the soles of my shoes
kiss the rain-soaked
cement and torn leaves
leading up to my
building
i look up
regarding the roof that
welcomed your keys
that day when sun
and anticipation
were abundant
some parts of me know logic—
they studied it extensively
with a focus in authenticity
but others, little sparks,
break off
with different intentions
they are pulled to
my magnetic heart
infusing me with
romantic could-have-beens,
theatric tragedies
and tortured visions
i imagine
in the distance i see you
running
full speed
towards me
but wait
this would never happen
you would never run
you would come close
but ultimately you could not
pick up your pace
for fear
of falling
your fist opens and
dried yellow roses
are furiously
released behind you
can you see me
from there?
the best parts?
not the mundane
humdrum puttering
can you see my intent?
but then
the closer i get
the more out of focus
you seem
and i question
it all
question myself
things are not
black and white
and these shades
keep expanding,
fusing
so perhaps we will glimpse
each other another day
from behind our
electric fences
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
Ever since she was young, Dahlia
wondered
about everything. She was
full of wonder, yet
somehow she felt less
than wonderful.
Less than.
Those words often stuck
with her like some
sort of treacherous taffy,
clinging to the every corner
of her mind.
Corners. She thought.
Why is it that the corners
are most easily cracked?
Like dried Winter lips
or cuticles.
It is as if the coming together—
the union—leaves them
that much more vulnerable.
This was a theme for Dahlia.
Why was it that she always
felt this exposed weakness,
this dependence,
whenever she came
together
with a new lover—
and then inevitably
came undone?
Leaving her more fragile than
when she began.
A heap on the floor—small
and wide-eyed—like
a child swimming
in his father's business suit.
Sleeves pouring over tiny hands,
so no one can reach them.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 12:23 AM UTC
I'm not walking
like this
to look cool–
my pants
just keep falling down.
I saunter side-to-side,
head cocked
hand on crotch.
But no, I'm not cool.
I'm not trying to
look hip,
aloof or tough.
You see,
my pants are just too big.
The inseam is far
too long.
And although I wear
this belt, they seem
to slowly creep
further and
further
down
as if once they reach
my ankles
they will finally
escape
and wander the streets
morph
into some sort of Blue Jean
Blob Creature,
and slink
into a nearby gutter
only to emerge
20 blocks away,
apply for a job at
Panda Express
and for a studio
apartment
so that they
may have some
steady income
and a place
to work
on their novellas
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 12:20 AM UTC
sap pumping
through ballerina legs
hairy like coconut
in twisted embrace
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
i like this bar.
the low lighting and
dramatic arches lurching
forward from grainy,
crimson walls
i have been here for over an hour
observing, listening, smirking.
i should be sulking
from the looks of the others.
but somehow this is cozy, tender
the man with the crumpled beard
has been two stools over
all night drinking
countless somethings
amber and veiled
he returns from the toilets
saddling up to the stool
on my left
and begins apologizing
Naomi I'm Sorry
You Know, I...I...
i stop him to explain
i am not, nor will i ever be,
naomi
but i am his naomi tonight, his
sham priestess
welcoming
sins and repentance
I Never Told You
I Never
his incoherence is
both tragic
and welcomed
the truth is,
i don't want to comprehend
the life
that has made
this man so eager to
drown
but i can piece portions together—
serrated jigsaw
of tireless nights, of death,
preoccupation and bitter
regret
i would commiserate,
but at this point
neither he nor i
believe
in salvation
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
it is difficult to write in a hammock
not to find the words
the words are children hiding
desperate to be sought
fickle wind jostles
ecstatic chimes
traffic sounds like the ocean
if you listen
and that smell
fresh rain,
grass
a barbecue ignited
this hammock holds my heart
it is my lotus
supporting me so that I may be
in the world, yet not of it
floating higher and higher—
glimpse her now before she is
but a speck in the sky
swaying, yet somehow perfectly still
tress rustle
leaves spackling the air, don't miss a spot
fill in the cracks
a raindrop kisses my lip
Welcome Home I've Missed You
if it weren't for the chill in my back
I'd stay here forever
no one wants the hammock
on this dreary afternoon—
lavender ice clouds
carved out with silver streaks, axel lift
you see, hammocks are not just
for sunny days
in fact, you won't learn a **** thing
from a hammock
on a sunny day
their secrets aren't safe
in the sun
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 12:25 AM UTC
She waited for him. She always waited for him.
Quarter past eight. Tap tap tap.
Her gold embellished sneakers repeatedly hit the floor.
******* down her iced coffee, pretending to read the paper,
her anticipation palpable.
Tick tock tock tock.
The clock seemed vulgarly obtrusive. Where was he?
Tap tap tap. Tock tock tock.
Sliding her paint-stained fingers over the paper.
urgent socialite.
rescued earnest
words jumped off the page incoherently floating across her gaze.
The door opened and there he was. Pinstripes.
Perfect teeth. Too perfect.
Triple Americano to go. Fifty cent tip. Smile.
Today had to be different. She decided in that moment.
She would follow him this time. She had to know.
Her eyes traveled with him through the glass for a moment
and then she was out the door.
Around the corner she could see his trail of dense smoke--and
then she walked through it--inhaling it
as if it was his gift to her.
On tenth street he stopped for gum. On Robertson Ave he picked a single flower.
He rubbed his left shoulder as if he was in a great deal of pain.
She would have taken it all from him.
He had finished the coffee by now, setting it atop
the concrete ashtray, shifting it back and forth
in the sand.
The sun was setting. Purple grey pierced
by yellows and orange. She wanted to know more.
But she also knew she couldn't. It was too perfect--
his silhouette. The smell in the air, city smell.
The kind of smell that tells a putrid truth.
The biting contrast was--
art, she thought. And just like that she stopped
and watched. Watched him fade
further and further into the blackness.
Each step he took away
from her, she cringed.
She wondered if she would ever be set free.
What was his life like? Really like?
Did he think of her?
Did he attempt to conjure up what she
looked like now?
Did he want to know if she still
had his eyes? And
perfect teeth?
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC
men's feet striking
pavement in unison
understated night
sweeps stars
and city haze
across their eyes
breast pockets
carry scars of wounds past
they do not reach for them
their hands
delicate carafes
pour
into each other's
Jan 19, 2012
Jan 19, 2012 at 5:45 PM UTC