cool to the touch
as i allow
to trail down
of your smooth skin;
almost like porcelain
to the touch,
you calmed me,
just being in the same vicinity as you
made me suddenly feel
overcome with a sense
and because of this,
i couldn't get enough of you;
i had never in my life
seen anything i regarded
as remotely close to
as beautiful as you were,
causing me to place you
on the highest of pedestals,
an insurmountable target
with which i used
every other person;
and none of them did;
you complemented a room
made me have to compliment you
for i have not once
come across something
an untainted piece of art
that i fear
will leave my life
sooner than i'd like,
by a stroke
of awful luck,
you'd been dropped
many a time
by undeserving people
that didn't recognize
the priceless masterpiece
they once had
to call their own,
to pick up the shattered pieces of yourself
and put them all back together
and while there are scars,
permanent indents and grooves
endlessly reminiscing previous pain,
i am not deterred in my quest
to show the whole world
what a magnificent specimen you are.
and because of this,
i vow to cradle you,
to protect you,
and to love you;
and i'll hope, every week,
that you like the flowers
i got for you to hold
(they glimmer well
with the hint of your eyes)
when the light
from the early morning sun
illuminates every corner
of those daisies,
and more importantly,
the beautiful vaselike angel
as if she's the only thing
keeping them from
the rest of the world;
the parts of reality
that don't notice,
that don't realize
and the simple beauty
inside of both of them;
which is why, darling
with your broken past
you fear falling apart
but i promise
to keep you safe
you're my work of heart.
To bed I took, in habitual slumber,
cursive prayers die at my cynical tongue,
all pinned badges of the day cast-off
to the floor, only for my sorry soles to
impale upon, come morn. ‘Come morn!
I called, to the chasted walls;
‘come morn!’ I sang,
hoping to fill the thinned curtains
with a filter of light.
In oil paints, old dreams coloured themselves
in patient, kaleidoscopic hues. Though
withered of form, they delight in me,
promise to deliver in utero joys,
connection to the Great Mother;
all that was lost in the fall.
The fall of man,
so gravely reported, and so
limiting to humankind.
I fell. I fell to sleep as Romans did peace.
With grudge, with dissonance; mind-silence apparent
only upon the death of the day.
With stubborn regard, my ears tarried in vigil,
I awoke to each pine of the hallway,
each tremor of heart, pulse of thought,
and Lord of sound.
‘Come death!’ I sighed,
to my life’s rushing blackness,
‘come death!’ I cried, to my stars.
In cannabis, I attune, only to calm;
to bask in the light of some meadow-less dawn,
and in pains, I pray only for dullen thoughts,
to poison my days in some indolent mess.
And of Ávila, Teresa
shelters my mind. She comes to me
in sorry demise.
‘My child,’ she calls, voice echoed since,
‘fellow child,’ she pines, entrusted sphinx.
Spawn of Thebes, she riddles through centuries,
all panicked pores, all sickening spirals,
forgotten in the present, all-eternal.
A shepherd am I, amongst my thoughts,
she calls thus that I am not my mind,
rather, a chosen observer,
to be confused not upon the
idiocratics, more, ‘what is.’
A lowing at my window, she calls unto me
in reverberated tongue, nutritious tone,
a cyclone of holistic power.
Bright glimmer of light, she calls once more, ‘my child!’,
she cries, ‘my fellow child of the Lord!
Please, rain unto me your sorry state,
lack of appetite,
cooling plate. Oh, you that live so solemnly,
you who knows not of the arbour of life.’
I call not in terror and I call not in my fright,
upon the window, that ghostly glimmer,
she heals the walls in half-light, swimming
in opal reflections of ripples and chimes.
And, she is calling for beauty,
she is singing unto me,
‘come morn!’ she weeps,
‘come morn, and with it, the tidings,
of your blessed life to be!’
Stumbling, I trip over the apparition’s words,
she speaks not in life’s shadows and sinister plot,
but only in those that speak like a God.
In the awful haze of light-polluted skies,
auspicious streets and government plot,
her prophecies fair, but yet
‘Come now!’ I say, in no hope, ‘come
now,’ I say, an adult.
‘There’s no space for me here in this lifetime,
there’s no soil for my roots to embed,
in painful years past, I’ve been in sorrow,
and I’ll be expecting them in all the years, hence.
So what, if I’ll join the army,
or some other capricious,
All tributaries lead to the river,
as all humans to their torturement.’
Teresa, she radiated with colours,
and Amy, who lived within my chest,
they called out as one in my silence,
as a union, a conquest of the childhood mind,
to abolish the present tense.
As one, they sang upon to me,
They sang, ‘be born,’
under the moonlit streets, ‘be born
to all that you are, and ever you could be.’
