Cigs.
“They cause cancer.” they say.
“So does the sun..” I respond.
This conversation floats through my head as I take…another drag.
I’m sitting on the edge of my balcony,
but, it feels like somewhere else.
Night has taken over.
I can see Jupiter.
Yep, there’s *Jupiter.
It, hovers over me with this, *arrogant glow.

I take another…drag.

It’s a bit chilly tonight,
goosebumps trickle up my spine.
I smile, no one sees.
so, I smile bigger.
The cold breeze licking at my neck.
I try to absorb it as much as possible,
for I know that it won’t be long till the heat sets in.
When the heat comes, I know I will yearn for chills like these,
but they will be.. lost,
like my tan in the wintertime,
like that rambunctious puppy on the beach.

Another drag…

I understand the flow of things, but still I push..and push,
hoping that this “circle” of life will break into an infinite line,
an arrow at the tip, pointing...up perhaps?
or maybe pointing sideways so that we may dance on the horizon forever.

Until then,
I shall wear shorts in the winter, goosebumps crawling up my legs.
I’ll enjoy that, sweaty summer fling,
and smoke cigarettes for days.
And once the lost ones realize the true importance of time,
I will be with Jupiter, at the end of the infinite line.

Hurt.
It hurts that you could leave me.
Over and over, again and again.
The same old scratched record,
being wound to play in a
room long forgotten

Pain.
I imagine that when my
heart broke for the first time,
fragile and innocent and young,
it dropped pieces into my hollow body.
So that every time it skipped a beat,
every time it ached in pain,
every time it swelled to burst,
I would feel it in between my toes,
wedged behind my knee caps,
stuck against my groin,
and resting in my fingertips.

Love.
It's supposed to be the glue.
Meant to stitch us together,
different patches of the same quilt.
But when left for us to define,
love has become acid.
Burning holes through our skin,
leaving us marked, marred, and scared to trust.
It is the venom coursing through the veins
of those bitter and dead to the world.
The air that fills the lungs of people
too afflicted by life's tragedies to carry on.

Thought.
You tried to hide behind it. You tried
to build walls out of your impressive vocabulary.
You fed yourself textbooks
and decided to learn the meaning of life.
Inside you pushed away your pain
and you replaced it with logic, but instead of feeling full,
you simply found yourself a new kind of emptiness.

Alone.
So tonight we lay in separate beds,
staring up at the stars and wondering
how they could possibly stay the same,
when everything else in our worlds
has become so very different.

Would it be so bad
If I just held your hand?
Or maybe touch your fingertips
And ignite
Create a glow
To warm this cold night

I think it would be fair
If you ran your fingers through my hair
Brushing it back
Memorizing, taking in every freckle and curve
How I would like that

I think it's safe to say
You touched my soul today
But to become too attached?
Instead I'll be the girl
That you might never catch

No ceilings here; the pure high air is sweet,
Gently drifting over a crimson stream,
Lips meet neck above a sea of concrete,
Sailing soft and smooth through valleys of cream.

Secondhand shine might make the best street light,
And beyond her shoulders, stars seem lit gems.
But do I dream if all fades with the night?
Arrogance takes the heart and leaves the limbs.

For the head grows wiser when it's alone,
And deprived eyes see lies on lips like crumbs.
I hope to split open her heart, that stone,
Live there and be the broken song she hums.

I can see her now: stung lips, legs like May,
Dusk in her eyes, "Love me like this" she'll say.

We're alone.
Really and truly.
Hey Lindsay, does this stuff make you woozy?
Don't trust anyone,
Trust me.
Look out for number one.

Pretending helps.
But you gotta be good at it.
I can fake with the best of anyone.
Hey Lindsay the ceiling is crying, look at it.

Remember,
No one can break your heart
If you bury it in the backyard.
And if they start digging,
Drop out.
Hey Lindsay, I think I might blackout.

You might get cold.
Sometimes I think I froze.
I can't feel anything these days.
Hey Lindsay, so it goes.

I awoke one morning
To light beating through the window,
The steady hum of the city
In my bones. I was in a manic mood
Before noon, half-dressed with my hair
Standing straight from a nervous hand.
My chest throbbed with a warm weight,
A smoldering ember that expression could extinguish only.
I wrote and cried and bled
To get the vibration I was feeling
Down on paper. In vain I spewed
Collections of letters, contorted and foreign
My mind was
Shooting up skyscrapers and
Strolling down streets of shine;
I could but lust at a copy of Gatsby through a puddle of cheap wine.

I suddenly found I couldn't take my walls,
Any longer.
I forced open the window
And the city flooded my room,
Sending papers sailing. I resonated
With the silver river
And all of me cried for release.
I scrounged together clothes and wet my hair,
Then bolted out the building.
I was embraced by the world and twirled along,
Hull to hull with the lonely lot.
We, the builders of this landscape,
The elemental moving force
That hollowed these ashen canyons.
Day by day we toil along our track,
Carving deeper and wider, shifting specks,
Seamlessly, we are one-
     Crisp dress shirt and an expensive smell, cracked black work boots and a ponytail.
I raised my eyes to the brilliant glare
Of the segmented sky and considered the beauty of being
A drop within a trickle.
Rushing, rushing, I flowed around corners
And broke against departmental shores.
I sought my gaze in a fifth avenue reflection but found only lips.
If people are the sea then I am the mist.
Understand me-- I felt not love for others,
But a crushing connectivity.
Drifting, drifting, I was swallowed whole by anonymity, crew and ship.




*Critiques are very much appreciated.

I quite like the virginity of a fresh notebook
the way my wrists and palms drag across its leaves
breathing life between lines in pink magic marker or the severity of red ballpoint
I like the prickly practical meticulousness of a shopping list:
a dozen eggs
one pineapple
one bag of fresh spinach
one bag of English muffins
one bottle of dish soap
I like the tender impressions of curlie cues and firty cursive
communicating endearments placed on counters such as:
TAKE OUT THE RECYCLING YOU LAZY OAF ******* <3 XOXOXO <3
I enjoy the audacity of a wandering doodle
meandering
cartwheeling
hopskotching
between
and under and over
indices

and spaces
between shopping lists and death threats
i enjoy the lingering ghost of prose shaped caverns
carved onto seemingly empty sheets that carry on for pages
until they fade like whispers into an evanescence
I crave the obnoxiousness absurdity of a to do list
daring me to take a day off from procrastination
until tomorrow
call Gramma
rent due on the first of the muuuuuuuunth
take the GRE
update resume
be awesome. like a boss.
most of all
I love the pain and joy of a poem
the way it slowly leaks from heart to mind to hand to paper
staining
spaces
urgently
faster than muses whispers
barely escaping onto lines
prolific terrific poetry
sporadic spacious atrocious poetry
I croon over the denial of the last page of a beat up notebook
the way the paper hangs onto spirals haggard
littered with stringy remnants of lists and reminders and death threats and poems and goodbyes