I stand on the edge of a growing storm.
Great clouds billow and burst.
Streaks of light chased by tremendous thunder.
But it's on the horizon.
I'm watching it shift and swirl.
I can feel it.
The ground beneath my feet.
That thud, thumping, thump.
The bass at your back.
The beat in your veins.
I pick up my youth right where I left it.
I forgot how to shake and rattle and roll.
Souls are earned not given.
There's a lie in alive,
when you're too busy getting it wrong.
I used to build and watch it break.
Now I'll break all I've ever built.
Ashes to ashes,
dust and rust.
I can feel it...
Burning, ebbing, glowing.
Sweet saccharine life.
A recklessness reserved for the young.
A wisdom earned by age.
Thud, thud, thump.
There's a rush only achieved,
when you've been bent and broken.
Crushed and cornered.
Taken right to the cusp.
And you fight.
You kick, you scratch, you claw.
You get on your fucking feet.
Thump, thump, THUD.
There's is blood under your nails.
Blood in your eyes.
Blood in the water.
There is always a silver lining.
There is always a sunset worth seeing.
There is always a way back.
There is a way in always...
as long as you do it right.
everyone is full of shit.
we are all just out for ourselves,
or out to please.
he scratches down her side.
digs his nails into the softness there.
kisses her freckles like lips could make flowers grow from the tiny dots that she calls home.
so she closes her eyes.
takes in the touch.
she lies her head on the cold pillow and slows her heartbeat.
thud… deep breath… thud… deep breath.
he whispers for her to come back.
get out of your head, he says. pulls her closer.
but she is too far gone in the memories of his lips kissing her freckles like flowers instead of ticking time bombs that are set to explode at any minute
and she is tired.
grown weak from the nights she spent dreaming of the nights she is spending.
here. with him. like this.
never in the present. this pretty princess decorates her castle walls with roses from the past.
but he is happy.
he is happy and he is important.
and to those around him.
asks me the same question,
but i do not yet know the answer.
i sat alone in his kitchen this morning listening to the pop of ready toast from the toaster and loud rap music blasting from a car driving by.
the bread smells like something i should eat but i think i'm going to puke.
thoughts i have not yet deconstructed pushing at my pores,
trying to make their escape.
jammed up on the inside of my skin, i'm afraid if i open my mouth they'll all come flying out like caged birds and slam against a window to their death.
so i sit on the cold chair and inhale.
so i sit in his car and stare out the window.
Go quickly, turn the radio up, for the classics.
I want to hear the Aria, and the sweep of the violin and the thud of the cello.
Desire it, for me, so such that my heart beats and sways with the music.
Pull black lace around my shoulders,
and tie my hair up in knots and curl, should that be my desire.
Read sections of Elliot, Ghibran, and Cohello to me by candlelight, barely are our knees yet to be touched,
and I can hear the sound your lungs make in the pauses between the lines,
trying to understand, the very moment of clarity, the writer, concedes to the reader.
Allow my voice to be heard amongst the depth of the inclement music,
despite how quiet it may seem in, that, moment.
Do not call me by my name, I should not desire it, even if for a moment;
it tastes like absinthe, without the sugar, and is bitter and intoxicating and raw on the tongue
and that it would no longer be my desire, but yours.
If I should desire it, I want you to be sure of yourself;
I want your heart to pulse so loudly, it is the only sound you hear,
and your mind becomes unconscious to my form, only my forceful presence.
Tie me up, in shibari; bind my feet, my arms, and my breasts;
use wax, and chains, and leather.
Be afraid, be very afraid, to love me like this.
Place your palm on my back and hold me, like, this.
Be a wall I can cling to, feel my desire for my nails claw at your fascia, at your concrete chest,
let me make my mark in you, and you will feel, good, very oh, so, good about that.
Be slightly nervous, by my desires, but oh so tense and excited.
I want you wanton and willing, but I desire you hesitant and forbidden.
I am the labyrinth, I am a woman, I was not built to be understood;
but bring me rum, bring me braces, bring me your rough delicate touch,
and you will see i was built for Desire.
If I must, I must desire to be enjoyed and entertained, I want you to make me smile, yes, you.
To do this, is akin to going to battle and i want to see you are ready to go to war for this very simple desirable quest.
Feel the stockings on my legs and deem them available to be held between your fingers.
But not yet.
Desire, if it must be met, must be met by me through me, by you.
If I must desire, You must desire it, too
I’ve always been the quiet type, never one to do the speaking, just listening and observing the lives of those around me.
If I can remember correctly, I began as a light blue, sheltering a newborn baby, Conner, I was covered in wallpaper lined by teddy bears with white silk bow ties like pin stripe pants.
Those few days before his birth in ’62 were filled with anxiety and anticipation, with his parents sneaking in to gaze upon my blue coat, tears in their eyes for the gift that they were days away from receiving. However, they would soon find that the young baby spent little time in my embrace other than evening naps, otherwise his cries became loud with the longing for his mum.
Six years later the teddy bears came down from the walls along with the crib, to be replaced by a bed, the baby blue coat replaced by a loud red.
Watching him grow, I saw his good days and his bad, he was built for math, fast cars, and jubilant laughter.
He had come to me in the midst of April when the flowers outside the windows bloomed, and left for a university after they flowered a mere twelve times.
Once again, his parents visited me, with tears in their eyes as if by being with me his presence would be restored.
His father had talked of a promotion he’d dreamed of, so with more money they were off to a more luxurious home, I was not sad, I was not lonely, I was happy.
I was alone for a while, while the wallpaper had been striped from me and I lay bear and exposed for quite some time, only briefly being introduced to new families by a smiling woman with high heels and big hair.
A group of four moved in, Tom, Adam, Lana, and Louisa. They painted my walls a bright yellow and carpeted my wooden floors, they added filing cabinets, desks, a white board, a telephone, and a book shelf that decorated my left side.
The boys were mechanics, around thirty years at the time, and worked strenuous hours. They bent over their desks re-drawing, re-scaling, and re-shaping until perfection.
Blue prints poured from their cabinets. The two girls owned a boutique down by the grocery store, I saw them less often, but they didn’t bring home their work, only their stories and their stress. It was a short acquaintance with the group, as their hearts were set on the big city and soon their paychecks were capable of supporting that lifestyle.
I was not sad, I was not lonely, I was happy for them.
The following year in ’88 a family of four moved in.
John, Ali and their twin girls converted me to a gym with barbells and some odd-looking mechanism called a “Bo Flex” used for hanging up dry cleaning and attracting the dust.
By then my vibrant yellow walls had faded to beige and my beige carpet had faded to yellow.
I don’t know much about those folks, as in-home gyms are more for decoration than utilization, I guess. The girls visited on days when the heat was unbearable in the Texas sun, running in with loud laughter as they let their weight thud into the ground. They sprawled themselves out on my floors making snow angels, in my warm, worn carpet. Oh, how I loved their attention!
They also left the windows open unlike Adam and Tom, so even when they weren’t around the sunshine kept me company. After fourteen years Bailey left shortly after Annie. I rarely saw anyone for a year or so after that.
The house became too big for John and Ali, and they decided to make the move to Florida that they’d always dreamed of.
The movers came and lifted the heavy weights from my creaking floors, but I was not sad, I was not lonely, I was happy.
The last person that came to live among my embrace was the eldest daughter of three girls. She and I became the closest of all prior inhabitants. Perhaps it was because of the frequent lack of happiness in her eyes, it was the only time I’d had an issue with my inability to intervene in a situation and speak as opposed to listening.
She left my walls there bare color, but adorned me with newspaper clippings and photographs. I was never lonely because her sisters looked up to her, never wanting to leave me, because they never wanted to leave her.
She was more imaginative than the young boy, and more precise than the mechanics.
The music she played was constant and expansive, from Sinatra and Coltrane to A Tribe Called Quest and the Rolling stones. It all correlated with her mood, causing me great joy when the tempo was fast, and depression in times when the dark music fell upon the room.
Her life appeared to be a struggle, as she often threw herself upon the carpet crying until late hours in the night. Only to wake up before the sun rose to write lengthy accounts of the inexplicable sadness she frequently experienced.
Soon she found the help that I was unable to provide with a therapist who visited her in the privacy of her own bedroom. The kind woman encouraged her to participate in activities beyond the confines of my four walls.
She had dreamed to be a psychologist, she wanted to help people, because she knew first hand how much some really needed it. And at age eighteen, that’s exactly what she set off to become.
She moved to Boulder the university she had written about and had wanted to attend for years past.
So I was not sad, I was not lonely, I was happy for her.
She doesn’t rest within my walls and doesn’t watch my flowers bloom, but the sisters, they often come back to visit and roll up the blinds to let the sun shine in, practice their own talents, and fall in love with their own dreams, I am not lonely, they don’t leave me. In fact, one of them is sprawled out upon my floor now, taking over her sister’s absence with a pen and paper of her own.
This is the ground where I crumbled
My arms landed on the sidewalk with a thud
And my leg rolled into the street
My fingers sprinkled the pavement
In the radius of these 5 feet
While my toes tumbled downhill
My ribs spread open like a book
My spine slithered away
While my muscles spazzed and shook
My lips stuttered and tapped 3 blocks east
And my ears curled toward the ocean sound west
My ankles turned into diamonds and waited to be found
My blood boiled and sank, simmered through the ground
My hair curled in a flurry and like a tumbleweed swept away
My skull rattled and sighed, “oh darling not today”
My chest melted into the sidewalk
My thighs could run without the weight
My veins ran rivers, my capillaries cried “stop!”
But even they knew it was too late
So my hips skipped to a playground to they could finally swing
My throat cleared the road because it wanted to sing
My shoulders hunched and knew at once the number of candies in the jar
Then I pitched my eyes hard and fast who had never seen so far
My teeth assembled themselves in lines and marched off in a hurry
The knots in my back sprang loose and clung onto the nearest worry
My nails began scratching their stories into the busy road
My knees sank, relieved at last, of the lightened heavy load
My lungs inflated and like a balloon let go and floated
My tongue, without teeth, went and wagged and gloated
My feet followed my ears and sunk into the sand
My eyelashes, drowning, sought to find land,
the beat of
And that was the day
I see you across the room,
You look back at me and smile,
It probably means nothing,
But I love it for a while.
I wonder if you like me,
But then I wonder why you would,
If you were to say you like me,
You would hear my heart go thud.
I here from your friend you adore me,
So I bring flowers to your door,
And that's when your words kill me,
You say it is friendship... nothing more.
I go too wild with the stuff
Someone warned me once
Not to go out too far on that limb
The long fall
An apparition of my Mother
Hovers inches above the ground
I know she would catch me
If she was more solid in this world
When I hit the ground
My breath is forced out
It circles above me; a mute ghost
Robs my tongue of speech
I break bones easily this way
The serpent coils around me; the coyote leads
Me to the trickster's fringe
Soon enough the fantasies start again
I'll eat more poetry
And the healing will begin
is not a boy with oceans for eyes kissing your scars and telling you that you are beautiful
it's not beautiful
it's foggy and tight and suffocating and heavy and exhausting and vast and quite possibly infinite and it fucking hurts so much and yet you can't feel anything and the whole world is in some sort of dense smog and nothing makes sense anymore and your head is constantly pounding each dull thud is another reason to pull the trigger it's being chained to your bed and crying for an hour when you finally have to get out from under the covers and face the world because the smog outside is blinding compared to the storm inside your head it's not being able to look your mother in the eye because you're afraid of what she'll see it's pulling and tugging at your soul it wants you it wants you dead it wants to drink up all you have it feeds on your sadness and your worry and your fear and it's having itself a proper fucking feast and it just keeps getting stronger and stronger and it laughs at you when you are far too weary to pick yourself up from the dirt it is the thing that kicks you just for the fuck of it and it kicks you when you are down and when you are too tired to even cover your face you just let it hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt because the hurt is better than being numb and you are just so tired
is not tragically beautiful
it's just tragic- no- it's pathetic
it's pathetic and disgusting and it's a miracle i've got any friends left
is not a fashion accessory
it is not another quirk for you to add to your godforsaken twitter bio
it is real and it is pain and suffering in its most potent form
and i hope, for your sake, that the boy with the oceans for eyes that you dream of
will not kiss your scars
he will look at them and he will not feel sorry for you, he will not fall more in love with you, he will be angry
he will be angry that it hurt you
he will make you promise to never ever ever hurt yourself ever again
because you are a creature of this earth
and you deserve better
(and I do too.)
