Confession I: I want to be with you, not just around you. I want to lie with you, gently tracing the thoughts from my head into yours. I want to follow where your limbs go, with my lips, like a map or the north star leading me to your most beautiful valleys and mountains. I would collaborate with your collarbone and back to mine, allowing a skin bridge, a focal point, to show how inherently beautiful you are.
Confession II: I want you out of my head, but not out of my life. I have teased myself into a conditioned state, a procedure that no one should ever live through. I tripped over myself, and then over you, and I just want you the feel some electricity gathered at my fingertips, nose tips, please just kiss me. Kiss me like you would with your bent out of shape, looking for escape, lover. I could show you a thing or two about pleasure and how to love another woman just as much as you could love a man.
Confession III: I hope to apologize in the kindest manner, see some of your exposure – I’m trying to lift composure out of ten thousand gallons of saltwater. I know you have collected nothing but bitter – I just want to be sweet to you.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
My alacrity scares me,
like the electrical figurations in your head
that create valleys and mediocre love.
Sometimes, we love just to prove that we can do so,
because our lungs breathe effortlessly
while possibilities are fleeting
and slipping through our grip like
the missed first kiss and futile attempts
for you to notice me.
The concaves of your skin,
wrapped tightly around colliding bone and ligament,
the barrier against me learning you –
the twists and lifelines leading me to something
greater than your chest rising and falling
in the haze of the night.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
I want so badly to believe in something. I’ve stripped myself down from all the filth and cotton. I have untied the skin and bones and ligaments to find truth of my structure. I don’t know if I belong in this encasement. I’m out searching, coming to grips with my fingerprints. They are my own. Do I deserve the skin enclosing my organs. My esophagus burns with revelation, but my eyes still don’t sting. My heart is on fire, but yours hasn’t left its roots. I’m out searching, coming to grips that I am grounded in these cells.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC
You spoke through light fixtures on Peach street,
gave my bellowing laughs the spot light on Sassafras.
I told you the voice in front of us was as
smooth as honey and you called me crazy.
I should have asked if you’ll call me maybe,
but I couldn’t rearrange my position or
work on my posture long enough to wonder
whether I was talking about the voice in front of me
or the one speaking into my ear.
So, we planned to go to New York City instead of
talking about warm, golden honey that thickens voices
and shines through your iris or the infectious
grin that gathers in your laugh lines.
Rivers of honey spread warm in my belly,
as we pass street lights on Peach and Sassafras
and I hope that you will call me tomorrow.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:36 PM UTC
“May I have the knife?” I said,
as we were cooking with garlic and dough
in the heavily scented kitchen
where your mother grew up;
deep salty waters and high altitude slopes of
Halkidiki.
You set down the knife – just from good manners,
and slide it towards my floured hands.
“Why didn’t you just hand it to me?”
I sounded unsteady and young.
“Why, we wouldn’t want a knife fight, would we?”
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 7:35 PM UTC
Your nails stain my skin like Alaska,
grains beaten into my elbows from riverbeds
and the crossings.
“Have a drink with me, my treat.”
I remember you from way back,
listening to Dave Matthews Band
while we emptied out veins in the front
seat of my Volvo.
Revolting, we voted independent and
we decided to never come back to the night
where Alaska was even a possibility.
Jun 17, 2012
Jun 17, 2012 at 6:40 PM UTC
A kaleidoscope of plastic, drafted in the
layers of trash. The sights of a landfill,
the smells of hell.
Containers filled with grime, broken recorders
in baby dolls, apple cores, a slew of condoms,
paper products, burnt out computer parts,
bottles that held night life, while diapers full of
tired mother’s yawns; light bulbs that quit working,
family photos that hold too much, dog ****
The things that matter most are torn,
purged, and poignant with purpose that we’d
rather forget the existence.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 2:06 PM UTC
Elephants are the only animal species, known as a fact, to die of a broken heart. Their tough, leather skin can only guard so much; breaking blows from predators and using their sturdy bodies for protection. But surviving instincts and dealing with sadness are on the opposite sides of the spectrum. Social constructs maintained by female elephants, emotional seeds developed from birth; no wonder females are powerful, at least in elephant herds. The social constructs of human species, inferiority is an expectation. Motherhood and career balance, sexualization, acid punishments for justice, “Voice for Choice” since women shouldn’t take their bodies in their own hands, rapes unidentified, and youth more beautiful than souls. Sometimes, I wish I was an elephant.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
The fine light slanting through the windows outside
hit upon the shadows in the dusty corner;
corners cut by the butcher's son
leave little left of the slaughtered voices.
I cradle his red stained hands,
leaving the untraceable pleasure under my fingertips.
With the time ticking away,
why does all the time travel to some sort of silent retreat?
We all feel pleasure in being guilty.
I start to yell, like ***** willows on fire
to let my own voices recover.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 2:00 PM UTC
I'm sorry I called you a pompous conservative,
and I'm sorry I'm not.
I'm sorry my focus is not on your intellectually cultured
examples of real life moments -
your 1988 Mercury Tracer taking its last gulp
of oxygen,
how nothing pans out to be,
your narrow expectations of others.
I'm sorry I don't fit in that canister.
I'm sorry that others do not gravitate to
your beck and call.
your call is imperious.
I'm sorry my integrity flows in me,
rather than outwards.
I've never been one to exhibit my prizes.
(I'll just write about your buzzing blurbs
and your pick up sticks that amount to
your arrogance and pride.)
I'm sorry I'm a target
and my voice box turns into knots
when I turn the volume up.
I'm sorry that when I find nerves and pulses,
my body wants to notify you that you are
a *****
I am sorry that I didn't.
Mar 10, 2012
Mar 10, 2012 at 7:12 AM UTC