she coughed and her ribs formed a semi-circle. it was escaping whether you wanted it to or not. she didn't. shaded specks made it harder for her to see. glasses broken. fingernails in her eye sockets. her senses disappeared. all you could do was pretend, what you were best at. what she expected. say goodnight or her chest will bring her down. infuse your hands into her stomach until you can feel her spine digesting. the best way to feel. embrace the coldness. but don't hold on too tight or else it'll feel warm again. like red. the epitome of her temptations. she dreamt of them. it didn't blind her like the sun and the nails, but she felt it in her earlobes. it made her dizzy. thank your god for all the times her fingertips turned blue. more controlling than her. thank your god for not planting it on the tip of her nose. or for better yet, she would inhale it. we knew the outcome. the golden trees found their way up into your abdomen. they fixated their branches until you felt them prickling at your throat, where the pain was the most familiar. the most comfortable. don't ask her to let go of it.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 9:10 PM UTC
reaching the back of you
not sure I could. not sure i would.
scent of the crime uncommitted uncovered
the meandering is the man demigod demagogue taking
time
pleasured mercy
the remaindered searchingly
suffices
you don’t speak plain english the only tongue i got
insert the coin in your slot commencing researching the
way in and
don’t think i want to find the way out to the
back of you hiding in the inside learning the way you visualize
playing amy winehouse as an overlaying graph to the autoroute
to the south of france, sur-la-mer, why ever leave and you come
in my mouth poems new each time
no exit. no back of you. stuck in a longingly heaven
this house is my home and I know the sun brightest
when i put my coin in the slot of play and press the
new tune button at 4:10AM
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 6:05 AM UTC
Friday night immodesty
theater on East 4th street @ 8:00pm,
so the girlie stuff commences on schedule
90 minuets a-priori and the medley music
(adele+amy+alicia+ pink bach for some zing)
a harbinger, a pioneer Greek heralding of
Friday night immodesty
the clothes laid out upon the bed, the shoes,
pumps selected and already on,
(always a puzzler to me,)
the subdued lower east side jewelry possibilities,
on the dresser drawer,
indifferently hoping for selection, but
casually beaming quietly,
like those kids waiting for interviews in the waiting room
of the college Admissions Dean’s office,
all with serious smiles
and tiny tearing eyes
aside:
helloooooo, I am in a poetry polo with my best jeans ready to go
2 hours before the curtain calls out,
hellooooooo
she sits at the makeup mirrored desk,
clad in only her underneath garments of varying utility,
when I sweep in imperially
and with one hand twist gentle her hair upwards,
betraying
her neck nape which is again
the sujet of a poem aborning
lips,
like a Greek lyre strings, pluck, the tiny hid hairs never seen,
her instant moans at the never fully expected motion poem,
beg more mercy but no quarter given despite repeated cries
of you’ll mess my makeup,
the best defense known to a lady!
god gave men two thumbs to lift up,
simultaneously stimulating,
slide down each of the thin black brasserie strap invitations,
upon each, a writ,
upon her flesh colored shoulders,
stating
“what was she thinking!”
my lips,
now polar explorers, those power (filled) poles side by side,
(east/west for the designer was a smart
bipolar guy-person);
the lips play silent night progressive jazz,
tinkling with higher noted keys,
nape to shoulders moving down to the back’s prefrontal lobe,
the small of her back, the body’s quivering,
a con-federate flag of surrender
her last defense swept aside, we drink honey and milk,
celebrate the week’s mellifluous finish with immodest touching,
the lower east side will belong tonite
to only the hipsters, the millennials,
as our hips are milling and otherwise
pre-theater and post, occupado
some hours later, watching TV and eating delivered Chinese,
she laterally and literally arm punches my arm
intensely to mark her discontent,
still annoyed,
for I
1) messed up her makeup,
2) best blouse to the dry cleaner and
3) the tickets wasted, and worse,
hits me again!
after I laugh and giggle upon proffering
most modestly, most assuredly,
seconds of
onlylovepoetry
9.21am Saturday
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 1:30 PM UTC
wear watches without a battery
because the days can’t tick if the arms don’t move
nothing really has to move
in fact, it was all just a figment of our imagination
on this day i got out of bed
and i saw a dead person
i shut my eyes because it wasn’t real
none of this was ever real
tell me how to stop forcing myself to feel something
tell me why i must pretend to make it mean something
tell me about how the number thirteen always meant something special
tell me about how the number thirteen made you feel something
how do i tell Him that i don’t believe in him
but that i believe in you
how do i tell you that i don’t remember the sound of your voice
from he was a good man
to he was Probably a good man
you aren’t a god
He isn’t even a god
who is the real god here?
how unfortunate it must be
living in two worlds at once
i’ll let grandma know about my conversations with god
blink hospital room
blink grandma’s screaming
blink pray and everything will be okay
blink
i don’t remember the first day
blink burgundy rug
blink mama’s screaming
blink first grade teacher
blink standing over your grave
blink
i don’t remember the last day
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 4:03 PM UTC
this is how it happens
it's the last day the temperature will be
above thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit
until February
you're not looking at the date
it's just the end of November
the middle of the night in the middle of a road
at the end of November
the hum of this small town hurts your ears
you're stuck in a dream where everything you see
turns into a weapon
this is how it happens
you knocked back sharp, amber liquid
to make this place feel a little more okay
and it only worked halfway
no matter how soft the edges are
you bruise your hips when you
run into them in the dark
you're ******* on your fourth cigarette when
a police officer pulls over and asks
how you're doing today
in the too-bright white of the headlights
the sick taste of Red Stag sticks to
the roof of your mouth
the mouth that you're moving into a smile
the mouth exhaling plumes of smoke at the ground
you're okay
"i'm okay."
you don't tell him what you're really doing
you're really taking all of your
thoughts about stopping your pulse for a walk
you don't tell him you've been
chasing ambulances all night long
please, officer don't leave me alone, you don't say
he tells you to have a good night and drives away
and this is how it happens
the moon smiles at you with every single one
of its tiny, sharp teeth
nobody but your cat finds you in that bathtub
nobody but your cat watches you rise from red water
watches it drip drip drip
from every chasm carved in your left arm
nobody but your cat saw the soft animal of your soul
shiver from the cold that day
it's the first day the temperature
dropped below
thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit inside your chest
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 3:26 AM UTC
She's taken your body wash, and used it without permission.
She's used it twice before and
presumed it would be fine to take it again.
You never gave consent.
You even said No.
She's used it twice before so what's a third time,
or a fourth or even a fifth,
she's just hoping you won't snitch and tell someone
she stole something from you...
Your confidence or your peach shampoo?
She lied about the temperature of the bath water,
you were supposed to drown
before you felt the heat,
but you didn't and now you're
tearing your skin to shreds,
Self-destruction on the first date,
how sweet.
She wants you to wash your mouth out,
you said something you shouldn't and now she's mad,
feeling sorry for you is in the past,
the new thing is drowning you in the bath.
Your heads now under water,
feet kicking the floor.
She's doused you with her perfume,
just to see you choke against the wooden frame of the door.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 7:21 AM UTC
I should apologize for the days I am withdrawn. This is not what you signed up for. I should apologize for when I don't want to speak or communicate with touch or when I want to be without you but also do not. My indecisiveness is appalling: and I should apologize for that. But today I do not want words. I do not want to be felt because I feel you grabbing and pulling instead of caressing and comforting. You have not done anything wrong. I am just mean. I am just inside myself today and when you want to know what is up I want you to accept that I say the sky instead of pressing for more. My thoughts are poison right now. You shake me like a magic eight ball and I keep thinking try again later but saying not likely. I have the capacity to be kind but my words are pinpricks in your chest and every time I claw you with my numbness I inwardly cringe because I don't mean it, I am sorry, and I should apologize. But I can't. I can not bring myself to vocalize that I am not okay because you'll want to help and I don't want to be okay. Not yet. I want to hide in my closet and cry without company. I want time to myself today. But I don't want to hurt you. I am sorry. You are no burden. I am withdrawing. Not from you, but from me. I don't want to be kind, or resilient, or strong today. I just want to fold into myself, I want to be small and insignificant. I am tired of being fun and happy, it's tiring work. I need time to be low without an interrogation. I just want to be empty for a moment. And I should apologize.
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
i suppose i could reflect on the times where i would not leave my bed, even if my muscles got sore. perhaps that could be the reason i never stood on a scale. yesterday's bruises are far too familiar. for some reason, they feel as sharp as today's and tomorrow's. despite what they say, i don't think it ever really goes away. you could say i chose this for myself. it's all a matter of perspective, right? somehow external becomes internal regarding my excuses. perhaps it's all of the bitter coffee and burnt spaghetti noodles. i should stop talking about the things that make me anxious. i always had to cover my mouth when i laughed and maybe that's why i have rotten stained teeth. there was always that wonder about why you would feed me all of those lollipops for breakfast. i guess that means something. the room always smelled of earwax and caramel pumpkin. the significance being clear. for a second, i forgot of all the other people in the room and maybe it's because for the first time, my pocketbook is no longer a pillowcase.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 10:52 AM UTC
it was only fifth grade
when your friends told me
you only liked me because you felt sorry for me.
i don’t know why
but i still can’t meet anyone new.
i never grew up
and because of that
all i ever hear is the echoing of
your commiserating anthem
in the faces of new human beings.
my mind will be responsible for destroying me
and for some reason
your song is still stuck in my head.
it was only fifth grade
but still i felt love in your side hugs
and innocent eyes.
the love like a child with a lollipop.
i thought, “what a person”
and i thanked god for our after school conversations
about the horrid school lunches
and playground games.
i can still feel the shaking of my voice
like thunder
when i asked you if you really liked me.
they say there’s nothing like
a soft lip and a shaky heart,
but is that even if it rattles
like an earthquake?
i waited while you counted
one mississippi
two mississippi
three mississippi
four,
and still i was left
with wood chips between my toes.
it was only fifth grade
but ever since then
all i ever thought is that
people were just being nice to me.
the boy with velvet lips
who told me my heart was like cotton candy
was just being nice.
as well as the one
with honey glazed fingertips
that said he loved the gap between my teeth.
but these words were empty to me.
it was only fifth grade
but i can still remember
my voice breaking
and feeling shattered and bruised and dashed
and every other synonym
that you could possibly think of.
it was only fifth grade
and you were always nice to me
and i loved that about you.
but out of your pity
came a curse
that makes them all
just like you.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
a day's tale
will tell a day
of the fire
you have learned
to combust
your innermost puzzles.
the gasoline
is on your clothes
and against
your surface.
they told you so
every wistful evening
when you would
brew your tea
and light the incense.
the room would smell
of lemon
and reek of
your abstinence.
mysteries of your introspection
were set alight.
you were always
descending from
your nightmares
and running from
your demons.
no wonder the flames
devoured all your
vitality.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC