Safe inside a bubble made of steel and glass
Sparkling with raindrops in the night’s lights
Warmth like bed, soft as a summer’s sigh wrapped in darkness
Words depart with the hitching breaths and racing hearts
Secret messages conveyed in the dew
A child’s finger-painted mural, pointing to where it hurts
The bottle inside is shaken near to combustion
The fences that have such good neighbors made
Crumble into soapy heaps
Suddenly there is no air, no breaths at all
Only the caress of a cheek, the whisper of a name
In one stolen moment, a secret yearning is given form
And outside the rain falls heavy and cool,
Promising respite from the confusion swirling inside,
The gift of the sky washing away any uncertainty.
But none comes. Outside the storm rages the same as within.
Soon the sun will rise, and perhaps
all will be made clear in the light of morning.

Somewhere in town,
a dog licks at the hand of a child.
a man with no shirt plays hacky-sack alone
The stalwart city has come crashing to her knees,
and so against his own he kicks the bag
again and again
as if he could raise the razed ground
with the power of a child's game.

I CRIED
YES I CRIED
and
LOVE TRIUMPHS OVER HATE
and
UNITE.

By a fountain on the curb
men with long hair and guitars sing together,
only strangers before today.
a woman who saw someone
gasping in vain for smokeless breath
inhales deeply from a cigarette.
A saxophone sings out sweet and low,
his melancholy tune sung
for everyone who can only hear
the screams, long gone silent save for in memory,
where they pierce as loud as sirens.

a boy walks to the movies with his mom
and asks her what the sign says.
she reads to him:

“TODAY IS
"A DAY AT THE MOVIES"
ALL MOVIES WILL BE FREE
TODAY.
STOP BY THE
CONCESSION STAND FOR A
COURTESY CUP OF SODA &
POPCORN”

and, baffled, he cannot understand why
a free movie
and a sugary drink
and a tub of popcorn
brings his seamless mother to tears.

I have never feared death
though it lurks round every bend
nor do I fear spiders
or snakes
or things that go
bump
in the night.

I do not fear investments
without returns,
for the investing is worthwhile
in itself.

I do not fear rejection,
nor heartache,
nor pain.
For all three I have experienced
and never have they won.

but you must fear something,
the fates proclaim. for a life without fear
is unbalanced,
and they do not permit their loom
to stretch without give,
nor give without take.

So what is it I fear?
What, or whom, lies in my shadowy nightmares
when I lie awake and dreamless
tossing in the sheets
and plaintively crying out
with nobody to hear?

simple:
inadequacy.
For when the day comes
with a hand to collect,
I may not have anything to give.
my heart, my flesh, my soul
may be too frail
to pass between us.

That is what I fear.
Not the darkness of the night,
but the soul left wandering
waiting for something
I could never give.

When Charlotte Haze allowed into her home
A monster in unassuming white linen pajamas
Could she have known what he would do
To her daisy-fresh girl, lying among the lilies?

As she bathed in sunshine on the golden shores
Of Hourglass Lake, could she have known
Where his mind was, with the child sent away
Nuptial solitude invaded by his maddened obsession?

Before Mrs. Haze-Humbert left the world,
She found the confession he wrote on silk ribbons
Meant to tie around her neck and then the child’s hair--
Yet her first concern was of how she had been betrayed.

As Charlotte lay dying on the hot concrete
Did she wonder if she might have seen it coming--
Her demise, foretold by his fantasies
Of violence towards her, of brutality for the child?

Which her last thoughts cast towards:
The orphan she now left behind?
Or her own aching heart,
Torn with jealous rage between her love of the girl
And the infidelity of a husband gone astray?

I turned my attention to the water, and I was suddenly struck by the immensity of everything.
“The world is so big,” I said aloud,
more to myself than to him.
He nodded, but I couldn’t shake
the feeling that he just didn’t get what I was saying.
I didn’t mean, “the world is big.”
I wasn’t talking about the vastness of the seas’ endless waters
or the sheer size of the globe we walked on.
I was talking about the infinite
nature of the world, how it was stuffed full
of corners and niches that I would never see.
I imagined all of the homes, filled with love, with shame, with something
in between.
A bee, circumnavigating the area around a wilting tulip.
The involuntary wringing of a grandmother’s hands during tense moments.
A boy practicing violin.
A wedding, a birth, another wedding, a death, a funeral, and the continuation
of life around the hole left by the dead
until the cycle continued so much that the hole was filled.
I imagined the ports where ships docked and ******* between voyages, the cobblestone streets of French towns and the mountainous landscapes of the past.
I pictured dogs, scratching on fences, and a girl
brushing her hair by an open window.
I saw the corners and pockets of life, shared with the world
or kept to oneself. The gaps behind stoves,
the crannies seen only by blind mice and frightened roaches,
the dark tunnels beneath the earth. I saw in a flash the water parks where children played,
the quiet moments of morning coffee reveled in by morning people
who rose before the sun.
I pictured the greasy back-alley of a fast food joint
and realized that, for better or for worse,
I would never see
even a fraction
of what the world had to offer.

They ask you again and again,
What happened? Tell me the whole story
And you repeat yourself
Each time thinking it’s been received
But then a new ear, a new clipboard,
And they make you tell it again.

“What happened” becomes more important
Than “what’s happening now?”
Because they care about the mechanism
More than the injury

So what will they do when you go radio silent?
When your heart breaks do you need to rehash how he hurt you,
Again and again for each secondary witness?
At what point does the sordid story end
And the sequel begin?
Or will the pursuit of healing,
The treating of trauma,
Forever be defined by
the mechanism of injury?

What is this?
A memory? A dream?
A memory of a dream?
Early morning passes in serenity,
birdcalls slowly replacing the patter of precipitation
as hazy sunbeams drift lazily past the curtain.

Exhale a steady sigh out the cracked window. your breath,
an ephemeral cloud for just a moment,
is highlighted against the garden
and your shoulders fall.
The balloon of breath swells again in your chest, filling the cavity with peaceful Sorrow.

When did She first look your way, blonde locks falling into Cerulean eyes?
When did he brush past you and send waves of butterflies swarming your insides?

Maybe this is better.
Maybe it's better to see the world clearly, without the pretty impediment
of rose-colored glasses.
Maybe it's better to never bite the apple, for what might you lose
if it has turned?
Better to never taste crisp, cool fruits if you can
save your milk-teeth from being lost in ice-chilled flesh.

Part I

There are parts of me I will not give you, Stranger;
But these parts are not many.
I have always been comfortable in vulnerability.
Or perhaps, I have weaponized it—
To destroy not kingdoms but boundaries:
Confuse the prey and ****** the predator,
until they are one and the same.

Part II

But if I expose my soft underbelly to anyone,
Can it still be considered vulnerability?
How must it feel to be scarred
Again and again
Battered and wounded—
Yet the flesh never hardens against incursion?
To have so much weakness so plainly to see
Easy to touch, even more to make bleed
Bear witness against the truth
Yet shatter all of the doubts—
What lies in the middle, then?
What will the law of averages reveal?
Is that soft underbelly truly so honest and real
Or is it another form of camouflage
Designed to mislead
As the fanfare protects the executioner?

Part III

The armor of insight is deception
Deception that strives to please
For distracting the audience is crucial
To being this kingdom to its knees

So in revealing the war strategy to her enemy
Can a commander be

Part IV

Just who is the enemy, and why does he lurk about?

Purify through fire and fury
Scourge away imperfections
But in doing so, sear away the layers of myself
That I never knew I would miss
Until now, with raw baby flesh left
Pink, bubbling burns.

Sit down, little fool;
These words are not meant for you
Your little ears are too soft and sensitive
For such a scalding reality.

it’s strange;
whenever I think of you
(which is often, I must admit)
I can’t help but smile to myself
just a little bit.

such an exhilarating phenomenon presents itself tonight
for the first time in so long
the curtain to the inner sanctum has been pulled askew
and in steps: you.
I hope I will not come to rue the moment
that led me to this start
though my intuition tells me that I am safe
with you in my heart.

They say the ties that bind, wither towards the end
Their witty mottos downplay the love of a friend
“The blood of the covenant,” the adage remains still frozen,
“Flows much thicker than the water of the womb.”
And therefore they deduce: our loyalties reduce
And family only matters when it is chosen.

But the blood relations between man’s nations
Groan under the strain of their bond
For who would have thought that brothers were not
By long and far man’s best creation.

Tell me it’s worth it, all of this pain
That life gives you more than this strain
Tell me it gets easier, somehow, from here
Tell me how someday I’ll live without fear

Whisper your promise that you’ll never leave
Swear on your soul that I’ll never bereave
Hold my hand against your beating heart
And make me believe that we’ll never part

Tell me it’s worth it to struggle along
Sing me a lullaby, a soft, solemn song
Impress upon me the truth that you speak
Be my strength when I am but weak

Ice in my heart brings no solace this time
Melt me with promises of summer sublime
Hold me and whisper your comforting lies
I’ll try to believe you until our demise

Tell me it’s worth it to feel this way now
Assure me, remind me of our sacred vow
Tell me I’ll have you forever and a day
Promise that love will always find a way

Perpetual lonesomeness takes its toll
My shattered existence is lacking a soul
But for now in this place I’ll trust in illusions
Crystalline happiness built on delusions

Tell me it’s worth it, and I’ll tell you the same
And together we’ll believe forever will remain.

How can it be that life should be so sweet
What could I've done to earn this greatest gift
That I should have this rarest chance to meet
A soul so kind, who opens up her heart.
Their arms forever opened to embrace
Their words forever ready to uplift
Even her home, that sanctuaried place
Left open-doored to friends who go adrift.
Their voice they raise to advocate for change
To validate, they spread not hate, but love
She lives her life without a trace of shame
She must have been a gift sent from above.
No words I speak nor write could manifest
A friend like her; she really is the best.

Sometimes, such as on days like today
I sit and I mourn for my long-forgotten faith
I miss the certainty of a Most Divine Plan
Those self-assured speeches of a holy man
Assurances he speaks for the Ordained Track
Promises of a Supreme Being who's got my back
On these days when I wish, reminisce and long
I can't help but wonder where it all went so wrong

It's not that I Believe that There Is No God
Or even that I am unsure whether to believe or not
I don't bother questioning if god is real
For there is a bigger issue at play, I feel
When I became faithless, it was just in HIS eyes
"Faithless" I am not; there's just so much to surmise

I have Faith that the sun will warm each new day
I have Faith that these heavy clouds will give rain
I have Faith in the ground solid on which I stand
I have faith; just not Faith in the Words of a Man

See, I have come to accept that I soon will die
More surely, in fact, than the sun that may rise
Any day that sun may not appear
That day of darkness that we so fear
I accept that any moment May advent my end
I accept that there May be a sunrise just round the bend

With my flawed, weak powers of human perception
Dependent as they are on my senses' inception
I cannot Know a god, not many nor One
Just as I cannot Know that tomorrow will come

Maybe it will, and maybe there is
after all,
But truly--
who among us can Know anything
at all?

elegant as an elephant
graceful as the flocking geese
she wears a tiara of burrs
upon her head and crows,
"look! I am the princess now."

fair Ramona, why do you cry?
there is nothing left for you there
those girls were mean as shrews
they only brought you shame
with their callous words and giddy games

Ramona, O Ramona, blessed art thou
amongst maidens
for thine is the healing, the mercy,
the clev'rest wit and purest soul
for now and forever and ever
amen.

inhale.
Erebus swallows the sunlight, plunging you down
into the thick, suffocating darkness
wrapping your body like silk sheets
dark sheets, not black but dark
dark in the way that the crack in your ceiling was
when you were six, and water damage from the upstairs
broke through the plaster and left a void
it grinned at you, sending shivers of evil down your spine
and it laughed when you screamed for your mom.

exhale.
You are not six anymore.
the ceiling has been patched for years.
static from the TV fills the soulless motel room
you had put it on for the white noise
of garish and noisy cartoons,
hoping they might drown out the silence
but the wind storm outside must have knocked out the cable
because now it is static.
just black and white dots aimlessly filling empty space and time
like you.

inhale.
It has been a long time since you have rested.
when was the last time you slept?
sleeping seems as chaotic as waking,
so it's hard to tell.
is that patter rain?
is it the sink? or a neighbor's shower?
but then again, does it even really matter?
it feels forbidden, yet inevitable that you would wind up here
maybe you should get out while you still can.

exhale.
Who are you?

inhale.
Why are you?

exhale.
Does it matter?

exhale.
Does anything matter?

exhale.
Do you matter?

exhale.

rest, now. the answers will not come.
so forget it.
forget the pain,
the sorrow,
the deliberation.
exhale, and rest forever.

exhale.
exhale.
exh...

The subject of a painting
whether oil or watercolor or tempera
does not know she is in a painting.

She knows her past, whatever of it
her artist gave her when he brought her to life,
though (unbeknownst to her) she did not experience
any of it herself.

She was conceived a fully-grown woman,
so when the painting is one of hurt,
the subject sits in it from first brushstroke into infancy
(or until the work is burned in a **** fire--
though who knows if flames can destroy
consciousness given to an idea as
ephemeral as a painted girl?)

So forever she will lie in her sick bed,
languor in her grief,
swoon from the heat of the sun,
or cry at a grave site under the cover of darkness,
stand beside her husband stoically surveying her fields,
or weep at the feet of her son
as he dies nailed upon a tree, or
cry in pain as her womb expels an unborn babe.

But I-- one day I wake in another bed
or the same bed, on a different day
My injury, my pain that felt interminable,
is gone (or at least, eased) and I have
no gaps in my teeth.
I have left the painting
I have less pain,
a new life. A new day.

For me, the wheel keeps turning, for
I am not
the subject of a painting.
So, this too
I know, shall pass.
And for me the sun will rise again tomorrow.

a mouse under a rock
she peers out to see the world
green! blue! white!
a stream, winding down the hillside
a lush forest full of life and breath
clouds that drift overhead
but the shadow of a predator falls
and sends chills down her spine
the mouse retreats.

a mouse under a rock
peeks out once again
sunlight! grass! wind!
the cascading of a falls not too far
a swimming hole, perhaps
surrounded in trees and mud
but the predator is back,
so the mouse hides again.

one: "mom"

crossing the line she had drawn in the sand
cussing me out from holding my hand
these rules and lies all she made up
her chalice of fire scorching my cup

rue the day she came to know
the silent demon hid in my soul
pushing memories out of the way
and succumb to a chasm of arid dismay

two: "rules"

forget the burning in your *****
forget the cursed mine of coins
forget the lashings from her lips
forget the sinner b'twixt my hips

eyes that sting when open too long
voice that scratches when given song
bodies that itch for cursed delights
heart that relates pleasure and fright

three: "Mary"

blessed are they that feel the burn
holy is she that ignores the yearn
but what should she get for crossing her thighs?
not honor nor respect, but labor and sighs

'sainthood becomes her,' the elders all say
'so honest! so pure! and see just how fair!'
whilst only yesterday they'd cursed the *****
remanded to outcast; covered no more.

I power down the computer and wait for the processes to shut down
and as I do, I recognize for a moment
the chiming shut-down sound
as the same sound that plays in my head on a loop when I am trying to sleep
when the silent room screams louder than I can hear over
but in my ears it rings out again and again
while I toss and turn

I did not get the same courtesy when I was reset.
Mine was a cold reboot, with no warning or preparation
I had no idea what was about to happen
when he unplugged me from my reality
or messed up my keys.
I only knew when I powered up again the next morning
that something was wrong.

Only then did I realize that my programming had been corrupted.

“Whatever is true,” she said,
“I want better for you.”

What’s true is that I am alone in my fight
The darkness that swallows the light
For whatever is true, dear Mother
Is your baby was hurt by another

What’s true is that I stand alone
Cowering before the Wicked One’s throne
For whatever is true, Father dear
Is your little girl was stolen from here

What’s true is that I’m losing my mind
Every step pushes me further behind
For whatever is true, dear Friend
Is that I am drawing near to my end

my love language is silence
written into the script:
moments of lapsed conversation
where all is tranquil and serene.
or when we forget our lines and sit
in hushed reverence,
allowing one another’s stage presence
to wash over us like the backlights.
invisible audiences hold bated breath
waiting for a twist, a shock
but a twist, we have not rehearsed
instead we allow the unscripted silence
to wash over us in reverent bliss
our conjoined souls just content
allowing our minds to diverge
as long as we are together in the silence.

