So slight, the difference
Between falling and flying.

They share the jump, and
The difficult breathing.

No one can tell you died crying
When you've been hit in the face

With the
World.

Dear artists,
You clear the human mind's mist,
For complete clarity, For daily struggles you bring about bliss,
While the darkness of human's souls abound, you bestow a gentle kiss,

What are we? Just fools?
Or simple slaves to society, simple tools?
Used, then discarded?  Or, when finished with, thrown aside?
Yet, we of the arts, do not mind, even if we are in this bind.

Certain is that we are mankind's aid,
Serving our fellow man in countless ways through producing a relaxing shade,
With no secret vice, no secret blade,
Always with a supporting hand, destined to never fade.

Sincerely,
A fellow artist and admirer.

Gaze upon nature,
How it is so mature,
A ever-changing fixture,
And an enticing lure.

Viewing its splendor,
Its eternal glamor,
Its undying resilience,
And its constant resistance,
We will never conquer Mother Earth.

Beaten down, yet never giving in,
Always resisting to all, always sharing its treasures regardless,
Nature is the beautiful pure maiden,
Ruined countless times by man's intrusions, yet forevermore retaining her piety.

Here are my eyes
my fried eggs
teal lily-pads floating
on white albumen.

Here are my elbows
like deformed peaches
my knuckles the peas
wrist corn on the cob.

Here are my teeth
my frosty Stonehenge
a ring of slabs
solid halibut.

Here are my ankles
four gobstoppers
cracking as rocks
under her size-five feet.

Here is my nose
fastened to my face
the garbage chute
meets hoover hybrid.

Here are my knees
two wrinkled potatoes
mashing in their sockets
as waves crumble on me.

Here is my hair
my straw candyfloss
unlike her buttered popcorn
curly-wurly waterfall.

Here are my tonsils
squashy strawberries
wedged at the back
of the cave I once made.

Here are my lips
azalea-pink sweets
flecked with salt
from our slice of sea.

I.

You scribble your name,
   spaghetti letters
on my arm
   in sky-blue ink
so when my eyes open
   I’ll be able to remember
when you asked
   if you could
write your name
   on my arm.

II.

Where did you come from?
The waves
must have done something,
the water
glistens on your legs
like a hundred
million silver sequins,
your hair
melted toffee squiggles
oozing
between shoulders.

III.

The longer I stay,
the more the empty pit
   he can’t ignore
   will froth with pink bubbles,
gurgle as a kitchen sink
gulping soapy water,
   spill over in a torrent
   of sugary sentences
but it’s OK;
I ought to tell him
   I like the electric rush.

I write your name
                              in red
   sunlight
seeps through bottles
          on a windowsill
   margarine kaleidoscopes
         on legs

naked for a change
(early summer risky business)

Floorboards yawn
     under the weight of our stories
   I take showers
        as well as baths now
   Can't be twenty-one here
older   shush you couldn't tell

   Roll my finger
   make your piano tingle
like when our wrists
    bump together
    when spines crackle
on books bought yesterday
    this city   bubbles
        all fiction

You think
monochrome
     makes you look better
     camera   snap   done
jazz sashays around the room
    head out a window
hear people as nosebleeds
                    scrabble about

You flirt
        (what a discovery)
like flowers in a vase
   orange juice   bagels
ten-plus-ten toes

     (A moment
where your eyes ache
     into mine)

I hop
stepped jumped
into this mess

     you know as well as I do
     what a delectable
mess we are in

I smoked a pack while we unraveled white and black.
Wrapped in your bare sheets I slept best.
Dewey skin in the morning light,
candy tongue
tulip two lips.
Alarm goes off you ignore it.
I loved messing your hair up.
You look better that way.

I danced around naked on the pedestal you plopped me on
as I let you sketch me.
You scolded to stand still and slapped my *** when I didn't listen,
but you looked so cool holding your paintbrush in your teeth,
studying my figure,
peeking around the easel with your big eyes and crooked smile.

I always left with stains on my hands and your jacket
on my shoulders with a new Camel in the pocket.
Your hand slid down my jeans and I bit your lip.
I could have finished you.

You were so mean to me constantly,
and I curiously indulged in your temptations.
Your ecstasy whispers in my ear.
But there's something special about being loved
by someone who hates everyone.

You thought I was interesting.
Thought I was pure in my mini skirt, but tough
because I never cried when you were yelling.
I just yelled back.
Thought I was brave and wildly adventurous,
standing on edges and throwing things your way.
Even I thought it would be different this time.

But I should've probably listened
to you when you used to tell me not to get my hopes up.
That way I wouldn't be here,
praying, which I never do
that you didn't mean it and you didn't want me to ever have
to know
why you didn't come home.

You would rather
it be expected than me be disappointed
when it's the morning after and you're lying there restless
while you're passed out in the back of a van,
shoes off,
shirt hanging off your back,
with cuts from cans on your hands.

*** doesn't make a sound.
It's the loudest way to shut someone up.
It's the silence that cures.
It's the cork stop in a bottle,
but it will glimmer when you spin it upside down.
I'd love to smash it.

I came in that afternoon and burned the edges of your drawings with my lighter,
smeared the charcoal on all your new pages,
and stamped my boot until all your brushes were in half.
I picked up your jacket that I sewn a special patch in
with my initials,
and I hit snooze when your alarm went off.
You didn't move.

I watched the dewy skin of your back rise
and fall as you were breathing,
sheets ruffled,
pillows on the floor,
empty side next to yours,
all alone.

I decided you look better that way.

We sweat out the holy stuff.
You used my ribs like one uses
the rough side of a matchbox
striking up your fingertips
to light the rest of my skin on fire.

I'm glad I was just another burnt tip
in your collection.
I'm glad it was an easy discard.

I took a mental photograph
of you in that moment--
Bare chest, pulling down your boxers,
holding my face like one molds a statue,
bite marks on my jaw line.

I smoldered in your sheets,
you kicked me out of bed.
This must be what Pompeii  looked like
after all the ashes cleared.

I'm glad I was just another pretty girl
you liked to watch go up in flames.

I'm glad you didn't ask me to stay.