And from this dream I came out in denial.
From this dream, I appeared to awake. I awoke
to the song of the starlings, and to
the precious pleasure of life’s augment.
With this groggy thought I’ll admit that,
in separation I fell apart,
I call, ‘come out!
‘come out and greet me,
old Eden, my eternal womb.
The union of mankind and nature,
and the union of our pasts combined.’
He liked to say he had some shrapnel in his head
but I'm afraid that's not the only thing he said...
with his working arm he wheeled his broken body down the hall
pushing buttons of the nurses, you could say the man had gall.
he said, " Hey, you little blond, I don't believe I caught your name,
but I could shoot my AK rifle", then he talked about his aim,
"I'm not kidding, were it fitting, I could take you out right now,
and you'd never see it coming, 'Special Forces'"; I said, "Wow!"
He said " I can tell you stories that would spin your head around,
cause I've seen a lot of action, 'fore the shrapnel took me down".
Then he pointed to the helmet, that sat high upon his head
" I'm an invalid,disordered,yes, but surely not brain dead".
Had I met this man some other way, say walking on the street,
I'd be running for my life, 'cause you know he'd pack some heat.
A better man, though he would say the shell of what he'd been
not to listen to his story, would've truly been a sin.
I believe I caught the glimmer of a hope within his eyes
that I'd ask to hear about it and be shocked beyond surprise.
So I smiled at him and said, "I've got some time to kill here, Guy,
do slay me with your story and in detail, please, don't lie."
"Army, Special Forces, sent to Nam to guide our men,
I knew the lay of jungleland, believed that we could win.
I taught them what I knew to stay alive and get it done
without a leader they'd be dead before the setting of the sun.
And so I led my troops in battle and I kept them all alive
taught them everything they never learned in boot-camp to survive.
and everything went well until one night it went to hell
when on a mission I was ambushed and this story I will tell:
taken prisoner, beat and blindfolded, then forced to walk for miles
they took their turns at night guard, while they tried to sleep a while.
but all along I waited, for I knew the stupid one
would look away, then turn back looking down the barrel of his gun.
and sure enough it happened, that the Doofus looked away,
and I was there, right on the trigger, and I took their lives that day.
and I broke out of the darkness and ran south for several days
I had learned the landscape well, but then, my head was in a daze.
When suddenly I heard them, distant voices. English speaking,
and I came upon a hedge in which I hid but did some peeking.
And what I saw, believe me, was the best dream of the day
I burst right through and ran to, waiting arms, the USA!
That was not the last time, I came back to Nam again
caught some shrapnel in my head, you know, and here I am, the end".
I do believe this soldier is just one of countless men
who spend their days in nursing homes confined, without a friend.
for years before and years to come, there will be guys like Guy
who need to share their war stories with folks like you and I.
and when we stop to listen, to appreciate the cost
we honor not the killing, but the living and the lost.
we validate the struggle, and the things they've overcome
encouraged in the battle, 'til the final war is won.
He liked to say he had some shrapnel in his head
but I'm afraid that's not the only thing he said...
The feeling of life slipping out of my hands,
the time passes by,
counting its full rounds,
Looking for a way to be alive again.
Searching for a glimmer.
Loosing under dimmer.
People are whispering, my life is slipping because they made lies about me.
Back on my knees.
Crawling, with the look in the eyes.
The look of disillusionment.
The look of a genius.
The one that shall never be understood.
Another important thing is that this is the first poem I wrote with my student, and I am really proud of it.
having good taste
does not matter
i love twins
when they glimmer
i nod to heavy balloons
because they cover well
i thank freewheeling
for the inspiration
I hate her kind
for being so obvious
yet i listen
because I love sally
i hate katy perry
she makes the noise
that makes me feel
This block that’s been haunting me
I finally know what it is
It’s not that my thoughts have ever ceased to exist
(no matter how hard I wish)
Has never been poetic.
My 4 shots of honesty
Are tucked under unclean bed-sheets
Because I haven’t found a soul
With good enough reason to trust
I work with formulated brushstrokes
My polished softer madness
Because I’ve been told that
This much eye contact makes you
I say things
that you didn't
want to (or know how)
Enough for you to swallow
So shove yours down my throat
with a gleam in your eye
like you actually think
you’ve solved my mystery
have covered up
every last shadow
every vicious glimmer
of your fingerprints
marring the fabric
of my skin
my natural form
is your sin
I shudder to think
That I’m waiting
For my censored text to be read
Waiting for repercussions
Of wounds that I’ve already bled
Is that I blurred through the boundaries
Between memories and lies
That I often can’t remember
What I made up and why
there was so much to
with false nostalgia
that there’s no logic behind that
no reason to
forget how to feel
to go three days
with my eyes glazed
until I can grasp on
to what's real
a patched up framework of sane
and I want to see blood
to feel purpose for pain
Every time my tremors
Shake in new directions
I want to cry because
That’s just one step further away
Was just imagination
until it was dysfunction
and I set fire to my lungs
Because no matter what
I was never good enough
I choke on my breath
And the burn of swallowed blood
out of place
like a breeze to the bone
Dripping past the place that
Your name once called home
I still visit
The grave of a legend
In my body
So heavy with the weight
Of lives I never lived
It was never like
The words I so hopefully drowned in
The promises that
my fears were unfounded
That no one could really
Not like this
Being left to remember your kiss
Nail marks in the palms of clenched fists
Not like fading in and out of dreams
Which reality is this?
Untangling from cold sweats
With the ringing in my ears
Reminding me ruthlessly
That god damnit I’m still here
And you’re gone
I hate that “I miss you”
Is mistaken for cliché
But it’s my truth
It’s my indescribable
My around every corner
Staring me right in the face
Over and over
Your absence impacts like a train
dripping in honey sweet
we were my first us
it's hard to find salvation
foundation gives up
Is sharp breaths
It tastes like
Vomit coming out my nose
Splashing against my skin
It burns a little like
Coming up my throat
And a whole lot less
Than the loneliness
That vacant isolation
That booms so stubborn
Trying to heal
Reminding me that
Summer by summer
I become something
That I wont
be willing to save.
At this point
I'm not sure what I crave.
it feels like thunder
on the horizon
of my intangible
you are so much more
than a metaphor
for how perspective
but my story
was never about you
birthed from ashes
your favourite taboo
then time has past,
the green has faded and the light has cast,
its shadows on my path,
where then shall i wonder now to ponder how i see this life,
all in a gasp of air at night ,
under moon and stars and night owls cries and birds that sing and do not sleep,
through teary eyed lonely streets
and cold in my heart and cold in my feet
and all the people that i have known and all the places i have been shown,
a throne a harp a zither a loan ,
a painting made to make me whole,
a song a drum a passage of time,
a melting crystal a message in rhyme,
then where is this that i find myself ,
in misty morn in this old hell
and yet its warmer than the stealth of never being true to my inner most wealth,
so ways lead onwards and yet its so dark,
i see a glimmer i see a mark thats been made truly and deeply hurts,
the bare the loneliness.
Most of my time is invaded by the serenity of black
My boat rocks calmly in the water
Gazing into the reflective surface of the dark
With nothing to interpret, my eyes project
Regurgitating the restless images of trains stampeding into oblivion
Morphing into snakes whose scales glisten but whose eyes are scattered and dim
Into needles that rush through veins in your arms but never catch the sides
You can feel the puncture though it never occurs
And I don’t mark these changes
They are the blade of the fan I catch and follow
Merging with the rest when I close my eyes to simply feel the air
The lighthouse swings around to hurl its discus at me
This beam piercing a prism of anticipation
Bleaching my vision
Allows my colored invigoration to bleed onto the canvas
I viciously paddle until the darkness consumes all again
And I am able to smile in the stillness
Knowing that my throbbing muscles mock the slow pulse of the lighthouse
I walk with a box enclosing my head
And will catch a brief glimpse of the realm in which I am realized
As the liquid sloshes around
I try to convince myself that the density of one box outweighs the size of another
And I try to explain myself
But only manage to drool down my measures of body
My neighbors see this and remember their thirst
But they know that they cannot quench it with my coating
They are not disgusted, but still repulsed
Compelled to hydrate
A pencil works as well as any dipstick
I stab it into myself
In hopes the blood will loosen this thick coat
My scales do glimmer
My eyes scatter the picture
But remain fixed
This thing is claiming me again. I write only to express a great need to see you, or call you, or maybe even crank up the engine of this beat up junker I'm sitting in now. I'd very much like to see you again, or once more, even if it were just your eyes. It's been three years. Three years since I last heard your voice, or laugh, or saw you smile. Fuck, do I miss that smile. It's been three years since you left without a decent goodbye, you ass. You never had a fucking clue - but, anyway. That's not why I'm here.
I was thinking of you today, as I have every single one before and will continue to until my breathing ceases. Did you know it's the anniversary of when I realized I was hopelessly in love with you? Of course you don't. I never told you about that moment, or how I really felt. I swore I might, before you were gone, but it's been three years and I never did. So that's that, I guess. This is such a waste, writing to you. Yet here I am, painstakingly scrawling these thoughts whirling around in my brain on to a sheet of loose leaf paper. The best part is knowing I'll never send this to you. This is going to sit here in my pocket until I wash it, or burn it when I'm searching for the cigarettes I don't smoke, or even lose it on my walk through the city.
I walk every day, and not just to and from places. I walk to think. I walk to clear my head. Instead, I will pass somewhere you've been -- somewhere we've been -- and I will be right where I started again, plagued by the ghost of you on every new corner, in the middle of the crowds, and at the foot of the subway stairs. You are everywhere, darling.
You'd be laughing at this point, probably. You'd be thinking that I ramble like I used to and still don't manage to say enough to ever convince you that I'm true. Or maybe you'd be thinking how wasteful this is to this sheet of paper. How unfair that this piece of paper gets to carry this nonsensical message to you -- or not, actually -- and how unfair that it gets to sit in my pocket, close enough to be lost. Or maybe you wouldn't think that at all, and you'd be just blankly reading all of this and wondering whether I'm just bullshitting around the truth, like I've always done oh-so-well.
Or maybe you'd just be thinking that this is so typical of me, keeping things I'll never do anything with for the sake of keeping them. You always thought I liked the act of keeping things rather than the things themselves. Perhaps you're right, because I've always wished I could both keep you and be rid of you and the toxicity you bring.
But at the end of the day, I'm the one writing you. Maybe my feelings learn towards the former of those two extremes.
Anyway, you would have been right about the bullshitting thing. I'm really writing because the emptiness is back, eating me out and wringing my guts inside out, and it isn't even pleasurable. I wrote because I haven't done so in some time, and it's been a long time since I wrote one of these one-sided letters to you. I used to write more; I used to have dozens, even, though I never wrote those on loose leaf paper in an old junker, heat off in the middle of winter. Really, I'm freezing right now. This is ridiculous. And I've got to stop bullshitting to you, I do.
You know, I can almost hear you responding to this. I can hear your voice somewhere in the back of my mind, answering me. And maybe that makes me more insane than I ever was. Maybe this hollowed out body has finally been done in, and I'm just beginning my descent into the clutches of insanity... or maybe I just can't tell you the truth. You know me well, you do.
The truth is that I fucking miss you so much, it hurts to breathe. It physically causes my chest to ache, for pain to shoot through my entire body with each pump of my heart. Unfortunately, my heart is beating ceaselessly and my breathing has yet to stop by choice, so it hurts every day, every single second. I am always missing you. There is no other truth but that.
I think that, by allowing myself to write this, I'm hoping this idea of you can save me. I know already that this is the dumbest thing I've let myself hope for, more stupid than letting myself hope for you and for change and for happiness. The point is, letting myself do this at all is stupid, But I can't stop myself. You are worse than any drug I've ever known, and I pity those whose lives you have touched only because I know what it's like to be cut off from you. God forbid you leave them, someday, and they end up like me. Or a few shades less crazy than me.
I haven't even eaten because of this emptiness. I can't eat, actually. If I feed the monster, it erupts and soaks me with self hatred. I'm afraid of it. I'm afraid to do anything to infuriate it, and it's always angry. It's always whispering to me, sexily and sweet, asking me to do things that are so wrong. I'm not listening, and I'm staying clean, but it's hard, dearest. It's so hard when you've got nothing to cling to, nothing to even dream about hoping for.
This emptiness takes and takes, and it does not give back anything but empty caverns and the memory of what it was to feel. It takes everything I've got and it dumps it on the ground, spreads it around and sullies it. And when it's tattered and worn and filthy and unrecognizable, it crumbles it between its fingers like it's nothing but ash. I hate this behemoth more than I hate living through it. It's never-ending, the terrors it brings, and it pounds against me when I trap it away. It is invincible though, and it always win. It's invincible in the way I believed we once had been, a long time in the past. Like us, I am not as invincible as I dreamed.
I'm sorry if I've worried you. I didn't mean to tell you, not truly. But now that the words are out, I seem to be a bit less empty than I was. Maybe I'll find my way out of this... maybe. I hope you are well, and smiling, and the world treats you kindly. I hope the night sky is beautiful where you are, and the lights glimmer in the distance exactly as you've imagined them. You deserve it a thousand times over me.
The inside of your throat is fully lined with silver
Where the plates meet there are seams of ancient gold, that was once old slivers of coins and has since been melted and painted on top of your organs and has become the tubes of your bloodstream, the molecules that faintly glimmer in your dark platelets
Like tiles on old church houses, nearly purple flakes of slate separate and cascade into the piles of dry leaves
I hear pieces snap when I stand on them and it reminds me of how your voice cracks
It reminds me of stiffened folded pieces of dusty linens or fabric found in small wooden boxes with black over-painted hinges
You remind me of charms on charm bracelets, ones that are labelled with prices attached to pins which pierce through cheap looking velvet and thin padding
You are inexpensive and caged up
But we can see you, and like a modern tiger we hear your electronic yawns