no-name-2 - Hello Poetry

I saw you slip off your dress in the dead of night, saw the moonlight reach through the cracks of the window to touch your skin. You peeled back the curtain and lifted the pane to swim through the thick Louisiana air, so I followed and climbed barefoot up a twisted tree and watched you melt into the bayou. You were no longer undressed but adorned in foam. The wind asked you to be its wife and you nodded, solemn as the grave and closed your eyes and let him take you. My bones shivered into the branches as I watched the water fall still and silent and black, watched it take its last breath, a corpse for the crocodiles, watched the moon disappear like it was never even there.

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Feb 4, 2014

Feb 4, 2014 at 5:33 AM UTC

Delirium

I saw you slip off your dress in the dead of night, saw the moonlight reach through the cracks of the window to touch your skin. You peeled back the curtain and lifted the pane to swim through the thick Louisiana air, so I followed and climbed barefoot up a twisted tree and watched you melt into the bayou. You were no longer undressed but adorned in foam. The wind asked you to be its wife and you nodded, solemn as the grave and closed your eyes and let him take you. My bones shivered into the branches as I watched the water fall still and silent and black, watched it take its last breath, a corpse for the crocodiles, watched the moon disappear like it was never even there.

16

Red lipstick (I think), but your hair fell soft around your shoulders. You had this smile, but I could tell it wasn’t for the camera- you weren’t even looking at it. You- You were on his shoulders like a bird, little bluejay, hummingbird, raven- sun on your shoulders, wind in your blouse, eyes spilling sunlight. His were looking up at you, swearing everything, swearing on the universe and his father’s grave he’d hold onto you.

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Jan 31, 2014

Jan 31, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC

A Black and White Photo I Saw After Your Funeral

Red lipstick (I think), but your hair fell soft around your shoulders. You had this smile, but I could tell it wasn’t for the camera- you weren’t even looking at it. You- You were on his shoulders like a bird, little bluejay, hummingbird, raven- sun on your shoulders, wind in your blouse, eyes spilling sunlight. His were looking up at you, swearing everything, swearing on the universe and his father’s grave he’d hold onto you.

13

I never saw your dad’s new turtle in its tank in Milwaukee. I never told you how you looked leaning over the railing at Griffith’s Observatory. The city flickered like a jar of lightning bugs beneath us that night, but the telescopes were disappointing. I didn’t mind. I never saw your sketches. I never made room for you on the blanket at Dockweiler Beach. We left the others by the fire and walked to the foaming black water to investigate what we thought might be a body. I still think it was. I never reached for your hand by the Ferris wheel. I never gave in when you said, “You have no idea how hard it’s been not to kiss you,” and I stared at my empty paper cup, wishing I had gotten a bigger size because I needed something more to do with my hands. I never found something better to do with my hands. I never let you touch the scabs I got when I fell off the sidewalk after I decided I was someone who should jog. I never touched the scars you got when your lungs collapsed and they pumped them back up like a balloon and they woke you up to breathe with your chest still open. I never turned to face you when you kissed the top of my head. I didn’t want to move. You told me about your family instead. I never told you about my family. I never told my family about you. I never put my head on your shoulder at two in the morning when we sat in a booth under a flickering yellowish light, shivering with our little Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate in our hands, trying to keep our burning eyes open as we waited for our friends. I never met your friends from home. I think I would have liked them. I never sat in the passenger seat of your Oldsmobile with the radio on and the windows down as we drove through Nevada, then Kansas, then Illinois, but it’s probably for the best since your car never would’ve made it anyway.

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Jan 9, 2014

Jan 9, 2014 at 1:52 AM UTC

never

I never saw your dad’s new turtle in its tank in Milwaukee. I never told you how you looked leaning over the railing at Griffith’s Observatory. The city flickered like a jar of lightning bugs beneath us that night, but the telescopes were disappointing. I didn’t mind. I never saw your sketches. I never made room for you on the blanket at Dockweiler Beach. We left the others by the fire and walked to the foaming black water to investigate what we thought might be a body. I still think it was. I never reached for your hand by the Ferris wheel. I never gave in when you said, “You have no idea how hard it’s been not to kiss you,” and I stared at my empty paper cup, wishing I had gotten a bigger size because I needed something more to do with my hands. I never found something better to do with my hands. I never let you touch the scabs I got when I fell off the sidewalk after I decided I was someone who should jog. I never touched the scars you got when your lungs collapsed and they pumped them back up like a balloon and they woke you up to breathe with your chest still open. I never turned to face you when you kissed the top of my head. I didn’t want to move. You told me about your family instead. I never told you about my family. I never told my family about you. I never put my head on your shoulder at two in the morning when we sat in a booth under a flickering yellowish light, shivering with our little Styrofoam cups of hot chocolate in our hands, trying to keep our burning eyes open as we waited for our friends. I never met your friends from home. I think I would have liked them. I never sat in the passenger seat of your Oldsmobile with the radio on and the windows down as we drove through Nevada, then Kansas, then Illinois, but it’s probably for the best since your car never would’ve made it anyway.