Two noble powers, Birth and Death
whose balanced struggle is catalyst for the rest
Birth starts a life that it's Death's job to take
with Birth's son, Love, and Death's son Pain
companions to hold 'til dust in a grave.

There once was a power who ruled beneath
he'd steal the lost and smite the weak
he held man's life in his cold, cruel grasp
without a moment of light to last
he'd visit the people, a harbinger sans ruth
bringing news of a barren, hideous truth
then steal away, fast as shadow rolls
bringing with him expired human souls
Death was ruthless, death was cold.
Death had no problems with himself to behold
he reveled in sadness, he thrived in blood red
he garnered his power from tears, victims shed.

Then one day, a golden beam of light
the one golden ray that Death cannot smite
a soft light beam was born at the crack of dawn
and Death felt something he knew was wrong
the baby girl, such a small babe
she grew up in safety, out of Death's way.

But Death could not keep away from her for long so light
he had to see her, be near her, so he visited her one night
he took not the girl, for then he could not even hope
but instead, her mother, whose thread of life he cut the rope
and the girl was saddened, desolate she cried
but Death couldn't find it in him to allow her to die
so he saved his visit to her for the last one he brings
visiting her father and brother next he came, slicing her heart-strings
but the girl became depressed and wished not for him
instead she pulled the dagger out on a hopeless whim.
The pain was too much for her to await her Death's part
she pulled the knife out and held it over her heart
and took her own life, robbed him of a visit such
and she passed to forever, without Death having one touch.

The rain came down,
and it keeps coming down,
so nourishing to the parched earth
yet so gloomy and low. It fits the mood.
An event that must happen, for the world to survive
But that, in the moment, only feels like a dreary moodsetter on a blustery day.
It isn’t too dark out. Despite the rain coming down in torrents, it’s still bright.
As I drive along the highway I see that rays of
sunshine are poking out from behind the clouds, and I think that,
somewhere along the distance, from the right vantage, where the brilliant sun rays
hit the storm droplets at just the right angle, there might be a rainbow
somewhere.
Just too far gone down the road for me to see it.

The emerald stones embroidered into this pouch glitter
by the light of the flames that engulf this city
a baby shoe, tied in a bag of silk
hangs delicately round my neck
my pendant to bring me back to you one day
the sanctified emblem of hope:
el zapato de bebé de una niña robada
a locket, the other half of which you carry
my two identities lost in a crusade de fuego y sogas
One, the baby taken
The other a woman stolen
Mort à la pute! une sorcière! le gitan doit mourir.
my sentence carried out as you watch
just moments after we reunite again
only to have to say Dja devlesa!
My face lit by the burning cathedral
Then slackened by the tightening rope.

Will there ever come a day where I drown you in my words,
you sinking up to your ears in my grievances and tales
of sheer mediocrity?
Will there come a day when you cry out and beg me to be silent;
and since I am too shocked to know what else to do, I fall so?
Will there come a day when my endless tales become the bane of our love?

Can we just lie here forever
With our eyelids heavy,
fingertips light
arm behind head
chest against chest
Breathing rhythmically together,
exchanging silent words of sweetness?
Your metaphor for love
rings like a bell in my ears
as I trace the contours of your body
with my fingers, enjoying
every moment.

Notre Dame is burning
This we all have seen
But Notre Dame’s been burning
For longer than this dream

Families and their children
Have worshiped in her halls
But families and children
Were stolen by its falls

Notre Dame was sacred
For worship and for song
But Notre Dame’s not sacred
As it had not been for long

Maybe this magestic falling
Is what the world must see
It’s this tremendous falling
That may set the children free

Worship moves with ages
No building must we *****
Elaborate walls do serve to hide
Wrongs we can never correct

So mourn her burning if you feel
But spare us the unending plea
For Notre Dame and her ***** deals
Must end before eternity.

