the life out

of life you're left with a convex display of

all the things you've let go.

you're far too used to

tipping back your heavy head and

seeing only yourself in that distorted

reflection

instead of something better.

you look for meaning in the bottom

of a bottle. you fashion a telescope from

empty ones but all you see is your own bro

ken eye blinking back.