She is
the book falling open to November,
sweet hidden wickedness of rhododendron,
her mouth a tuberose, pale.
*******.

She swells upon the eaves.
They touch at her thighs
to feel the texture of acrylics,
something frail, transitory,
beautiful.

She walks the beach in August,
sudden music out of nowhere,
houseflies and hypodermics,
the shadows that rustle
behind shower curtains.

Her need to be compelling is painful,
something purple and waxen,
a delicate blush.
Still, she writes the way
her body should look,

provocative, breathless,
stirring agony in its wake.

So maybe you’re running scared without the running.
there are hands on your thighs that tell you
every place i touch is a home to me.
and you feel lucky that somebody finally thinks that
you’re worthy of being a roof to them.
and you know what it’s like to move from place to place,
from group to group, from person to person,
looking for a place where your heart and stomach doesn’t
look too big or too small for the people around you.
I’ll let you in on a secret:
your heart will always be the same size.
instead of finding the perfect sized hands to fit it into,
find a pair that will wrap its fingers around you,
find a pair that will stretch its bones to breaking point
because it can’t bear the thought of leaving you vulnerable—
because it knows you will always be a home, whether you
have a roof to offer or not

The reason why it's so hard for us to get paid and live on our words is because words don't cost us anything to give.

I sit on the street and pass out my writing.
All but a few keep on driving.

Do I just sit here and lock up my poems?
Throw them in a vault and never show anyone?

I sit in the market and pass out my writing.
All but a few keep on talking.

***** it. I don't care if nobody will pause to read.
And I don't care what they say about me, because words are cheap.

I sit on the pier and pass out my writing.
All but a few keep on walking.

Those who dare to sit and read, instead of speak while blind
Will find the value in a stranger's lines
Hidden just underneath.

I sit on a mountain and pass out my writing.
A hiker came by today and did something strange...

He started reading.

this is a voicemail to the girl I’ll never call

beep

Hey, remember how you used to tell me that you couldn’t wait to see the world?
The first place you wanted to travel to was Paris, you said that it’s just something
you have to do.
You told me all of the things in Paris that you wanted to do, like shop in thrift stores
and look across the city on top of the Eiffel Tower, hope to see a celebrity and take pictures with them.
We both knew that there were various school programs to study abroad but you didn’t want to go to school there, you just wanted to enjoy life there, for just a while.. not too long, not too brief.. at most, two weeks.
I wondered if you’d send postcards back home or bring back some goodies that you stumbled upon.
I couldn’t wait to hear the stories you’d tell me.

beep

It’s me again, I bought a journal with the Eiffel Tower printed on the front, all of the pages were blank.
I started to fill them in.
Suddenly, weeks went by and I realized that only one page had been inked.
It’s not like I had writers block or I didn’t know what to say to you, I just…
for the first time, I just wasn’t able to say or do anything.
Everything was silent, the pages, silent.
The ink, invisible.
The communication, gone.
I tried to go back time after time to ink the blanks, but nothing ever came out.
I’m still waiting for the stories.

beep

I miss you.

beep

This is my third attempt on this one voicemail.
I’m not ashamed to say that I got emotional in the last one, lucky for you, I deleted it.
Now it’s off somewhere in dead space.
I wonder If you’ve been to Paris yet.
I wonder if you’ve seen the city there, late night.
The way the tower glows, the way the city flows, its magical.
It’s almost like a wonderland.
I wonder if you remembered my mailing address for the postcards…
Maybe you sent them and they got lost in transit.
Its the thought that counts. Someday, they’ll find a home.
Someday, you’ll return home.

beep

I think I’ve ran out of things to say.
I’ll stop calling…

beep

I want to see the world too. I want to go places that I never thought I’d go.
I walk to climb mountains, cross vast rivers, sail the oceans, I want to live.
I want to bike across Europe, horseback the country in America, Ride a camel in the great Saharan desert, find love in Paris…
find love in paris…
find love in..

beep

I promise, this will be the last time.
This will be the last time.
I just have one last thing to say.
It’s been far more than two weeks
I wonder why I’ve been waiting for the stories,
when in reality I could tell my own.
I could have a pin pal
I could study abroad
I could learn french, travel to quebec
I could learn french, road trip to Louisiana
I could learn french, and speak the language of love
still, I wait to hear your stories…

*beep