when I was a child I was told that the earth and I were water, so I grabbed a snowflake between my fingernails and pried its glassy bones apart, wondering if I would see in its chemical flow some evidence that I was anything more than a droplet of mist on the hair of your memory's arm
( but today, I find it comforting)
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
from behind my eye I glance at her and wonder with what shades she sees the world
and I think about how tightly she grabs her body,
as though her heart were falling out,
through her tissue skin I see that her blood is grey,
her brain is grey,
her grey guts spilling like inky oily sludge and flooding even the sun,
in april, living in an endless december, the weeds now soggy in her veins,
and as I peer into this rippled reflection I wonder how my little fish soul,
moving only with the pull of the stream,
lived in that lightless world of death
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
are you there?
listen, i'm going deaf, you can go on without me,
i need to wait out the post-sound cacophony in my ears,
to clear out the sonic clutter,
the finely-braided metal radio chains in my head, you know -
it's soothing, the sound of silence, it's bliss, that rich, negative space -
you go on ahead, and after the war,
the ringing detonations,
and the harmonic riots,
after the static on my tv is carefully rearranged
grain by grain into a colorless frame of the past,
a pointillistic polaroid,
maybe i'll catch up, that is,
if i can somehow hear the world again
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
you, the one who is fluent in the language of my flesh, temples to neck, hips to heels
who cradles my name on your tongue like a peppermint, your chapped lips twisted into a grin
who carries ***** words around in a matchbox then dances dangerously around my body of fire
who, with plaid cotton patches of tan and rust, muffles my mouth and fills it with sweet ash and dust
will surely be the death of me
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
Delicate breeze brushing through trees
(if you're quiet, you can hear)
Frogs conversing
(cricket sparklers crackling)
People hustling
(by the rolling ocean roads)
The sky is clear, a blank slate
(if you squint, you can see)
Stars begin to etch themselves in the marble
(yellow threads of old light)
The spring air sweeps the chalky clouds away
(floating down the back alleyway)
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 5:46 PM UTC
i was motionless like the moment just before a storm
my hair clinging to the sheets, my eyes on the ceiling
and my hands draped above my head in a solemn halo;
my blue gasping fingers swallowed your kisses and
my mouth filled up greedily with your breath and
my body consumed every thought you gave to it;
in a dusty sweet voice, your words enslaved me politely
as the blankets of stars wrapped us up with love
and the rain courteously offered its applause
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
once when we were speaking candidly
in the car or maybe at breakfast
I told you how much I love the you
that comes out at night in your room,
the Bogeyman beneath your glasses who
leaps out of the shadows and, like a
ravenous beast, topples me over to
devour my tasty flesh —
you shrugged at my suggestion and I
wondered if it ever occurred to you
that your lust simmers so near the
surface on those nights that smell
so heavily of *** —
when I asked if you noticed any
Bogeyman in me, you only admitted
that I become more “blunt”, not
commanding, necessarily, but
straight-forward and concise —
it makes me think of those shivering
nights without clothes when we haven’t
made it beneath the covers yet
as something like a ritual where we
shed our daily roles and put on
those of the beast and his master,
where I conquer you and clean up
your spoils, leaving only a
slick orange sweater and a
hasty a capella symphony, a
prelude to sweet and somber slumber.
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
oh entropy, i am a leaning tower.
i am a patchwork raincoat
i tried to fill the holes
with someone else's fabric
but the rain comes in hard
and my patchwork is destroyed
i am made of brick
and slowly i am being disassembled
one crumbling red slab after another
until fragments of me
lay scattered and naked in an unsightly pile
i once stood tall
carrying my own weight
carrying your weight too
i once had strong shoulders,
strong mind, strong heart
but i am a leaning tower
and slowly i am being dismantled
my patches are being dissolved
and i am returning to Nothing,
to a place where i can be rebuilt.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
the color red was never so warm
until you taught me how to fall into it,
until you wrapped me up in its richness,
until you.
the morning was never so gentle
until it began to tangle our bodies together,
until even its light couldn't part us,
until you.
the parts of me that were missing pieces
were never so full until you filled them,
until you showed me what I was missing,
until you.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
our home was a ship.
I loved our red sails
and every creaking board.
we took turns as its captain
to chart the gentle, desolate sea.
the morning sun was warm
on our bare and rosy shoulders.
our home was a ship
away from which I have been torn along with mossy memories and bleached sea shells,
and though I cling to this debris in hopes that it could lift me up out of this choking unfamiliarity
I still sink further,
my body numb
and breathless,
up to my bare
and icy neck
in the foggy darkness
of the cold,
deep,
and begrudging water.
our home was a ship.
my home was our ship
and I am stranded -
stranded, but even now,
our red sails and
creaking boards and
you are a misty silhouette on the horizon.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC