STANDING NAKED BESIDE ITS SKIN
(A SERIES OF SEQUENCES )

(1)
A CHAIR SITS IN AN EMPTY ROOM

The woman unhooks
her shadow

drapes it over
a chair.

She plucks her reflection
out from the mirror

stashes it away
under the chair.

She looks into
the mirror's nothingness.

She strips off
her skin

leaves it on top of
the chair.

She switches off
the light.

The chair just
sits there

absorbing the darkness.

The woman becomes
her footsteps.

The light from the bathroom
throws itself into the room

falls just short of
the chair's legs.

The razor blade
slashes through flesh.

She bites the tip of
her tongue.

She watches her blood
whirlpool down the sink

( she does not stop to think )

washing away the pain
washing away this self.

A chair sits
in an empty room.

(2)
THE MOON REFUSES TO SHOW ITS FACE

An owl is the darkness.

Only its voice is
visible

to the naked ear.

It gives voice
to the darkness.

The darkness says
nothing.

It lets the owl
speak for it.

The darkness transforms itself into the owl.

The owl becomes the darkness.

The moon refuses
to show her face.

Silence seeps back.
The owl says nothing.
The darkness says nothing.

A human cries.

(3)
MANY MOONS

she remembers an apple
standing naked
beside its skin

apple cut and cut and cut
like little slices of moon
fallen on the ground

the apple no longer a thing
to be eaten
now only a thing of fascination

the many scattered slices of moon
the earth a black sky
ants walking on the moons

she picks up one of the moons
licks it clean of ants and dirt
places it upon her tongue like a wafer

soon she remembers nothing
nothing
nothing at all

her life the empty space
where she had cut herself
out of her photographs

I've burned the candle from both ends,
burning fingers trying to hold on
soaked right through with whiskey, and tears
shutters ripple up my spine
to the brain I no longer wish to use
I've done my time, paid my dues
kissed my fair share of frogs, for something better
but the best is always yet to come, or so they say
I've desecrated my boundaries, jumped borders, and covered empty pages
just to hear that faint scratch of the pen across the paper
which still sounds louder than your heart
You see, I am a coward
who takes solace in the certainty
that words will drip from these fingers, like the lies from your lips
you call her your wife,
but know nothing of the sanctity of marriage
you babble on, about the greatness of your union
while taking me to your bed, you speak
of connections, when you could never understand
singing your own praises, you're not like every other man, ha!

I have burned the candle at both ends
burning my fingers to hold on,
as my whiskey soaked self engulfs in flames,
I let it burn..

Because as we sat there under that tree one chilly Autumn afternoon all I could think was, "****, I could love her forever."
-and this is why we would never work // a.s.

Broken promises have left an emptiness in my heart
That resonates throughout my entire being
And plagues my mind with unbearable loneliness
It is a melancholic subject that my heart reminds me of
Whenever I hear that short phrase
"I promise"

"I promise I'll stop drinking"
"I promise I won't hurt you"
"I promise I'll be there for you"
"I promise I'll spend time with you"

My trust is broken and can never be the same  
Just like Humpty Dumpty
I can never be put back together again
But the pieces that remain can still become whole
Not from all the kings men
But from one man
Or even one woman

I feel that if I met someone who made a million promises
And kept them all with exceptions of course
Then my trust in them could be that of a stone
Instead of an egg

But who would want to waste that much effort
On one tiny insignificant person
I feel like Humpty after all his mourners
Went away do to the stench of his rotting flesh
That no one could bare the discomfort
That came with making me whole once more

I am not Paris,
I am humanity
begging to be restored.

I am not Paris,
the terrorist,
the mockery.
I am the part of it
that asks why.

I am not the destroyer
the killer, the monster with a gun.

I am the disappointed , the little voice of conscience,
That tells you to look in all corners of the world
and breathe reality.

Because if you too
weep
You are not Paris,
You are the many,
The past, the present, the future
That beg for humanity to be restored.