Found on the corner of sleeping dogs lie
Came to the spotlight with one crooked eye
Painted a portrait in spite of the light
Hoping the canvas was centered and tight
Poured off the foam before going to bed
It’s easy to sleep when you don’t have a head
Dreams are the reason I tend to escape
Picking up pieces that fell off the cake
Coupled with sailors now off on a trip
Some sunken treasure on some sunken ship
Last time the cannons did roar at the sea
Green was the canvas of the canopy
Blown into port with a quart in your bag
Looking quite close at the half masted flag
Wondering who might have swam with the fish
And ended up sinking and getting their wish
The mist in the air hung so thick on the ground
The bell in the lighthouse could broadcast the sound
Ringing that rang as the tide wandered in
As night storms from southern most points did begin
Anchors were dropped to the depths of the deep
Big leaks were fixed but the little ones seeped
Batons were hatched or whatever that means
Opening gaps welded closed at the seams
Swabbing the deck seemed like pure wasted time
As buckets were emptied with rain in the sky
Sails were pulled down, pulled in, put away
While clouds housed a marvelous lightening display
A bottle of rum and a parrot named bill
They drank and they sang until they had their fill
When off now to sleep they did fall with a thud
Tomorrow the war and the spilling of blood
The enemies’ close they could feel in their bones
Because of the bank and some late payment loans
They shuffled us off to some brightly lit rooms
And offered low interest in brand new doubloons
They had us signing here page after page
As if fountain pens were just coming of age
Now put them away this place sure is a mess
Or move them to somebody else’s address
If the dog is not home and the cats on the chair
Licking his tail with the long flowing hair
For after this voyage we look up above
And whisper a poem that doesn’t speak love
The drunken jackal cackled like an old bloated goat
"Hoot Hoot" his accomplices guffawed
The swindlers smiled from the corner wall stall
"He’s parched and the princess
of love he seeks is near"
"Let’s buy this lonesome cowboy a beer!"
"Come in come in," said the spider to the fly
"Come hither into our sticky tangled web"
"Don’t let that black widow fool you"
"Her silky-smooth dream weaving skin
will leave you lifeless,
within her silken insatiable threads"
The ravenous plans, contrived of delusion’s confusions
The jackal howled from the bottom of his salty suds
He hit the floor with an uproarious thud
His eyes rolled and refracted like kaleidoscopes
in empty peanut shell mud,
illusions of rainbows scattered helter skelter
before a new day dawned setting sun.
A heady, sudsy beer served at the ice-house of ruckus
Another on the sticky cracked brick and mortar floor
A tear marveled the jackal’s spilt cool aide
The princess of darkness left with the stranger
while the jealous green jackal
whirled and jeered on the floor
The peaceful path of two lonely spirits is no illusion
Things are rarely, as they seem
Flamboyant rescues by white knights and super heroines
A perceived drama queen is not always, as she seems
Not every well-behaved pauper
or dapper mad prince wants to be king…