The envelope was red, white and blue just like the flag
Betsy Ross spent days with bleeding fingers over so many
years ago. It was addressed to me from an unknown sender.
I was giggly, jumpy. Who would write to me? I wasn’t important.
Just a seventh grade nobody stuck in a sparkly purple wheelchair.

Mom said I could join. She secretly wanted her outcast
of a daughter to have a sense of normalcy during her
last fading moments of childhood. I just wanted to have
fun. I wasn’t ready to accept that I was different. I knew
that I was. The stares told me so but I didn’t want to be.

The letter said that I could represent my fine country
as America’s National Teenager. Me? All I had to do was show
my ability by competing in a scholarship pageant. You know,
a beauty pageant except it wasn’t being called so because adults
are trying to be sensitive to teenager’s feelings because we’re
more likely to be sensitive, emotional and prone to disruptive
and potentially harmful outbursts. The perks of being a wallflower.

Teenagers, we know this. We’re also not stupid. I and every
other girl who would participate knew this pageant
was nothing more than a beauty pageant; a popularity
contest. That didn’t keep us from dreaming of becoming
rich and famous, stop the crying fits, hormones from raging
or acting like drama wasn’t our life’s goal and college major.

Four days in Southern Idaho and an eight-hour drive
to and from gave me plenty of time to practice my talent,
an essay. Even then, I knew I had no real physical attributes.
Instead, I shoved my fears aside and wrote, rewrote and polished
my essay on America until my parents, teachers, and friends
repeatedly had to tell me “that’s enough already. You’ll do great.”

I made friends, told stories, laughed until snot came out my nose
and answered the ever cautious “What happened to make you look
that way?” I had the time of my life. I knew I wasn’t going to win
because let’s face it, I’m not pretty enough. And just as predicted,
I left with “Most Inspirational” and cried ugly tears when I
didn’t come home as America’s National Teenager. Looking back,
I was a real American teenager. I don't need a pageant to tell me so.

It begins with a meltdown
Talk me down. Let me cry it out.
A kind word. The inquisition.

It ends with bubbles.
Spin me in circles. Make me laugh.
Thank you for caring.

There's this boy
who can make me smile
without even knowing it.

A companion to spend
the cold, windy night with.
Whispering our dreams
of a better life.

A life filled with sunshine
and smiles, sweet serenades;
of music and dancing.

A sweet note to say hello and
a promise that we will escape.
Escape this life for a better one

California sounds amazing!

We are standing in line outside of something
often rebuked, yet always back returning.
I heard laughter and forgotten consonants,
its unrelenting memories of happiness
but inward grows a soberness, an awe.
Poverty gnashing its teeth like a blind cat at their lives.
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?

Uncomfortable. Thoughts
rush through the spin cycle.
Secrets hold the tongue of the skeptic
and faith keeps the bottle from the hands
of the steadfast believer. Head and heart
are as the angel is to the fire. This can’t be.
She is her own worst enemy surrounded
by words infused with alcohol and good
intentions. Shattered by selfish actions
and unexpected reactions. Anxious, unrelenting
thoughts consume the woman who cares
too much but knows not how to change
circumstances which she cannot control.
He offers up prayer and she feels a flicker.
With hope that struggles bring strength
and a shot to meet sleep she’ll find peace in
her dreams. Lullabies wrap the wrecked in
cocoons where they learn to fly away
so high.

Her tiny fingers wrapped in his big, dark palm and
the beginnings of dark curls and jade green eyes show
she's peaceful, content and at 47 minutes, 6 seconds,
with puckered lips she is already daddy's little girl.

Sandcastles, snow cones, olive skin and long legs come alive in
bodies full of belly laughs and funny faces.
It's summertime on the ocean for daddy and daughter.


She's sixteen with a stubborn streak, blue raspberry hair and tattoos.
Neither her first boyfriend or her first car last long because
she's a rebel, dances to the beat of her own drum and
she's just like him.

Red roses and a white dress on the beach at sunset welcome
family and close friends who come to watch a wedding,
and a dance. She'll always be daddy's little girl.

Where midnight is bright as day and time never does slow down
I find myself alone for the first time ever, walking along where
nobody knows who I am and they wouldn’t really care if they did.
Because they’ve got their own stories to fabricate and skeletons
to bury beneath onionskin layers. Two in the morning with my head
stretched to the sky and I find myself falling in love with a stranger.

Central Park is a castle with horse-drawn carriages and suddenly
I’m a scarlet-cheeked princess waiting for my naked cowboy to rescue
Me so we can run away and live in a quaint Brooklyn townhouse where
the children play ghetto games. I don’t want to live the lifestyle of the rich
and famous. Leave me to myself so I can wander the splendid city streets.

The man with wrinkles covering his ebony face and his ragged, dusty clothes
too big for his slender body sneaks a glance and sly grin at me before he picks
up his golden saxophone and serenades the subway passengers, bringing
sunshine and sultry smiles to their dark faces. He’s had a painful, wretched life
and the pain of losing a son, his first baby, to a grenade in a Middle Eastern desert
where the sun burns the soldiers’ skin as they spend hour after hour, looking for weapons they’ll never find.
The look in his eyes is clear. Making others smile, in the middle of the city subway is his heart’s content.
I drop a bill into his beaten up case and move along,
but that sweet sound overwhelming the hot, ***** air I’ll never forget.

I swear I can almost touch Pluto from where I sit, at the Top of the Rock, and the stars
are an arm’s stretch away. I can see past the Manhattan skyline and into Jersey.
I’ve seen the whole world tonight. How I wish I may, how I wish I might stay. Give me the crowded
streets and boutiques for keepsakes. I’ll pack them tightly into tissue paper and each
night when I’m ready to fly away from the small town girl living in a lonely world sort
of life I’ll make a wish and fall in love all over again in a city where nobody knows my name.

School’s out. All that’s required of me is to write.
I can do that from anywhere. I’m ready to run.
As soon as we round a corner and travel from
unadulterated, innocent open road to the meshed
together stop-go, stop-go, of Northwest Boulevard
I know that it’s not much longer until I’m home.

I start each morning with a Bowl of Soul, Mexican mocha,
extra sweet, with homemade whip and a gaggle of giggly
girls before we spend our days splashing in the waves
and frolicking downtown, in and out of shops. There’s no place
in the world we’d rather be. There’s no place like home.

A summer class, math is my worst enemy, can’t even
dampen my spirits. Four days a week of fast cars and
freedom. The air, the people, the atmosphere is contagious
because there’s never a dull moment. I can’t get enough.

There’s no battles to overcome, gargantuan hills or
otherwise because I’ve got an easy feeling and my
camera. Loud music, hippies, and cute barista boy
with the dark curls and ocean-colored eyes.

The crushing silence of the ocean.
The harsh screeches of the gulls.
Long beaches stretched wide and open;
shells taken with the heavy pull of each wave.

The morning tide brings new treasures and leave
empty conk shells abandoned in the sand.
A quiet morning stroll yields promise of
a new day begun and a new beginning found.

Sunrises bring new songs to the skies and
the waves carry with them folk tales from distant shores.
There are new stories to be told and old stories to be found.

A message in a bottle brings a secret note to a lost love.
“To my dearest…” it begins
“Please forgive me…” is how it ends.

F is for frustration
With my front right wheel
For breaking again and again.
Frustration with myself
For letting it happen
Again and again
Instead of being smart enough
To listen to the masses
Filling my ears with possible solutions.
I wait until tears threaten to spill out
And anger bubbles from within.
Frustration with this broken body
For not working the way it should
Again and again.
Frustration with this wrecked mind
For its melancholic nature
And for having more blue days
Than yellow like the sunshine
I love so much and dread
The slow disappearance of
Again and again.
Frustration at myself for
Missing the sound of your voice
And the touch of your hand
Along with the taste of your skin.
F is for frustration
Because I should be content
And I should be thankful
For this blessed life of mine
But I still cry myself to sleep
And listen to sad songs on repeat
Because I’m frustrated and sad
And afraid of change but maybe
I’m more afraid of failure.

Rain splashes concrete
Their hearts beat contentedly
Please, stay a while.

My earliest memories of you
are leaving to work somewhere else
and coming home again, drunk.
Passing out in the bathtub, fully
clothed and mom screaming. Drink
to your hearts content. We’re not fools.
Cherubs in witches hats, candy,
and cartoon characters knocking down
the door. Finally, our cries are heard
and ‘round the neighborhood we go.
Rosy cheeks and toothy grins we are
oblivious. Later, still superheroes
eating candy still not separated,
you hulk smash the door and swoop
us into the air. Your breath smells of hops
and chewing gum. One look at mom,
who’s long given up screaming (much)
and my baby-faced brother and I know
bedtime is coming early tonight. Time for
toothbrushes, teddy bears and silence
strong enough to shatter glass.

The world is filled with the splendor of ***.
     It will blaze out, like sapling from black ground;
     It searches for significance, like the howl of a hound
Broken. Why do women then now not eradicate an ex?
Countless have hexed, have hexed, have hexed;
     And all is burned with skill; earned, learned with sound
     And hears woman’s cry and carries woman’s grief: the ground
Is flooded now, nor can mouth’s mutter, being vexed.

And after all this, man is made right;
     There lives the sweetest ignorance deep inside lies;
And though the broken bodies off the young West fight
      Oh, sunset, at the blackened brush eastward, dies —
Because the young mother over the bright
     World dwells with a cold heart and with ah! bright eyes.

Let's hold out hope for the crippled.
Hope for the crippled?
No thanks, this crip doesn't need your hope.
This crip needs you to stop.
Stop labeling me.
Stop feeling sorry for me.
Stop pitying me and my 'poor life'
Just ******* stop!
No, really, I'm okay. I don't need you.
I don't need you or your miracles.
Don't tell me God works miracles
And to hold out hope
Because maybe one day I'll walk
Or maybe I'll get to see from both eyes
Because God works miracles
But you're too busy fixing what isn't broken that you forget
If I was truly made in his image this crip doesn't need healed.
This crip doesn't need your prayers or miracles.
This crip doesn't need your God or your salvation.
This crip doesn't need your hope.

Poor soul, she's diminished by her disability.
Diminished by my disability?
The only thing I'm diminished by
Is your inability to understand
That before anything else I am human.
I make mistakes and have flaws.
I feel, probably more than most,
And sometimes those feelings get in the way.
I empathize but I am done sympathizing.

You say my wheelchair is a blessing in disguise.
Why can't it just be a blessing?
A blessing that comes with lots of lessons.
Some that I learn the hard way and some that come easy.
But this wheelchair doesn't need a reason
To teach me (or you) a lesson.
Sure, it frustrates me when a wheel breaks or I fall on a broken sidewalk
But it teaches me humility and patience.
And there's no reason to disguise that this wheelchair is a blessing.

So, please take your hope and pity
Your guilt and salvation elsewhere
Because they're defeating the purpose. They're detracting from the point.

I am not diminished by my disability.
I am not to be quieted or pitied
I am not your reason to feel guilty
I am not a burden
I am human.

They call each other ‘J.’ John picks
red, red roses in Mansfield Park and brings
them to Jane. She explains instant karma to him.

In heaven Jane wears her hair short, sports
fringed bellbottoms and teashades.
John has meat on his bones now; prefers black slacks

and button ups, a trucker hat from Abbey Road.
They take long drives and often sing songs.
He says they’ll remain lovers. Until the end.

Jane’s novels now contain leather, VW buses,
electricity, space shuttles, computers, Madonna and Marilyn
Monroe. The rock’n’roll makes her sway her hips in the rain.

John likes himself with peace. This morning
he will play guitar and sing ‘For He Was Rich, and
She Was Handsome to the tune of ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun.’

Jane will two-step and whistle. Alone
by the fireplace later, they’ll listen to the raindrops
and doze. They will not think of Mr. Darcy

or Yoko Ono. They know why God made them
roommates. It’s because the world
was their playground. It’s because

an artist cannot do anything
slovenly. It’s because
all you need is love.

The chime of the doorbell rings.
The music pumps inside.
B.Y.O.B on the minds of the young, not so innocent.
There's not a sober being in the place.

Slurred shouting in the air;
booming laughter grabs attention.
Spilled Budweiser pools
in **** carpet and across acid wash jeans.
Burnt popcorn faces rejection.

The outside air smells of drugs,
useless banter and humorless jokes.
The smoke from the bonfire and filtered cigarettes
rises in plumes and hangs in a cloud
above the drugged out faces
after the Friday night football game.

If only I had tried a little harder
I'd be a size zero like you, mother.
And maybe I'd have the metabolism
Of a teenage horse like my dear brother.
And if I cared enough about what others thought of me
To spend hours in front of the mirror
Applying enough makeup to ruin my flawless skin
While the contents of my closet and dresser drawers
Lay scattered across the bedroom floor
I'd have a baby or two, chubby cheeks and blonde curls,
Instead of graduating high school and attempting college, pretty little cousin.

But I'm not a size zero, mother
And some days I wish I had it in me to starve to death. But I love food too much.
Dear brother, do you think if I had your teenage horse metabolism I'd be able to walk away from this pain?
Because we both know that if I could walk away then I'd run.
And once I started running I'd fly.
Fly so far away from this wrecked earth.
Pretty little cousin, you don't have to try so hard at pretending
Those precious babes are all you wanted out of this life.
It's okay to want more. Do better for yourself. Do better for them.
Just because people expect you to
Spend your life a certain way
Doesn't mean you can't prove them wrong.

They said I needed an electric wheelchair
And a personal care attendant.
Somebody to be with me 'round the clock.
They didn't expect me to be in a regular classroom with the normal kids
But what the hell is normal anyway?
They didn't expect me to go to college, hold a job, live on my own.
They didn't expect me to love another person more than life itself.

Look at me now.

She’s curled up in bed with pint-sized
preschool princesses and their pageants
on the television. Wednesday’s don’t hold
much excitement for the new kid in town.

The music coming from her phone tells her
to hold out hope. The night’s not over yet.
‘Be awake in an hour.’ Four little words
turn her into a maniac. The dishes are done
and the laundry put away in record time. She slides
out of pajamas and into casual chic clothing.

Headlights flicker into the window. As quick as
the lights appear, they’re gone again. John, Paul, George
and Ringo tell her to open the door. The smell of Taco
Bell on his skin and the moonlight in his eyes greet her.

Making small talk as if that’s the way they’ve always done things
tells her that he’s found his very own princess, a queen really,
who dances to the beat of the same restless dream and that being the new
kid in town makes stuffing newspapers into envelopes on a sweltering
Thursday afternoon makes her feel useful. Making small talk like they do
a sad attempt at filling an appetite that should no longer be there.

‘I should go now’ breaks her every time. He stays a few minutes longer
anyway. The warmth that between their skin and the soft whispers
into ears remind them of the past. With a kiss on the forehead and arms
lingering around her waist a touch too long, he walks out the door.

Folding newspapers and stuffing envelopes keeps her mind busy until
the phone rings. His name on the caller ID takes her back but she answers
anyway. She probably always will. Making small talk won’t change anything.
Is she okay? He already knows she’s not but he still asks. They say goodbye
and go on with their lives. Him, with the girl of his dreams and the ability to
let the past be and her left to pick up the pieces. Until next time.

Life is circles and when only
change is constant we find ourselves
with pounding hearts and our minds
****** into hyperspeed. Overdrive.
Bodies tremble, concerned only
with the past. Eyes to the future.
Dreams be dreams.

The fire for learning Plato’s philosophies and the history hidden
behind the Iron Curtain had burned us out. We were restless, sleepy
and thirsty. Mischievous by nature, we were sick of going nowhere.

The blooms of the red schizanthus and yellow calla lilly’s against the sun
blazened sky bid us farewell as we traveled west toward the city of emerald raindrops.
After all, freedom was only one tank of gasoline, two Red Bulls, a bag of bugles,
a handful of mixed CD’s and four hours away. We were going to lose ourselves.

Plummeted forward by the up down, up down rollercoaster
of the seaside landscape our faces shine brighter than ever
because we find ourselves in rainy day adventures

Pike’s Place Market found us braving the stench of tuna, bass, salmon and sushi
for crepes and chai. Strawberry, vanilla and salmon crepes made by the man
with skin the color of milky chocolate and a foreign accent that we lusted after
because we’d never heard it before. We weren’t running away from home but instead
were living in African slums where the skin comes smooth like milk and
the music has a character, full of power and pride, of its own.

Wandering the drenched streets where downpours don’t stop the salesmen. The sax
player and the bread maker still ask us if we’d like a sample. Rain is no matter. Coveting
warmth from the storm we find a steel slab of a parking garage downtown where
mirrors on elevator ceilings occupy our time and attention until  security shooed us.
Shiny objects attract the shadows on the walls who proceed to make funny faces.

Watching America’s sport in cheap seats with over-priced beer and nachos
helps us remember our roots and value tradition a little more. It draws us closer to home
where any storm can be weathered. The drive home after a surprising win and
spirited riot is quiet. The crisp night air and booming bass free our minds of the
mischief caused as we chatter ourselves voiceless away from the emerald raindrops.

This is too much. He means
the sweltering sun and dreams
of his Himalayan home, crisp air.
My memories are too much to bear.
Red wine is flowing; he pulls me close.
I take his hand in mine. He eyes my blouse.
Isn’t this what you’ve been longing for, dear?
I let go. His restless hands have no fear.
His face buried in my chest, the taste of salt
lingers on my tongue. Somebody is to fault
as he pulls my body down. Swallow hard
and count to ten. My heart stands guard.

He grunts. Why do I feel nothing?

My grandfather was born in this one-stoplight town
and so was his Marilyn Monroe-esque mother.
They traveled west when he, with his club foot,
and his brother were small boys; wanna-be cowboys.

More than fifty years later my own father and I travel
down the same dirt road to say our farewell to our last piece
of family history. My great grandmother has finally found
her way home. We’ll spread her ashes in the nearby river.

The color in the wooden picket fence is washed out. The house
and big wrap-around porch lie back further. The current owners
aren’t home so instead of a tour each of us takes a peek inside
the dusty windows. Instantly, we’re taken back to the 1930’s
when putting bread and butter on the table what mattered
for a man with a young wife and two small sons.

My cousins and I spend most of our time getting lost. We usually
end up in the Super 1 Foods or sneaking into the hotel’s casino.
There’s a convenience store too. Montana leaves us both confused
and amazed. To us, this trip is just another excuse to miss school
and that big chemistry test we weren’t hadn’t yet studied for.

Our parents, aunts, uncles and grandmother weren’t just losing
the old, white-haired lady who lived in the basement. To them
she was ‘Nana’ and ‘Mom.’ They spent their days wrapped in memories
of their wedding day or birthday parties. “It can’t be. Tell me it’s not true,”
my own grandmother, wearing all black and too much make up cries.

New babes cry and tiny seeds take root.
Puddle jumping. Yellow umbrella falling.
Bursts of sunshine bring forth second chances.
Breathe deeply. Become one with nature.

Thunder crackles and lightning sweeps
you back to hot nights where the music
pumped through your bodies as you danced
on rooftops against an orange sky.

Crisp air and screaming lungs
remind you to take the bitter
with the sweet. Long walks
in golden hills and warm spirits
help to ease the inevitable pain
as days grow shorter, your heart darker.

The world lay silent, blanketed
in layers of snow and sorrow.
Push through the nightmares
eating you up and rise up from
the ashes that are your despair
and find yourself a heaven
you’re still not sure exists.

Life comes in increments of sixteen weeks where each week she composes list after list.
Wastes away inside with textbooks and tests instead of spending the day in the sunshine.
Her mind wanders, up and away, into her dreams where she lives a different sort of life.
As others are falling into soft slumber in the night’s silence she is kept awake by thoughts
that make her weary of war and weather both. She prays nightly for dear Mother Earth
to take her people and bring them alive with singing in the streets in the dead of night

and to rock them to sleep with sweet lullabies as stars step away and day breaks night.
The girl looks at this life of hers and after some time in deep thought composes another list
to keep organized and to help her find a steady place to plant her feet on this big, big earth.
As she struggles each day with textbooks and tests and longs for the warmth of sunshine
work, school and a sad excuse for a social circle overwhelm her mind, spirit and thoughts.
Each day her mind grows heavier and she continues to wish for a different kind of life.

Somewhere where the sunset lasts a little bit longer. A sort of sweeter, simple life
where the streets are filled with the sound of music all day and through into the night
and where children can be children longer so that when they come upon the thoughts
that fill the heads of adults they won’t do as the woman living in a child’s world has and list
ways to escape to a place where she can do the dreamer’s dance and live in the sunshine
on the streets where music fills the air and smiling faces take up all the space on earth.

She desires to recycle her trash and plant trees in the salty spring air that occupies her earth
and to better herself, the lists say so, because there has to more than what’s seen in this life
that comes in sixteen week intervals filled with textbooks and tests. It seems the sunshine
would do all of us some good. Maybe the moon will allow her time to dance away the night
but it isn’t meant to be tonight. The halfway point shows eight weeks crossed off using lists
and eight more until she can run into the sunshine and not be consumed by her thoughts

because she’s no great philosopher. She would rather spend time in play than in thought.
Nobody wants to be lost in thought when they’ve yet to explore this mighty, mighty earth
with her blasted basalts, blue skies, and bubblegum scented paper on which she makes lists
after which the businessmen will be able to continue on with their polished, plush lives
in this white world where all that matters is green. But she, she’d rather dance the night
away where there’s music in the air and people walk the streets with pockets of sunshine.

In a land where there are no bad days and everyone carries a pocket full of sunshine
Is where she wants to exist. Trapped in a world where she escapes into her thoughts
Because nobody knows how silent and still the streets become when day turns to night
How many children go hungry and how many people don’t know their place on this earth
They want another chance at redemptions, a new beginning in a place to start a new life
And yet when everything else is over, she finds herself with nothing but crossed off lists

Here she stands at a crossroads left with nothing, only her beloved lists
She’ll have to tear a new path and find herself in this life
So she can make it to where they sing in the streets and dance away the night

She’ll drown
him out.
Dancing queen.

Late night
conversations produce
unrequited love.

I cannot breathe, I cannot breathe
any more, blue mind
in which I have lived like a prisoner
for thirty years, manic and lonely,
barely daring to fill my lungs.

Sylvia dear, it’s time to say goodbye.
You’ve lived much too long——
marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
frightening effigy with cracked lips
silently holding your breath

and a head in the feverish oven
where it pours red over snow white
with the children asleep in the next room
I used to pray to recover you
oh, you.

In the American tongue, in the British town
blinded white by the tongue
of winter, winter, winter,
but the sadness within is old.
My British friend

says there have been a dozen or two
so I never could tell where you
put your mouth, your pen and ink,
I never could talk to you.
The words trapped in my throat.

Swallowed in a sea of tears
I, I, I, I,
I could hardly speak
I thought every woman was she.
and the looks pitiful

the madness, the madness
leaving me to be a lunatic.
A lunatic to Daddy, Teddy, Mother.
I began to write like a lunatic.
I think I may well be a lunatic.

The whites of my eyes, the memories of Boston
are no longer full of light and truth
with my average looks and mediocre mind
and my Bible and my Bible
I may be a bit of a lunatic.

I have always been scared of you,
with your books, your gobbledygoo.
And your coifed curls
and your German eye, mousy brown.
Crazy girl, crazy girl, O You——

not sane but locked up
so tight no eye could peep through.
Every man enjoys a Mother,
child suckling the breast, the mad
mad mind of a madness like you.

You stand tall and proud, Sylvia,
in the pictures I have of you,
a twitch in your hands instead of your eye
but no less a devil for that, no not
any less the deranged woman who

shattered my fragile mind in a million pieces.
I was scarcely a girl when I met you.
At twenty I tried to die
and get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do

but they pulled me into the spotlight,
and painted a shiny new coat on me.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
a girl in blue with a look of despair.

And a love of the noose and pills
and I said I do, I do.
So Sylvia, dear, I’m finally through.
The telephone line is dead on this end,
the voices just can’t hear through this madness.

If they’ve killed the spirit, I’ve killed the body——
the ghost who said she was you
and drank my blood for a year,
ten years, if you must know.
Sylvia, you can close your eyes now.

There’s a gas in your brilliant, blue mind
and the other women never liked you.
They are praising your dead body.
They always knew it was you.
Sylvia, Sylvia, you witch, I’m through.

6 months and 26 days since I last set my eyes on you.
And now, unable to keep still, you're walking slow circles around me.
Watch me stumble down over myself for you. Dizzy up the girl.
We fall back in place so easily. It's almost as if nothing has changed.
But things will never be the same. We cannot be.

Your words slow and steady, you reach down into a cup and wait
Until suddenly I'm squirming and ice is trickling down my dress;
First down my back, and then braver,
You throw some down my purposeful cleavage.
I squirm and scream and make a scene
But my smile is as wide as the sky is blue
Because you have the ability to make me melt with one word
And then you make eye contact, even though it's so hard, and I'm gone.
Alice falling eight years down the rabbit hole back into innocence.

Once, twice, three times we'll do this dance
And I keep thinking that maybe it'll hurt less if we stop
But I'm a ******* and so here I am missing you
And hating myself for asking for just one more waltz.
You decline. You have your wife and photographs and your God
And I have music to help suffocate this pain.

So, instead we talk about your quest for baby furniture and names:
Once inspired by four British boys with pretty voices
Today you've sold your records (and the memories too)
In favor of saints and the Greek Orthodoxy.
You've traded secret midnight visits for Sunday morning hymns
And so as you hug me goodbye I contemplate karma
And what she would have to say about you and I.

Father, please forgive me for I have sinned.

Metal contraption, I dutifully climb into you each day as the sun rises
and drive your clunky frame through the hills of a crowded campus
to face the questions and stares of the kindhearted and heartless.

I prefer you in short increments and, on weekdays only please
but I’m strapped into your metal ways at almost all times
and jostle along with each bump and crack in the sidewalk.

I hold tight to your rubber arms as we travel down the steep hills
and plow you through old man winters blinding white ways
for long stretches, in between short, fitful summers

I’m not pretending that I never curse you, because I do,
for sticking in gravel, grass and grout, breaking down
every Monday, or your front wheel falling off again

and yet you carry me faithfully to and from school and home
where I jump to the floor and embrace freedom and movement
until I climb again from bed and into mobility and its adventurous ways.

Lay on the floor with sweat
dripping from every crevice.
Tears threaten to plummet
down red fat rolls and music
serenades your anger, soothes
the sadness in your heart.

You say you want to die
And I've been scrubbing blood from the pavement.
Tears sliding down your cheeks and I'm holding back
Because I can't help you anymore.
One more beer and you'll go home and start over.
A shot of whiskey to send me away from all of this.
I'll meet you in Neverland.
Tomorrow you'll wake shameful and sorrowful
And I, sleep deprived and sad.
Both of us waiting for temptation to subside and shame to carry us home.

Birds sing their morning songs
amidst mountains asleep in the fog
And I find I don’t have the answer
anymore. My heart on my sleeve
and my head spinning in circles.
Would you wake me when you leave?

Welcome to where you are.
Don’t you see the stars shining above?
Slow down,
Breathe in the space between our lives.
We’ve been here before.
Me living in a future that will never be,
And you, promising to hold me tight
As you say again that you’re my friend.

That night you let loose from salty lips
That you almost kissed me,
With your arm around me,
Our bodies warm to the touch,
Heartbeats in sync,
But something stopped you.
Was it that my brother would step outside
And our secret would be no longer?
Or was it the fear that suddenly I
Wouldn’t be the only one falling from a high?

That same night on the phone
You told me I had nice *****.
Well, at least I have that going for me.
Am I the only one that’s touched you in that way?
Yes! Yes, you’re the only one
The only one who’s given me goose bumps,
Sent shivers down my spine, with just a touch.
Run your fingers down my back.
Kiss my neck,
Nibble my ears,
One more time.
Yes, you’re the only one
Who’s bitten my lips,
Caressed my soft *******,
Made me wish away my life.

Do you know that you could still have me if you wanted?
That you’re still capable of breaking me?
It’s only fear, darling.

Love, love is a verb.
She was a bullet
Headed straight for my heart.
She is heavy.
She made bad ****.
Tell me something. Something more.
My life hurts.

I’m stagnant.
Rejected, but he loves me like he loves his sisters.

God Don’t Make Lonely Girls.
Oh, yes he does.

I read too much into these things.
Too clingy. Too needy. Too crazy.

Too much coffee. Purple trim house. The lake.
Butterflies make me soar. Tears flow. I feel like I can tell him anything and so I do.
I should have known better.

Stop running from your demons.

Iris. On repeat. Again and again until I drift to sleep.

Why the **** do I care?
Why the **** do I love you.
This isn’t fair anymore.

Walking in the woods praying                                                                                                      
to the heavens above for a clear mind,                                                                                  
some spirit. Glass pierces skin, rush                                                                                          
of blood. Euphoria.                                                                                                                  
The body is numb. Mind is sharp,                                                                                  
shattered. Rubbing alcohol for the wound                                                                            
and a shot of whiskey to send him to sleep.

What if I was fearless?
If I was fearless I would cut you.
Cut you to pieces.
Cut you like the broken glass I am
Cut you out of my life completely.
Make you bleed the same blood
I've spent my life since you trying
To keep from spilling out,
Staining my rose-colored lenses.

But I'm not fearless.
I'm too scared. Too **** afraid.
Afraid that if you don't love me, nobody else will.
One day I'll realize that I'm worthy
And I don't need the praise of a man to know love.
Today though I'm just trying to make it through
Until I can touch the stars and sleep
Without dreaming of all the ways
I'll never fill you up.

The moon is falling down
And I thought maybe we could save ourselves
But my hands are painted red
And your face is covered in ash
As we walk down this street smelling of smoke and gasoline.
Maybe we'll let the Ferris wheel take us higher and higher
Before it turns upside down, spinning us into madness.
Like Van Gogh chopping off his ear in a fit of hysteria
Or maybe you feel more like the merry go round tonight.
Watch it take us round in circles. Dizzy and disoriented, we'll do it all again.
Turn out the lights, love, and lose yourself in the constellations.
If I disappear would you even remember what it is you're missing?

In dark riverbeds where eternal thirst flows incessantly
You guard only darkness, my distant friend.
The night wind spins in the sky and sings.
Endowed with broken heart and fatal dreams
My pain is bound in chains, restrained.
I exist only in the cracked, dry stitches
and in the seams of the oldest tree.
Falling forever from skin into my soul
Waiting for death’s sweet song.
Surely, those soft footsteps are hers
come to carry me home, sweet oblivion.

Perhaps war is only glorious in song.
And love only true in the movies.
Words can't say how I feel for you.
When life makes for a weary soul
and tired bones, slow, stop yourself,
the life threatening to swallow you whole
as you spend it to the satisfaction of others
and lay here with me for a moment.
In the silence of the early morning
breathe deep the sweet fragrances
of salty skin and cheap cigarettes.

They called us survivors.
Communing with the dead,
Releasing our demons
Into the world. Our goal to liberate
The flesh from *******
And become one: body and soul.
They called us beasts of burden.
Beauty was ours in the face of destruction.
The blossom of our future planted
In a past of mud and the future is steeped
In sunshine and love. Our hearts here
In the present. Not afraid to make mistakes
For belief in second chances granted by
The warrior of forgiveness. The bane
Of our disbelief leads us to
Sacrifice,
Redemption,
Salvation,
So that we might stand alone at death
And they call us survivors.

And the guilt consumes her
like a wool blanket on a hot night.
Indulgence tastes bittersweet on the tongue.
Drink up as you learn to breathe deeply.
He says letting go is easy, if only she’d try.
She says she never was a very good student.

There lives the sweetest ignorance deep inside lies
like a parent giving consolation during a hurricane
because sin is easy on the conscious when nobody believes in heaven or hell.
Grey matter, brains neither black nor white,
gasping for air in a world where we've lost the ability to feel
empathy like novocain, stares and strangers with eyes lacking love
waiting to die young and become raised up like a martyr
instead of living the everyman's life.
Self doubt, the most beautiful of all flowers, like blood from a rose thorn's *****
pumping through bodies. The man and his guitar on the street corner,
dressed in his Sunday best, each note a silent prayer.

She's beautiful when she's angry.
And I hope that anger engulfs her pain.
To see those green eyes on fire
At the injustices spoon fed to women
And minorities by the white patriarchy.
Everyday in this country, a white man
(the richer the better) dictates the lives
Of those doing the real work
that keeps this country, ignorant and egotistical, from sinking.
Can you see us drowning from your pedestal in the sky, thief?
You say money can't buy happiness
but what you don't understand is that money can buy us
access to proper healthcare and warm clothes to wear
and a place to lay our heads at night and a meal to eat today.
And so while money itself isn't happiness
food makes for a happy person.
Have you ever gone to bed hungry?
The white man will make you illegal and invisible
So his slate may be wiped clean of the blood
of thousands of black, brown bodies
But they're not just bodies; beautiful souls
Souls full of purpose and laughter.
Souls full of sadness and of love.
Souls deserving of a life free of fear.
We're in the struggle and we can't leave.

You loved me too **** well
So I sacrificed myself, blue mind
And ****** body, up to you completely
In search of a higher place
Above the chaos this love creates.
Don't you worry, this wanderer is lost of her own accord.
Put down your shining armor. Lay down your heavy sword.
The strength of your metal has proven worthy.
Try as you have, you cannot save me
And I don't expect you to.
This fight is mine and blood will be shed.
You were just the body I broke against.
And you held strong for so long. It's time to let go.
Stop your hollow talk and fill these empty hearts.
We must sacrifice ourselves and repent for our sins
Before we can play our redemption song.
My love will not falter.
Brown eyes, will you help me forget?

James Taylor and lonely sunrises
Make my heart break all over again.
I can't figure out where I went wrong
But my bed and my heart are empty tonight.
You've got God and your wife, she really is lovely,
And I've got scars as bright as the night sky.
A future full of promise and landscapes yet unseen.
Seven years leaves room for a lot of growth.
Here's to yesterday and a love that once was.

You say
This body is a temple
And to treat it well
Because this life
It's the only one we've got
But baby's fat bracelets
And thunder thighs
Never melted away
When she started walking.
And I've stopped wishing
For these heavy legs
To work like they should.
You'd remind me that real
Movement happens within
And to not be in such a hurry
Because maybe there's a reason
This body is broken. My blue mind
Sometimes forgets that karma
Takes time to work itself out.
I just can't see how
I'm supposed to love something
That has never been the source
Of anything good in my life.

For days afterward she feels
Numb and diluted; nothing can touch her.
And then a rush of emotion so strong
She's dancing across red rooftops.
Plummeting through the night sky;
Alice chasing her heart down the rabbit hole.
Unafraid of death's sweet oblivion if it means
Forgetting the taste of him. How she comes
Crawling back with just one word.
Manifestation of anger in music:
loud, angry, earth shattering
And finally quiet. Quiet enough
To ease the heaviness of the world.
Words spill out. Questions. Doubts. Apologies.
When the world is spinning alongside
Your head, remember,
You. Me. The world. It was all made to be broken.
Take a sad song and make it better
Because happiness has a violent roar.

Cheap coffee and sad country songs
take her sadness and set it on stage.
She claims Texas is home now.
More than forty years forgotten
because only two matter. He is her home.
Pretend the small talk is natural. Why then,
can’t she look them in the eyes
before she waits alone in empty airports
trying to figure out where she lost herself?
And there’s no one left to have mercy on us.

I wrote you another love poem today,
Full of cliches and sap, thicker than honey,
but than I thought; he loves you
and you him, so just be on with it already.
Please, forgive me if I’m too frank.

Would you take a walk with me
through the park and around the lake?
Dreams of a future lie in a purple-trimmed house.
We drink too much (coffee, *****)
while we spill our secrets,
comfortable in our vulnerability.

Stand still. Pretend for a moment
that you’re mine and I’m yours.
This time we’ll take a picture so that
later, when you go and I remain (stuck),
we’ll have something to bridge the miles
between my heart and yours.