I look for you in the bustle of changing seasons--
the promise of eternal life is stashed
in evergreen front-door wreaths,
but outside dims quiet. The winds,
without leaves to stand in their way,
whip and slap winter chill straight to my bones.
old piano melodies whisper the familiar
beat of tradition. Memories and expectations
of what should be the same, and what
should always be, drive my search
for you this season. Choppers on mute
race packs of starving bloodhounds
with their mouths sewn shut.
I am determined to find you.
To sneak up behind you in white dusk
and with blindfolds for hands,
and eyes tattooed red, I'll growl,
Surprise. Merry Christmas.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 5:17 PM UTC
I cut into chicken parm, a massacre with fancy china.
A crusty napkin blots my eyes, wipes the juice
that drips from my mouth. Beyond the curtains,
car tires lead a small river from the rising puddles
on the concrete. Stupid ******* brain cells drawing pictures
in my mind; cats cradle between the memories and the now.
fourth of july neurons going crazy in my skull
spitting rain and crashing thunder down my cheeks.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 4:08 PM UTC
Seaweed drapes down my back, cloaks
my shoulders like a thick leather cape.
Snip, snip. A piece for you. You don’t
like the way it salts your tongue
or slithers down your throat.
Maybe sesame dressing
or a cold mound of sushi
will make it more appetizing.
(nope)
That’s okay. I have plenty more.
But I reach down my spine to find
a hollowed out hole, straight through
my body, no longer masked
by my nights spent underwater.
I’m at the surface now and it’s clear
that I’ve been drowning all along.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
i am the white noise of cicadas chirping
air conditioning chugging, a train on a track
but i don't want to be the sheep you count
i want to be the rising sun, the lawnmower,
the screeching birds that tear at your sheets
yelling wake up, wake up
we're running out of time
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Bite a strawberry in June and try to tell me you can't taste color.
A quiet lapping sea sloshes pink foam over crunchy sand seeds.
Stare at watercolors--make eye contact and listen to the breeze.
Maybe rustling trees are symphonies in green. Kiss me,
watch my heartbeat pulse and quiver, bubble through my mouth;
racing, hiccuping out heat from my throat’s abyss.
Smell my hair, breathe the sugary bonfire billowing from every pore,
pine needle goosebumps that rise and fall in Redwood symmetry.
I'll visit your grave, dragging a Santa sack of rotting flowers in my brain,
and (pretend I don’t) feel and hear and smell and see everything
and nothing all at once.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
i wonder when i will see a BMW as just a car
and not a haven--an earthy smelling
burnt orange cemetery for memories of road trips
with my feet on the dash, your disapproving glance
but the windows rolled too far down to care.
my skin seared in the summer sun, piling sandwich
upon iced coffee just to drive back to your house
and park in front of the TV. Picnics on the bench.
You sweating under the sunlight to see my smile.
New Haven train station, at early evening and
the middle of the night, sprinting with hands locked
toward the next adventure. Your hand off the shift
and on my leg. Trusting that we wouldn't crash
as we zipped through the woods late at night, eager
to crash and sleep the day away. Everything I've
pushed away to cope. Your broken tape player,
the heated seats cranked on my side without prompt.
Taking the long route for dinner on Whitney Ave.
Parking lot coffee dates and people-watching Sundays,
the day you drove to Montauk at sunrise to catch
the ferry while I slept by your side; the only time I've
ever seen you awake before dawn. Our movement
together; our bickering, the radio tuned to obscurities
blasting with open windows to see who noticed.
Hotel sleepovers in the Connecticut countryside, and
Rhode Island for the day. Car *** and Long Island nights
parked by the water, the humid heat in my hair,
salt and trees in my mouth. The sound of the locking
door, the key held clenched between your teeth.
The humming engine and your backwards hat perched.
I don't know which permeates my mind the most,
but when an m3 shows up in the rear view mirror
I blink back tears until it fades away.
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
and just as the last tear drop
was wrung out from the duct,
a drenched washcloth hung to dry,
she asked, “do you see a rainbow?”
beyond cumulonimbus and shattered fog
is a cotton candy lightning bolt
the visible spectrum reduced to an arch
but as the sun sets and the gold fades
to black, my water-logged dreams surge
waves of torment. i try to ride them in,
to tame the wild sea, but the undertow
swallows and spits me up
just another ocean tear, spilled upon the shore
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 10:16 PM UTC
i often wonder how i will die. skin cancer.
heart complications. liver cirrhosis. old age.
undetermined cause. ****** accidental overdose.
i daydream that it will come soon. my future
without you feels like a false floor. i'm waiting for you
to appear with white gloves, wand in hand, to whisk
me away. to climb into our coffins side by side, a twisted
amusement park ride. ****** cotton candy and jagged fun
house mirrors. being alone is stuffy weight. despite the added
space, my chest is tense and eyes are bugged. your hands,
your voice, your warmth would set me free.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
history textbooks and family trees
only to be chopped down by greed.
losing limbs, broken teeth, creaking bones.
watered down souls. wavering spirits.
who’s to say you won’t be pulled off center
stage by a cane? permanence is an illusion.
really, what isn’t? rods and cones and corneas
and mind games. i only want open oceans.
i don’t want to meet mid-tango, i want to collide
and never explode again.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
On misty October mornings
I rub sleep from tired eyes.
Expect to feel your mouth
graze mine with rigid, sweet
lips. But after cat backed stretches
and echoed groans, I’m still alone.
Cold feet, cold hands that used
to have a home between your skin.
Turning, blazing, resting leaves await
their final breaths before November
frosts swallow them whole. Clocks
are chiming, 6 am. I lay restless
in white. The monsters under my bed
moved out and now they’re in
my head. Peeling back layers
and crawling inside, sinking teeth
and crescent claws. They gnaw
at the gray matter and dictate
all my dreams. Puppet strings.
Vivid static murmurs color through
the night. I wake up to find snow.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC