i-l-o-v-e-y-o-uI killed three people to spell the word love.E was the obvious one.Everyone seemed to love him anyway.So why not me?But E led to R and S and Tand I and N were just washed upmistakesI'msorryIevenletUcrossmymind.But it's over and done, and the first man walked to his grave.Owas the oneeveryone seemed toforget.He stood outsideunder the million moons of the stadiumcontemplatingthe distance to heavenand the spaces of nothingbetween the stars.Owas myfavorite.But he got lost in the shuffle of G and W.I think I thought they'd be differentthan the others.Maybe because they weren't so obvious?No one seems to ever pick those.But M and K lusted after P and Z and left me with a bloody knifeand a leaking throata top what was beginningto feel likeastackof corn husks.Vwas the long shot.And when I say long shot,I mean looo
NightlockShoulders yanked toward quivershe slides through the forest like a knifeor is she just a ghost?Not while there is an ounce of grayin her eyes or a single humanleft to love.Left to defend.Rook against rook, knight against knightlaying in wait to shoot at the machinebut no heart could foretellwhat lay under the mud.When it's time, the arrow stretches in her palms,an elastic dancer on the swell of a bird's note.But she keeps the best weapons for herself:her tongue is wise and her throat is a whipcracking hearts with a defiant song.A folded waterfall slithers down her back,but no sense of innocence can be contained in a braid.Forget the games.This is war.
Something Like a :Love: PoemThe day I knew,the air smelled like stale paperand abandoned classics,and the sun, pulsingwith the pain of a summerrushed too soon,shriveled our skininto potatoes.The week was probablysecond cousinswith a snail,melting into oblivionas we attempted to rearrangethe Wordsworthsoaring through our neuronsinto something resemblinga weekend.Perched atop the varicosevein of a tree-shapedheart,you surveyed ourgovernment-sponsoredplastic while grumblingabout current affairsand the sorry stateof ketchupthese days.Your feet weresprinkled withhalf-remembereddreamsof mud piesand freshly-bakedcard games,and I couldhave swornthe asphalt's uneven kissagainst your solelooked a littlelike home.Of course,I couldn't know for sure,since I'd neverseen oneuntil a slippery Wednesday afternoondrenched in destiny like it wassunlightwhen you dragged anabandoned fledglingfrom a warm down-comforterand flung her intothis vinegar-sweetsunsetof sneezes
A WishI met me today, dancingacross the lawn withdandelionscreased in her palms.seems like shecouldbe an interestingpersonsomeday.
SanleomnI do notthinkin poems.I dance in them.I let them fill upinside of meuntil-heart burstingskin stretchingeyes wateringknees shakingfingers reachingstomach churning-I let the wordsagonizingly spill fromevery poreand clatteronto the keyboard.
On WritingSometimes I try too hard. I use big words and call things what they are not. And for the moment I am proud. I say, look at me, I know words. But I don't.And in two months when I look I am disgusted.Sometimes I try too little. Sometimes I just take the words out of my eyes and put them there on the paper. And they sit and stare right back.They're just there. Like lumps. Sitting.But in two months I become the two-month-ago me.And I am proud.Sometimes I wish I had a net to catch my thoughts so I could keep them in little jars on my shelves and admire their glow.I am always writing, writing.But sometimes I am typing. Sometimes my fingers are flying, flying over the keys.So fast.But my thoughts are winning the race. They are breaking the speed limit. And I can't.Sometimes I have a pencil, and it feels right in my hands. And I write. And it is good.But slow.Too slow.Sometimes I have a pen and it glides, rolling, rolling over my paper's angry teeth. But smooth as it is, it is st
Now that I'm a birdNow that I'm a bird,it's clear I'mthe one who brokeyour wings.I've got a bit offluff stuck undermy fingernailsand Idon't think I'll everbe able to washthe down outof my hair,so it's strangehow a consciencecan so easilyoverlookthe red rimmed lipsand the bloodclotting in mycuticlesall for the sakeof being clean.
Intonation.I'm sorry, I still love you.I'm sorry. I still love you.I'm sorry! I still love you!But I'm sorry I still love you.
How?How do you dream with your eyes wide open?How do you speak with your mouth shut tight?How do you feel when your heart is broken?And how can you sleep when you're blinded by light?How do you think when your mind is empty?How do you cry when your eyes are dry?How do you run when the world walks slowly?And how do you fly when you can't get high?How do you smile when inside you're aching?How do you love when you're dying to fight?How do you stand when your shoes are breaking?And how do you live when the world isn't right?
The IntentionWho am I to draw up from this weary mindand proclaim its labors to be clever or novel?I am a stranger in a world of ash and dust.Every song has been sung and faded;Every poet's pen runs dry.Every lover, every enemy, every heart begging reposeHas fulfilled its time in this spaceAnd poured out its entirety for generations to come(or at least this was the intention;we are often lost in translation).So, who am I to produce a creation borne of experiences worn and cliché?Who are we--each and every one, so anomalous to have this time to live--Who are we to entwine our sorrows with sorrows long forgotten?Who are we to dip our pen in the painpoured from a late lover's heart,Or fold ourselves intimately into the armsof those who knew our livesBefore we came into this world?
everyone is a sociopath with a vitamin deficiencymy parents never beat meand look how I turned out: cracked ribsfractured pelvisblood in my urinefinally lost my baby teethbut there's no love without blood and youdo not dream in hourglassesrusty wind andferris wheel cagesto watch the gauze fall untapedon the kitchen floor andI am itchingscratchingbleeding timeprofusely and it falls off me like sawdust with everyturnaround orshakemyheadno butI still stand still with knees dovetailed andhead cocked downto watch the wood shavingspile at my shins like suitcasesyou always want moreso when I felt the fault lines in your wristsstart to trembleI took that revolver in your chestspun the cylinders and heardthe familiar empty clickecho through your ribcageand now I find youunderground like rainwaterand I triedthis time
chokeI collect thingsthey may resemble some of your traitsor be loosely associated to those thingsthat moved you,I worship these little cadavers,they rot out my heart,send me to an earlier grave.I collect thingsand become them,dirty artifacts to guide me throughlife,dirty emsembles to bless thesestorms.ButI'm going to get over youfor once and for allandcollage new collectionsto richerthe consequences.
Metastasis98.00Autumn is the season when everything dies.The leaves shrivel up and your lungs go with them, tiny dejected organs drying out inside your sternum, crinkling under our footsteps. The doctors pronounce their diagnosis as the leaves fall, listing medical terms and percentages and something about medication options.The disease is metastatic: it has bored its way out of your lungs and into your bones. Dissatisfied, it's going for your organs, your liver, your heart. The prognosis says Christmas is a pipe dream, likely as the sun ceasing to set.You promise it anyway.94.00November comes and I am a fish, breathing through makeshift gills carved into my hips, lopsided and crude.I make fresh ones twice a day, slice myself open once in the morning and once at night in hopes the air will come a little easier each time. I make three and count them off:one,two,three,and hope my heart stops.92.00The leaves have been carted away, pummeled into dust, and blown away in the wind.Your lu
It is not enough to writeIt is not enough to put the words on pageor to align them like cocaine linesin neat rows of cornstalk paragraphsfertile enough to bear reviews.No. One must bleed each period,each dot-dot-dot like morse code mythologythe Gallic cry at the end of the telegraph age.It must become an ocean in you, these voicesswelling to tidal highs, and quiet - never.You the new folkteller, urban prophetwho can call to battle anyone with eyes.Ooze it like sap spilling down the bark.It is not enough to write.One must expire with each keystroke,endlessly. It must come from the bowels.Purge it as infection leaking out of skin;lance yourself. Choke back tears.If there is no labor pain,the words were never born.This is a death business.We bleed ourselves onto paper andslice our brains into vellum sheetand repeat, repeat, repeat.Pure person petrichordeep inside the ink.
how lilies weepobstaclesare a kind of faith, bleeding throughintentionas if through someamorphous skin,red silk,a bruised clock covered in veins and cloakedwith skin,timed to burst.i am nothingif i am not a dreamof yours, wakingfrom the geometric lightof my windowinto a shimmering cup,poured full of your wordsmy hips drippingtheir tiny mechanisms,whirring impatientlymy mouthmade raw,swirling in incense,growing new teeth,finding ulcersto bleed through.i drip and coughand sleep and bleedand hopethat i am strong enoughfor someone like you.i am tapedand bandagedand covered upblindfoldedbut you can still seethe endless flaws.i watch the trees break,embryos shivering,wolves chewing,the elastic stretch between moments asone thing lives and another dies,as each day i create my chances,i hold my deck of cards and slice two in half,i eat one, i rip another,and i still win the game.you are the card i never play,the one i hold on to,the lucky coin
the less i knowsomething new: my breath hitched but the words meant nothing.i owed the light peserverent flattery in the form of prose,stories of what could have been.the gloom in which i slept was a system altogether unable to measure up to the new universe;to exist together in perfect cognition is first to understand that i never wish to be better.how pitiable this impure form to which we all succumblittered with stars. i am temporary like them, almost, always and never.I have forgotten how to live. it is late mornings during which i upturn my lazy eyes to the skyagainst it's will. there, like you, live millions- and my mind is reborn.the day comes. easily her gentle beckoning fills our minds. the sky is golden-blue:unmasterable. we retract our wicked claws and our majestic selvesare now only threats we cannot perceive.we lie nestled like tired humans together in the cold grass, and the blades are shiningwet with the tears of the dawn. we're late. we're forgottenyou touch the e
Coffee StainsDress shoes click on the streets laid slick with cinnamon and wasted airIt's sugar on your lipstick, darling; a dangerous affair.You chose coffeeLike you chose romanceJust for the idea of romance; cream and smoked wood swirling around in your cup,And steam curling up into the atmosphere like the locks in his hair.Crushed, bitter,Tantalisingly dark and hauntingly aromaticYou craved itYou mocked the raven that eyed you from its branch out in the blustering courtyard andYou didn't even like the taste.The silver curve of the teaspoon showed your warped reflection like a deathly omenIt showed the line of your neck and each glittering pearlThe hanging clock on the wall, for all its carved hearts and varnished oakCouldn't quite drown out the tollingTickingPendulum swinging by your ear as you ran your hand along the creases in the leather seatThe sweet, too-strong perfume mingling with the scent of theDark black coffeeConcealingMuch as the gold around his wrist hadT
Sad Blue EyesWhen I was little, my mom used to carry me everywhere. She would cradle my pudgy pale body and rock me back and forth, watching me as I cuddled close to her warm body. My mom's eyes were big and blue, but were always terribly sad when they saw me. On the days when her eyes would become so glossy raindrops fell off her face, my mom would roll up my dress sleeve to reveal a delicate bangle resting around my wrist. "Your number suits you
sweet like berries
" she would coo in my ear, "Palmer and Rodney don't have numbers as sweet as yours." Her voice would weaken and shake whenever I asked what my number was.I didn't understand why it bothered her so much. It was really pretty bangle, with intricate detail work that was designed to look like silver stems. Those stems led to sixteen bronze daisies, where a moonstone was in the center of each one. No one I knew had a bracelet as lovely as mine. My brothers' bracelets were plain and boring-- iron bands with a lot of small gems rand
It's not Rocket Science a poem for Jack Parsons Lucifer took a hit, landedface-down & flat-brokeback in the 40sout on the West Coasteyes the colour of Swarfegateeth rotting, shoes worn through,and dying for another hightoo early for acid he takesthe mescaline traildown into the Mojavewhere the rattlesnakes arelocked in their kundalini and thestillness flickers like godacross a lizard's eyeLucifer hitched a ride(another genius-bum)over to Pasadenato see Jack and the Rocket Boyssee what they can doto put him back in heaventoo long in the desertJack's already on the last reelstoppe
Alive Like Dirt-Winter vanished, a dreamMinutes after having woken;The imprint and the linesStill crisscrossing the edgesOf thought, retreating at myTouch. It was important. I think. I thought.Though, I've lost it now. Am reeling now.I reached out, five distinctPoints forming a living symbol. A tool. Clutching.Catching the last flakes of snowBetween my forefinger And thumb,Like an angel thread seed.I looked at my hands once,At the neolithic lay linesCarved in the clay
another notch on the wall. 1.a while now,a while now has passedwith bruises crying jagged from your voice and pretty little nicks upon your memory.( tricky partners dancingstiffly within your hands cupped around a flame,for artists draw andwriters scream another curse at the bleeding night snipping stitches and weaving nightmares into weary minds.