15

Forget the hands that held yours: remember your spine. Wear your hair how you like it. Stay up late to sleep through the day. Research what that lump is in your back. Do nothing about it. They tell me: You look prettier when you smile. They tell me: You have no right to remember, Because it made you sad.

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Oct 25, 2013

Oct 25, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC

Untitled

Forget the hands that held yours: remember your spine. Wear your hair how you like it. Stay up late to sleep through the day. Research what that lump is in your back. Do nothing about it. They tell me: You look prettier when you smile. They tell me: You have no right to remember, Because it made you sad.

9

bare feet by the creek, cold mud it’s quick-mud, like quick-sand, slithers up between your toes I bet it could swallow you right up October, maybe, maybe November swear there are fairies in these woods, swear it. I do. Can you eat those little red berries that grow on the bushes? Lullaby, say your prayers. Pray to the almighty maker of twigs and leaves and shallow ponds- slip and slice your toe on a rock, don’t let them see you crying your face was cold but your tears were hot there are no daisies left this time of year to make a crown with but I’m still the queen of the forest. You can’t laugh at me. I’ll break your arm.

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Oct 15, 2013

Oct 15, 2013 at 7:26 PM UTC

The Last Autumn of Pretending

bare feet by the creek, cold mud it’s quick-mud, like quick-sand, slithers up between your toes I bet it could swallow you right up October, maybe, maybe November swear there are fairies in these woods, swear it. I do. Can you eat those little red berries that grow on the bushes? Lullaby, say your prayers. Pray to the almighty maker of twigs and leaves and shallow ponds- slip and slice your toe on a rock, don’t let them see you crying your face was cold but your tears were hot there are no daisies left this time of year to make a crown with but I’m still the queen of the forest. You can’t laugh at me. I’ll break your arm.

18

i forgot about wishing on ladybugs.

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Mar 23, 2013

Mar 23, 2013 at 4:05 AM UTC

and then it occurred to me,

i forgot about wishing on ladybugs.

2

a whisper down a stairwell, hear words trickle like pebbles dropped in puddles slipping down the railing in a dandelion puff of a mood floating until I climb on your shoulder and start singing so you dance into the library books to the height of the moon and you’re a bowstring, arrow pointed up toward the paper cranes swirling by the millions and I pull you and we take them down in a shower of colors and catch them in our mouths

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Mar 7, 2013

Mar 7, 2013 at 2:10 AM UTC

a daydream

a whisper down a stairwell, hear words trickle like pebbles dropped in puddles slipping down the railing in a dandelion puff of a mood floating until I climb on your shoulder and start singing so you dance into the library books to the height of the moon and you’re a bowstring, arrow pointed up toward the paper cranes swirling by the millions and I pull you and we take them down in a shower of colors and catch them in our mouths

15

you’ve got these filaments in your eyeballs light bulb filaments, flicker, spark you’ve got this dark spot you say you’re afraid it’s a cataract, but it’s just a shade and I’m not afraid of ghosts, I know how to stare back at them, show them I’m alright, I swear if you touch me, it won’t hurt you, though my clumsiness does escape me now and again, like when I hit your eye socket or cheek unwittingly in my sleep

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Dec 28, 2012

Dec 28, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC

optometrical crises

you’ve got these filaments in your eyeballs light bulb filaments, flicker, spark you’ve got this dark spot you say you’re afraid it’s a cataract, but it’s just a shade and I’m not afraid of ghosts, I know how to stare back at them, show them I’m alright, I swear if you touch me, it won’t hurt you, though my clumsiness does escape me now and again, like when I hit your eye socket or cheek unwittingly in my sleep

15

And the worst thing is, I muttered to my right thumb’s torn cuticle, The Absolute Very Worst Thing In the History of the Universe is My tongue flounders to find what I want to say. So I say, I’m talking to myself. I bite the cuticle, and it stings in that way that somehow makes me want to do it again. The Absolute Very Worst Thing in the History of the Universe is that I don’t know. I don’t know what I want, I mean. The Absolute Very Worst Thing in the History of the Universe is to have a frozen skeleton, I sample, though I’m not quite sure what I mean to mean. To have these metal fish-hooks snagged in my skin, one pulling north, the other dragging south. You see? To keep digging holes and sowing seeds that I have no idea what they’ll grow to be (pumpkins or daisies or something awful. Like beets.) but I’m blistered and there’s sweat that stings my slivered palms (not in the good way) but I keep digging and digging and I can’t stop because someone says I have to move forward, forward, forward, but really I’m just moving in circles, and I’m not doing anything but something, and what is the point, in that, really? But the worst thing is, that knowing that to be happy, and not even like a kid, beaming, triumphantly holding his lost tooth up in the air, (I’ve given up on that) but in the, I suppose I can sleep at night way, (these days, I apparently talk to myself instead,) The worst thing is knowing that to feel warm, to feel things, Something drags me forward, in my stupid shoes that make me hobble instead of walk, I must keep moving forward in spite of the shade of a ghost, that kisses the hollow of my neck traces his fingers down my spine and whispers, you’re getting tired. Come lie down with me.

0

Oct 30, 2012

Oct 30, 2012 at 9:39 PM UTC

I wish I didn't want to be somebody

And the worst thing is, I muttered to my right thumb’s torn cuticle, The Absolute Very Worst Thing In the History of the Universe is My tongue flounders to find what I want to say. So I say, I’m talking to myself. I bite the cuticle, and it stings in that way that somehow makes me want to do it again. The Absolute Very Worst Thing in the History of the Universe is that I don’t know. I don’t know what I want, I mean. The Absolute Very Worst Thing in the History of the Universe is to have a frozen skeleton, I sample, though I’m not quite sure what I mean to mean. To have these metal fish-hooks snagged in my skin, one pulling north, the other dragging south. You see? To keep digging holes and sowing seeds that I have no idea what they’ll grow to be (pumpkins or daisies or something awful. Like beets.) but I’m blistered and there’s sweat that stings my slivered palms (not in the good way) but I keep digging and digging and I can’t stop because someone says I have to move forward, forward, forward, but really I’m just moving in circles, and I’m not doing anything but something, and what is the point, in that, really? But the worst thing is, that knowing that to be happy, and not even like a kid, beaming, triumphantly holding his lost tooth up in the air, (I’ve given up on that) but in the, I suppose I can sleep at night way, (these days, I apparently talk to myself instead,) The worst thing is knowing that to feel warm, to feel things, Something drags me forward, in my stupid shoes that make me hobble instead of walk, I must keep moving forward in spite of the shade of a ghost, that kisses the hollow of my neck traces his fingers down my spine and whispers, you’re getting tired. Come lie down with me.

50

Clean shaven, bowler-hatted, crisp-suited men are spattered across the canvas, with stiffened spines, vertebrae militarily ordered, Plunging toward the ground, not falling, plunging, leaden, from a sky the color of a smokers’ lungs, gray and blue from lack of oxygen, sputtering them out. They seem not to notice. Blank-faced, easy-armed, composed, they seem not to notice they are doomed to be piles of splintered bones webbed with sinew and lumps of skin, Thinking as they head toward the ground, praying, “If I pretend it’s not happening, maybe I’ll be okay” from the heartless pavement, gravity with the whole world behind it, yanking them like teeth from the air. Only a few clenched fists betray their terror. Or, the Choking, muted, and embittered city could be letting them go, allowing them to evaporate back to the sky where they belong, Welcoming them home, that sky, not with violence, welcoming, gently, to a sky where ennui is beautiful, star after star after star, whispering that they are important, splendid, lovely. One can only hope.

0

Oct 6, 2012

Oct 6, 2012 at 10:41 PM UTC

Poem inspired by Rene Magritte's "Golconde"

Clean shaven, bowler-hatted, crisp-suited men are spattered across the canvas, with stiffened spines, vertebrae militarily ordered, Plunging toward the ground, not falling, plunging, leaden, from a sky the color of a smokers’ lungs, gray and blue from lack of oxygen, sputtering them out. They seem not to notice. Blank-faced, easy-armed, composed, they seem not to notice they are doomed to be piles of splintered bones webbed with sinew and lumps of skin, Thinking as they head toward the ground, praying, “If I pretend it’s not happening, maybe I’ll be okay” from the heartless pavement, gravity with the whole world behind it, yanking them like teeth from the air. Only a few clenched fists betray their terror. Or, the Choking, muted, and embittered city could be letting them go, allowing them to evaporate back to the sky where they belong, Welcoming them home, that sky, not with violence, welcoming, gently, to a sky where ennui is beautiful, star after star after star, whispering that they are important, splendid, lovely. One can only hope.

38