I'd want to be a **** I don't
want to be a colorful blooming
thing, fanning my delicate
petals, waiting to be plucked
and pinned for others'
viewing pleasure. I would be
a **** no better
than anyone else, a flower
so persistent
I'm a nuisance. Go ahead.
Cover me in concrete.
I'll grow through it, cracking
the black, my face reaching
up for the sun.
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 3:56 PM UTC
we're not really meant
to be, but it's fun to think
that we could be.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
you develop a skin
for it: porous peel
sponging up
affection until it's sopping
-slick, gushing excess, saturated
with him. then one day
he decides he doesn't like
the rind: takes his paring
knife and splits you
pink, scalps you
like an animal & thieves
the hide for himself,
leaves you
with the carcass: mangled
bones like barbed
wire cross-stitch, unraveling
& red heart slow-throbbing.
but you develop
a skin for it: scaly
& oil-slick like duck
wings: no sponge this time,
he rolls off. Epidermis
cells cluster into silver
scars, rebuild you, stamp
stitches over your heart.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
he cut
open my underarm
flesh with a razor
blade, filled my veins
with heavy sand
till it mixed into blood
-mud, hardened to red
cement, body weighed
down
because of him
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
The love
bite on my neck
from where
your lips last
lingered
is fading
with my memory
of you.
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 5:32 AM UTC
I wish our love was a circle,
because linear love is no fun.
A circle goes 'round forever,
but a line always stops when it's done.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 5:20 PM UTC
You said you decided to kiss me
when you saw the way I looked
at you. I wonder now
what my stare betrayed - what glimmer burning
there ignited yours. When you looked
in my eyes, did you see my heart
squeeze, veiny arms wrap its valves and chambers in a hug so tight
it ached? Did you
see the promise of the tulip
bruises I'd leave on your throat, slipping
and catching the breath from your chest?
Or the way you'd tangle our legs like bouquet stems, until I forgot
what was me and what was you? I don't know
what you saw in my eyes that night,
but I know what you didn't:
that I could have loved you,
if you let me.
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
Everyone looks pretty when I take off my glasses.
I blink, rub twin bruises from my nose, eyes
narrowed like the tip of a Dali paintbrush: melting liquid
color on a pregnant canvas. I let pigment run
into faces: heads lumpier than hand-rolled *****
of clay, black mouths rippling like asphalt
puddles, bodies quivering like overcooked
linguine: blurred, as if viewing them without
prescription has stripped and censored
their naked bodies. Sightless, I see
with my ears: watch the tone of their voices, taste
the words that unfurl from the breath
on their tongues. I see with my skin, feel
the atmospheres that slow-boil under their own.
I see from the depth of my stomach: absorb
the energies that hit my belly-button: third eye.
And when I've seen, I replace my glasses
blink.
Sight eclipses my vision: stubborn
lines and harsh contrasts framed
in unforgiving black boxes. I think maybe
I'd rather brave the world blind –
nose bare, eyes squinted, and belly grumbling
– if only so I could see with clarity.
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
Sometimes I think maybe the world needs more empathy. So I buy some
ice cream, try to imagine what it’d be like to be so cool
I’m dripping sweet, so sugary that I make people’s teeth hurt when they smile.
At first I want to be a big sundae with hot fudge
arteries and the candied-cherry heart no one really chews up.
Then I decide I’d better get two scoops of fat-free bubblegum,
because nobody likes that junk and it must get awful freezer burnt
waiting for someone to notice it behind the chocolate chip. I dress it up nice
in a waffle-cone exoskeleton so I can get a good hold on it, but it looks strange:
two violent colored plops like a flamingo and a blue parrot are mushed
in a khaki tuxedo, snazzed with ice crystals and sprinkle bling. Tastes weird
too, fluorescent and sour because someone made it that way
by using artificial sweetener instead of the real stuff. My lips pucker
like a drawstring bag tugging shut: I've had a taste
but it's too hard to swallow. Just as I begin my bubblegum death
march to the garbage some kid whizzes by, abstract blob
of bone-dry hands and sharp teeth glinting: whiter than a deep freezer frost and dentist-approved, spiraling my cone into a lethal nose dive.
Wafer tip fractures on asphalt and splatters: open-cone
surgery. I watch sidewalk cracks ooze neon blood
as I try to wipe my fingers clean on denim pockets.
But even when the ice cream is gone my hands are still sticky.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
You roll in like a vaquero to the Wild West:
water galloping the earth & black clouds
rippling: the foaming flank of a stallion.
Tip your hat & get to business: charge
the air with cactus-prickle shivers, slip
your Zeus fingers from holsters and lightning-
rod them to the sky. Rumble your spurs
& order me a sarsaparilla—lid-crack
carefully; an effervescent gale will brew.
Breathe slow at first: electric hum through bone-
white grass: bows as you ghost by—
clear your throat, lasso tight my attention
with guttural echoes pressed heavy on
my chest. Then rip open
the constellations with gunshot blows,
explode wide saloon doors & take
no prisoners. Oil-lacquer streets
& ride off blazing: leave the women
but take me, saddle-swing me high
in the catatonic static of a ghost town.
You’ll vanish like you came: I know
what they say about red skies
in morning. But I’m never awake
to watch you silhouette away.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC