We're painting the nursery walls over with white.
Does the color seem too bright?
Does it take in all the light?
It doesn't matter now.
The color's on the wall.
We'll paint the empty halls.
But what about the crib?
We're taking the clothes out of the closet and making a pile.
You know, it's been a long while
Since I've seen you smile.
Don't remind me.
My lips don't stretch these days.
Not in the familiar ways.
Such a time since you last laughed.
We're washing the sheets from our separate beds.
Keep the white ones from the reds.
Are you still taking your meds?
You don't get to ask those things,
not since you moved downstairs.
You know that I still care.
There's something in between us.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
I want to know you
as intimately as the needle
that made you a mural.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 5:34 PM UTC
Sitting in the asylum
voices of the infirmed
call to each other.
A young man hums to himself,
keys jangling.
They carry their preferences under their arms,
judging each other by the objects in their hands.
And here I sit,
in the atrium
listening to the mad men heeding the sirens that call to them.
They obey
and beat their rhythms upon ivory tables
bone-wracked as wooden bridges slip out of their grooves
horses and trees united
in the Sistine Chapel ceilings of the lunatic's mind
epiphany and entropy painted on the skull canvases
of bridled souls.
The floor shudders as a hundred feet tap their heartbeats
in different moments.
Seizures of enlightenment
are what brought them here,
and similarly,
what will keep them.
A sired calls from a locked room
and the ivory tables shatter.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 2:18 AM UTC
I look at the fractured streets
littered with broken promises
peeling billboards peddling luxury to the wrong audience
the contorted vertebrae of this country's spine
and I mourn
the death of the American Dream.
I see it lying at my feet with every step
like the broken-winged bird from childhood fables.
"Fix me," she wheezes.
I tried once, but it died in my hands.
Apparently,
"The Dream" used to be two cars
but now it's two good fists
the wisdom to know when enough is enough
and the strength to say it.
I was born too late to remember anything else.
Here lies the American Dream,
bruised and battered by those who vowed to protect her
doused in oil and set aflame
by misdirection
misdemeanors
and Miss Universe.
Here lies the American Dream
who was born from revolution
and died in its absence
who waited for a day that never came
who lived long enough to see the fruit of her labor
become a raisin in the sun.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
Dear Twelve Year Old Me,
For God's sake.
Stop wearing those ******* butterfly pants.
And you wonder why no one wants to play tennis with you.
Dear Twelve Year Old Me,
If you think you hate math now,
wait til sophomore year.
That's when they stop giving you numbers altogether.
Dear Twelve Year Old Me,
I know you're crying in your bed
but it's OK
because the girl you kissed only gets prettier
and the ones you want to haven't come along yet.
Dear Twelve Year Old Me,
When you turn fifteen,
don't think twice about dressing like George Harrison
because dude was awesome and so are you.
Dear Fifteen Year Old Me,
I see you sneaking around the boy's half of Goodwill,
checking around corners to see if anyone's looking.
The night you held your hair hostage with scissors
and wondered how many inches you'd have to cut
until you felt valuable again,
I was the reflection in the mirror.
The nights you recited the first third of "Howl"
to comfort yourself
I was the quilt you pulled over your eyes.
Dear Twelve and Fifteen Year Old Me,
Stop punishing yourself for being something you didn't get to decide.
You're going to meet a girl in a coffee shop
with a whisper of a laugh
and a floppy woolen hat
who will make you realize
that love is when you want to say her name to everyone who passes you by
that love is when you search all the faces for hers
that love is when you decide danger in the open is more important than safety in a closet
that love is when you forgive yourself for something that was never bad to begin with.
Dear Twelve and Fifteen Year Old Me,
You're going to ***** things up
and miss opportunities
because that's what you did
but just know that seventeen year old you is trying to be fearless
so thank those who love you and forgive those who don't.
And really.
Enough with the pants.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:10 AM UTC
Here's how you know if religion is right for you.
Put your faith in your hands.
If it weighs them down, leave it at your feet.
If your hands stay still, put it back in your heart and let it stew for a bit.
If your hands somehow rise above where they were before, put it in your pocket, because you're gonna need it where we're going.
For those with empty pockets and hearts,
keep your eyes open.
If something strikes your fancy along the way, tuck it in your jeans.
Eventually, you will make your own faith.
And if you feel that you need no faith or religion
then walk straight and steady
because we all need something to push us forward.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
When I lie in bed
in that limbo between sleepy and sleeping
I think about throwing open all the windows on a hot summer night
(the kind where you can't breathe for the season's breath beating you senseless)
and dancing in your arms.
We'll both be tired and conservative with our words
but our feet will converse into the night.
I'm thinking Sidney Bechet's "Blue Horizon" should be a good place to start
so you have an idea of where I'm going.
I want the heat to press us together until we melt.
The end of your body will be the beginning of mine
because no one's paying attention to where lines are drawn.
If anyone's going to draw them, it'll be me
sliding the tip of my finger across your chest in time to the record
which is so slow we're almost standing still.
We don't notice though, because the only rhythm we care about is us.
The way I see it,
it's like Tennessee Williams is somewhere up there
hacking away at his typewriter
creating us with each stroke of the key.
His fingers work our literary strings and we sway like marionettes in the hands of our creator.
He places the screen door on the other side of the room
the ***** walls around us
the indifferent lightbulb hanging above our heads,
giving off just enough light so we don't have to squint
but not enough to make the room feel anything less than sensual.
Tennessee draped the sundress over my shoulders
but kindly left my feet bare so I could feel the floor in its imperfect softness.
He put a watch on your wrist
not so you'd keep time
but so you'd remember the person who gave it to you.
There's a hint of a smile stretched across the divan of your lips
though I know Tennessee had not a single thing to do with it.
It was all me.
And just before I fall asleep,
the song finishes
and Tennessee packs up his machine,
leaving us to ourselves for the rest of the dream before a dream.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 11:33 AM UTC
Our father
who might be in Heaven,
hollow is thy name.
Thy kingdom came.
Thy will was done
on Earth in the name of Heaven.
Give the poor their daily bread
and forgive us our faults
as we forgive those who have wronged us.
Lead us not into triviality
and deliver us from self-destruction.
Amen.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 10:59 PM UTC