Smack, jab! Left, right,
watch out I bite!
I process words
too fast,
they move like
flashes through my thoughts,
I don't make them, they don't make me.
I don't force them, they don't force me-
I do this for fun.
I bash my head into a turtle's skeleton,
pelicans, stay out of the way.
Wish wash kind of washer head,
wolf wild but walker wed,
stupid is as stupid ever gets when
stupid is what stupid said he'd turn
stupid,
what he'd spurn, stupid
pedestrian...
I, always the equestrian
and never stupid (and never wasteful
but always mindful, mind you!), like
to think that I do this for fun.

Believe me,
I do this for fun.

I stayed up all night yesterday,
And when the rain began to pour,
I began to float weightlessly, resting on the rising waters.
Forever skyward I was lifted,
Yet still remained in contact with the sea
Gazing down to watch the ghouls below.

At times, they accumulated enough energy
And clambered through the tides towards my side.
Yet the weight of their unrecognized guilt disabled them,
Again they spiraled back down like wisps of smoke.
I was prepared for my persistent pleas of mercy
But the heroic current swiftly pulled them away.
So I basked in the light, Often looking back in caution.
Meeting eager eyes, and visible minds
That jumped excitedly with plans of attack.

But the waters then deeper, absorbed their shocks,
So much that all i felt was a mere nudge.
Their impatient eyes always on me,
Rendered them blind to their inevitable failures.
It was only upon entering my mind, freely as always
Did they hear my silenced voice repeat-
better luck next time, better luck tomorrow.

Thoughts of you
swirl in my mind,
and remain stagnant in my heart.
Oh, how they haunt me so.
There are so many words
left unsaid by me;
words that may
never reach your ears.

These words would bring
to me much needed solace.
Simply said, they would dissipate
the shadow that
follows me everywhere;
this same dark shadow that makes me
question every step I have made,
and every step I am about to make.

My words left unsaid
will remain as such,
as time is needed
to heal the loss I now feel,
before I can face you and say,
word by word, what I feel -
what I will always feel.
“I love you, I miss you,
and I need you.
I want you in my life.
I am sorry for my indiscretions.”

When these words
have finally been said,
I hope, we both find comfort
in knowing that as your friend,
I will always be there,
wishing you well and
hoping that life fulfills you.

Vicki A. Zinn
2008

As I sit here alone,
thoughts of you fill my head.
I go over and over
what you meant to me,
what you still mean to me.
You touched my heart,
like no one before.
Our memories totally surround me,
with every waking moment -
they are the last things I feel
before I retire at night.
Dreams of you weigh
on my mind and wake me.
This is when I miss you the most.

Our lives are on different paths now.
You are taking time
to figure out what you truly want,
even though I already know,
but have no control over it.
My wants rest in your hands.
So, I tread forward,
pretending that all is well,
while inside, I feel like I am dying
without your love -
your love that supported me;
your love that sustained me.
your love that completed me.
Now, I am lost without it.

You have asked
if we can still be friends?
I knew this would be
hard for me to do,
even after all of the hurt.
So, I took some time
to mend my heart,
and I learned  to forgive you -
with open arms
I welcomed you back.

Things are going well,
however, I remain so guarded.
I know that I must be this way,
so as not to be misled.
You tell me that you understand.
Yet, truly, do you realize
that I have given you one last chance -
one last chance to remain a part of my life?
This is all I can afford to give you anymore.

I am trying to move forward each day,
by taking small steps,
instead of one giant leap.
Sometimes I feel like
I am making progress;
other times, I feel like I am failing.
Time is all I have during my transition.
One day, all wounds shall be healed.

Time will tell what becomes of us.
One thing I know for certain is,
even though I am moving forward,
you will always feel
my spirit close by -
this same spirit
that will always care for you
and wish you well.

Vicki A Zinn
2008

When your eyes touch mine,
it sends sparks through me.
Cerulean seas kiss the dirt of earth,
and my heart stutters, my resolve shudders.
Delicate, plush, pink,
Sweet contagious smile.
Canvases heat with delight,
hands travelling around the creamy canvas,
elicit with joy we embrace.
Fingers entangle within locks of hair,
twisting into soft elegant curls,
relishing in every second of this rebellious statement.
As I set my eyes unto your upturned lips,
my own reply.
The need is almost unbearable.
Knees aching, hearts sighing
head reeling you lean in.
Lips forming to one another,
curving, arching, playing,
every cell, every molecule,
desperate we cling.
My mind spoke a silent prayer,
for I prayed and I hoped.
May your lips intertwine with mine,
for forever and eternity.
May they dance in static delight,
never tiring of each others sweet taste.
However this reverie was too soon broken,
my eyes opened, taking in my lone prison.
AS I sat up I knew we could never be,
more than a young girls fantasy.

I tried to quit smoking last week. And my best friend died for eighteen hours. Such a deep loss has only been felt by rose hips, in the early winter, after the petals have fallen to the ground, like snow, like jumpers from high-rise buildings, like a maiden, after that last, fatal step off the plank, with swords at her back, and the horizon calling to her, the song of the Sirens drifting up from the ocean floor. Dropping, like petals, caught in a harsh winter breeze. The left-overs, the carcases of the flowers that were and are no more, watch with eyes of sorrow and hearts of lead, as each friend, companion, lover, even casual aquaintance plummets, to land on the already frozen soil of a dead, snowless, Colorado winter.
I died with my friend. My roots were tangled, and with each second that passed, a million axes took bites out of them, feasting on my identity. The axes were only gold-plated, it would seem, and not pure, unadulterated precious metal. Engraved in the paper-thin facade was a name, a face, and a hope, all of which were merely a poor excuse for an excersise in willpower. The cold, iron blade shone through the thin, gently curved lines of lip and ear and eye made of nebula. With each breath that passed between loosely parted lips, I felt myself fade, giving my everthing to the world (hope, name, face) that had, only moments before, murdered my closest companion.
My eyes grew steadily hard, increased stone-content. By 6:30, I had been staring into the eyes of my mistress, Medusa, for at least two hours, my head filled with love songs and daydreams, clutching straws and holding out for the one perfect moment that would shed a brief light on my life, which is, in all reality, the afformentioned pirate ship, but void of lamps, candles, or any other means of illumination.
Questions flowed to the surface of my disjointed mind in a stream, a river, an oceanic current of molten rock and sloppy second guesses.
(Will one hurt? Half? Just one puff? Why? Why? Why?)
And as I turned to stone, I finally found the courage to answer one of the questions that my brain shot itself with, injected into its own blood stream. The question was the sole bullet in a revolving, high-stakes betting game, the answer, the fourth trigger pull, with only two chances left anyway.
(Because... I don't know why...)
So stand up, go to the place you have thought about two-million times, and, yes, smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette.
As my friend rose from the dead, pushing aside the boulder blocking the entrance to its tomb, which everyone knew was just a temporary tenement, and we were reunited, we spoke of fascists. Well, I spoke of fascists, it listened. I spoke of the kind of fascists that exist in grayscale television commercials, spewing ingnorant words about the untimely deaths of beloved family members, who give me dirty looks in public, and have forced me into alleyways, across streets, out of sight, out of mind, to the back of the bus, as if non-smokers live forever, as if everyone can accomplish said impossible feat, if not for the evil plant, the evil spiritual plant that poses a threat to the well-ordered religious structures, pyres built for martyrs and long-dead saviors.
I have only begged for eternity once, and I was very young, with years of rocks and hard places ahead, only pink clouds behind, and eyes incapable of foresight. This boy ate apples, and drew on his arms with black pen every Sunday. Go into the church clean, bathed, come out with temorary full-sleeve tattoos. This boy was made of wonder, myth, and blind acceptance. No longer.
I have now gazed into an eternity made of open graves, lost loves, and harsh, barbed-wire truths, punctuated with sharp, jabbing exclamation points of brief pleasure that only seem to make the reality of eternity worse. I am a masochist, and even I don't want that. A body can only function for so long without sleep before the motor wears out, the radiator breaks, the gasket leaks, and the marbles flee from the growing insanity of their owner. We all need to rest eventually, and in my secret mind - the one that grimaces with sick pleasure and only shows its teeth in the lines of a poem, slightly blurred by metaphor - I long for that sleep. I am tired, but the day is only half done. But each sun sets, and we can not deny it that truth, that sensation of finality that settles upon senile eyes like a cataract, that snuggles against warm, pink lungs in all its black, tar-like splendor.
Truth, like so many other things in this solar system, only takes shape when under the eye of a microscope, with a passive viewer sewn to the end of it, with the sole intention of passing judgement before shouting "NEXT," and repeating the process untill they either run out of things to judge (blame, think, guilt-trip) or die.
So, smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette. Puff, puff, puff it and let us hope they never get to either of us, old friend.

There is no External;
Everything you experience
is a result of your existence
and is thus Internal.

Your Neurons synthesize your mind
your Mind in turn determines Neural networks;
It can thus be said
even in the realm of Neuroscience
that you create your reality;

Your Shadow precedes you in time:
Tread lightly. Learn yourself with care.

These are your final days, Self.
Each frame of 'Reality'
presents itself to an entirely new "You"
for "You" are a fleeting image, a frame,
supported by Neurons
for a brief
yet continuous
moment.

My dress appeared vulnerable
tangled between flowers and weeds
beside tangled legs
below a tangled mind,
trapped between fate
and heart strings
fragile enough to snap
with each passing gasp
and rushed breath.
Your hands held blood
as it poured from my pores
that never had a chance to clot
between my severed veins and skin.
Exploring my body like a map as
uncharted as the universe;
held down by gravity
pulling me toward something deeper then skin.
Encased within walls of bone
cracked ribs
chapped lips
and a fondness as shaken
as your bed on Friday night.
And I know you don't love me
and you're too stubborn to try
so toss me my heart strings and untangle our legs;
I'd rather be alone
then another dress for you to air dry
upon your clothes line for all to see.

your breaths enthralled my lungs
and i was ever gasping for more
of the air you
intoxicated

your lips graced the descents
of my spine
your thoughts speckling
the depths of my mind

i always wondered
for as long as i knew you
how somebody could
simply be

so alluring
and graceful
and elegant
and perfect

yet so broken
and shattered
and tired
and alone

how the scars on your heart
and the cracks in your head
and the wounds you doused
your pains in

could make you so
                                           beautiful