The Stellar Void"Can you kill me, please?"I must have looked startled because her expectant gaze saddened a bit."I'm sorry. What?""Can you kill me?" Her face brightened as she repeated the morbid probe.Confused, I couldn't help but notice her rather familiar clothes. Faded pink jeans, knock-off Converse shoes. Little black hoodie with a torn right sleeve."You just looked a bit angry and I figured you'd be the best person to ask."I stood next to the bench. My backpack dug into my shoulder and I shrugged it off. It'd be awhile before the next bus came anyway."Why?"She looked down the street. The dim lights barely revealed the closed shops and leaf strewn sidewalks. A short breeze caused the dead landscaping out front to rustle gently but now, it seemed slightly ominous."I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked." Her voice was hollow and even though she was turned away, I could sense the hint of disappointment.Sighing, I sat on the other side of the bench. Pausing for a minute, I glanced up at the mos
One Day I Shall Lay Down And Dieone day i shall lay down and dieand so for now here is my kiss, my golden-ness,my forehead pressed against yourslike two strange animals lost on a plain ofred sand. one day i shall lay down and die sonow here, let these birds pick me apart,show you it all, the torn underwearand the girl gazing at the soft glowon trees, the ferocious lion-loveweeping under the kitchen table. one dayi shall lay down and dieso for now i feast on beaches, your breath,the flutter of my dress sore against my skinsomeday i will find that peace,plant a spring-flower deep in my heart, land one last cool kisson the bow of your mouth and slip away, i know that one dayi will lay down and die but for nowfeel your fingers spread across my heart,feel my roar in the night
March the Secondmy sweet little cycloneripping through the valleyhey, heywhat have you got for me today?you've got fire in your fingersit's whipping through my hairi'm dancing in your tearsunder a thundering starehey, heywhat have you got for me today?and i'm sure destruction lays beforea wilted path, i'm headed fori see the calm before your stormtell Talula I can't wait no more
the hanged manThis little red book you call the human body:take it up and shake it. Shake the flaking pagesout of it, shake it from endpaper to endpaperuntil the last of the phrases are gone; shake ituntil it's aching and empty, the soul of a bird.I will give you new words.
A MeetingYou will notice first, the bone juttingfrom my meat, it is called teeth,These are my lips;This, like so, is called a smile.And then there are the fabrications that I wearThe layers of silk, of wool,of iron air(indeed there is an air that I am not quite there)- And feathers I have wrapped into my hairAnd Afghan pearls, and finallyMy hands, hare-fleet, and meetingyours.
WaitingWaitingPale willow girls wait by the river, brides of the water,Guppies swim through their veins, silver darts of bright pain.Their names are hieroglyphs of mist, frost and rain.They walk barefoot in the snow, leaving tracks so they know the way back,A tracery of breadcrumbs that the ravens will never eat.Twelve princesses slip underground,Dance in slippers of tattered frayed silk,Corkscrews of ribbon, stiff with blood and melted tallow.They inject themselves with music until their eyes hum like bumble bees.Then they sleepwalk through the day in a haze of yearningFor fierce wet stone beneath their frenzy of feet, of bones.When they kiss they taste blood.They taste honeyed tears.The brides walk by blank storefronts, by scraps of words,"Joe's Dry Cleaners", "Nick loves Alicia", "Please, oh please".The town huddles waiting for checks, food stamps and jobs,In a boarded up movie palace, the wood charred by some great fireBlack as the ravens that feed Elijah rice,A preache
Where are regrets kept?Perhaps in the hollowspace betweenmy clavicleand scapula-That's where your chinrested all summer longand that's where the tearsfell in September.