Despite the emptiness of the train station, I can hear the sounds of people.
Headed to work.
Headed home from work.
Day shifts, night shifts
Social visits
Business ventures.
All of the emotions and all of the stories they carry, unbeknownst to one another
save the innocuous and inadvertent clues given
by way of their postures or countenances, caught in glances
and forgotten just as quickly.

The station is full of ghosts,
of memories lost and faded from time.
Sentiments once deemed of utmost importance
but that now lie as irrelevant as those deemed unimportant.
All of them, lying together
as dead as dead can be.
There is an eerie chilliness to the air,
but I can’t bring myself to pull out my jacket and bundle up.
Somehow, the cold feels
fitting for the mood.
I haven’t been here in so long, yet I can still hear the ambiance
from so long ago.
I could almost feel the murmur of conversation
the occasional flipping of pages from books or newspapers
the omnipresent thundering of railways
the laughter of children on their mothers’ laps on the way to visit Grandma.
I can hear the patter of expensive Italian shoes
the shuffle of worn work boots
the clicking of heels
the scuff of flats
all running together
as the masses shift and shuttle hither and thither.
I thought about the loafers and stilettos that had once scuffed these hard floors.
I thought about how, in the moment, they must’ve seemed so vital,
so necessary.
But now?
Expensive and cheap shoes are buried together on decaying corpses.

I had lived near the train tracks, once upon a time.
After the world came crashing down around me,
it was only in rebuilding it that I found
something as benign as the sounds of a railway to be comforting.
But I did, somehow. It was a reminder of the world that went on
despite it feeling like it was at an eternal standstill.
Of course, back then I was completely unaware
of how I was building up a collection of memories
centered around that very sound.
I didn’t realize how I would forever hear that sound
and be brought back to a simpler time.
I never knew how important it would become, or the memories it would bring along with it.

Did Doorthy kiss the Lion's snout
when she parted ways?
Did she lay her fingertips on the cold metal
of the Tin Man's breastplate
Or run her hands through the straw hair
of her friend, the Scarecrow,
Before departing with her slippers back to home?
Did she ruffle her skirts
when the Wizard blew away
most likely to be caught in another Kansas storm?
Did she shed a tear for the melted Witch
and let it fall into the puddle of water and robes?

So must I kiss you goodbye
when the time comes for me
to leave our sanctuary and find my own
far away from the land in which you entrapped me?
Must I pat the monkeys that hung waiting for me
to try to escape your palace?
Must I bow to the guards standing sentry
at the front gates of this prison
where I relive my horrors again and again
watching the movie of my memory replay on the walls
as if projected by a machine meant to remind me forever?
Must I wave my tormentor goodbye,
shielding my eyes as I watch you fade into nothing
into the sun setting over my captivity?

unblemished smiles wither swiftly
crisp smile creases line the cheeks
and adorn the eyes
as youth fades into age
and age fades into oblivion
then the rest is dust and ashes.

breath is ephemeral
transcendent, even.
viridity is fleeting
foliage browns even as we speak
and soon folds into a worn leather bag
along with baubles from days of yore.

but there is a moral to the story
that these trinkets tell
they remind those remaining
of what has passed
and what is sure to come again
reminding the new to memorialize the old
and savor each moments as it comes.

When you came into my home,
I felt your gaze lock onto me.
You think I didn’t feel the way
your pale spider eyes stalked me
But I knew, from the moment you cornered me
in the lillies.

When you drew me onto your lap,
I was paralyzed.
Your hands crept closer,
never touching
yet I felt your imagination ***** my thigh
as acutely as though you had struck me
across the face.

You dwelled deep in your elected paradise
while the hell-flames from the sky licked at my limbs
and caressed my body
leaving wounds that would fade into scars
Scars I would carry until the day that I died
in your heart.

You turned my body into a wasteland,
your bubble of hot poison
polluting my heart;
my landscapes scorched
by the fire of your *****
that swept across and broke my life.

You said you could not **** me
--would not **** me-- for
“It was love at first sight,
at last sight,
at ever and ever sight."

But you can always count on a murderer
for a fancy prose style;
you tore me apart
and ripped from within me
my stillborn girl.
This child within me died
and took me along with her

But, fear not, you pentapod monster
for to you, life will go on.
For you, the rest is rust
and stardust.