Poetry is sculpting,

                 touch my atomic being.

In the canopy
we reach for branches
to hold on to.

I'm shy.
I'm tongue tied.
My hands struggle to type.

My bottom lip quivers.
My body shakes
(and not in the good way).

I can't eat,
tie my shoe,
just relax or
make the first move.

I'm always first to text you

with shame,
but masquerading
and gray.
A noctural opportune,
cold,
******,
bound,
seduced,
a freak —
your flavor of the weak.

I used to talk about poetry.
Now I just write it.
I used to talk about it,
quote little snippets,
would they pick up on my genius?
...see what I did there,
my crickets?

I used to send poems
to friends that got me,
or needed them.
But the beauty I found in
fitting their lives to mine
was less
an exercise in type.

I used to be approached
by readers with kind words,
and open hearts, poets themselves.

I am poached these days.

I used to be a poet,
to blank stares
and shifting glances
steeped in shame,
I toppled like a tower.

Am I not pretty or witty enough?


Am I not pretty or witty?


Enough.

I am inspired generation,
expired dislocation,
tempered,
satistify
me,
atleast,
for
saken
pespir
nation
allities,
and tea
shirt
and jean
kings:
holdin'
shiny
pennies.

Somewhere between all,

and most.

What I wanted, and
what you just couldn't...
silence speakin' for us.

Decisive action,
that wasn't an action,
but a "No" to any further action.

Skinny girl,
sinking in the mirror,
admiring a dull reflection.

Holding hands with myself,
so no one come along.

The pause before the first
flash of moonlight.

Being who you wanted
'fore I chain my mind.

Appeasing the loss of leaves

Sensual creature:
Crouch in the corner and stay awhile.

'til danger passes.

In my father's kitchen,
I grew up with Sade,
bleeding tomato sauce,
braised sausage,
doughy pasta,
and parmesan cheese.

How lucky to be raised
on such warm wooden floors,
the kiss of life kind to me.

And how I've squandered it,
listening to Sade alone with
dry pasta,
canned sauce,
soy sausage,
and no cheese

Half-heartedly dancing
with a cheerful grimace
plastered on my face: What was.

All I think now are moments.
Tiny little f r a c t i o n s of
a second of a thought,
when I didn't try hard enough,
or failed to defeat my expectations.
Maybe those fractions
make up the difference between
happiness and whatever this is,
nostalgia insists.

One day the thought of never
achieving became so overwhelming,
I disappeared, isolated myself,
lived like a pauper,
afraid of wasting time,
stoicism by my side.

But even then,
with no distractions,
I couldn't rid myself of the thoughts.
If anything they were
more magnified by the silence.

Yet all I craved was silence...

and clarity.

How strange that whatever I crave  
puts me
              exactly where I don't want to be.


Things turned out. As they continue...

had I known this sitting
on the sun-soaked floors of my Italian roots,
I'd have jumped a decade ago,
perched at the window screen,
wondering how far the fall...
...no, I don't think...
but was it high enough?

Sometimes I sleep with my guitar

||||||
||||||
||||||

it fills the space.

A mask of vulnerability,
I scheme to pry your heart open like a clamshell.
I think I know you.
My pearl lying sweetly upon the pillow of my heart,
A gift for you.
Cultivated carefully.
Roll and polish it daily
between your fingers.

It's bedtime.
Time to tell secrets in the dark.
I figure you are aware of my exposed chest,
and will notice the pearl,
even though it is difficult to see.
Water stories of lack and lore,
reflect peace.
I listen to your ocean,
help you navigate the wharf,
but when I tell you of mine,
you cut the conversation short,  
grab my neck,
and rub salt into my throat, and my heart.
The pearl breaks like
fine China fragments in slow motion,
an unwanted gift broken before
you noticed the wrapping: Fragile.
I try to smile, blinking salt from my eyes,
I'm fine.
My heart shudders, and shuts down.
I don't even know why I'm crying.
I weep over the fragments of the broken pearl you cannot see...

I turn away as if to go to sleep.
Will I ever find someone worthy
enough to cultivate another pearl.
My eyes flood with water,
you ask what's wrong --
You have no idea.

She is in the department store
rifling through the clothing rack,
inside the dressing room,
at the makeup counter,
purchasing something,
holding many bags
minus the ones under her eyes.

She is orange, with hard rocks
as ****, and curled straws as hair.
She crows like a baby,
someone please help me
swipe my hubby's credit card.
Her breathe precipitating
the bottles of wine she'll drink later,
after complaining she doesn't
look like she's 20.

I want to save him from her,
throwing her hands up scaring everyone.
He is kind and calm and doesn't deserve this.
I wanted to save him years ago, but it wasn't my place.
Now he won't leave.
He'd rather drain his retirement than leave.
He'd rather listen to her blab and watch cable tv than leave.
I want him to leave, but I'd also hate to see him alone.
She makes him happy, even if she's ugly.

He is at the bar
flirting with the girls she hates
staying out until 8
A.M.
double timing with her bestie.

He is scraping by,
stuck in a college town,
the scent of whisky on his breath
as he crawls into bed with her,
apologizing.

I wanted to save her from him.
She is strong and he is weak,
crippled by too many drunk nights
turned into vice.
She is sweet,
her history of
revolving hospital doors,
has mellowed her,
at least someone loves her.

For seven years she didn't leave
I wanted to save her,
but I didn't know how.
She loved him and it wasn't my place.
An outsider, I couldn't believe
the intricacies of their chemistry.
He made her happy, even though he was ugly.

I am an un.
un fit,
un suited,
un worthy,
says the hesitation
that strikes the chords
of their voices.
Even though I know
my spirit is pure,
I am often inside at night,
with a hunk of stale bread
and glass of cabernet.

If spirit were met with as much joy
as knowledge, there would be so many less
un's in the world.
If un certainty as resolute as certainty,
diversity a road less overgrown.
The un familiar flora a familiar feeling,
dark green leafy nets of confident wisdom:
people helping everyone cut through,
even the un's.

But for the un's, life is not this^
Life  is trudging up a desolate hill
with no vegetation and getting
silently pushed down by other people,
who tell you that you're un fit for trudging,
un til you begin to slow down,
un til it gets muddy,
un til you only walk up when they tell you
walking to the top is good for you.

You used to walk to clear your head,

yet you long to be at the top of the hill
any way,
just so you can stop trudging,
just so you can be worth something,
to the shaking heads and closed fists,
perched and looking down
at those below.

Can I borrow your cat?
I heard it meowing at the door:
Please, I need love.

I want a man or a cat tonight.
Just kidding!
I want both.

All we want is to swing
until we want down
down mommy down.

A lot of my poems are just...


write.


precise.


recent.

A fly flew directly
into my eye,
drowned,
surprise!
suicide.

The one vegetable I hate with a passion is...

Carrots.

FYI: There's no metaphor in here. So if you're looking for one, you may as well stop reading.

-------

My hatred of carrots began
in middle school.
Those hard, raw sticks accounted
for 1/4 of my brown bag lunch.

Tiny knobs in plastic bags,
I threw those babies
straight in the bin.
Only 3/4 left.
I was always a hungry child.

Sometimes I debated eating the carrots
just to stop the growling, but
everytime I took a bite,
I felt like my teeth were breaking
on hard orange rocks.

If I forgot to throw the carrots away,
they would decompose during 5th period
at the bottom of my backpack.
Carrots rot so quickly.
White and squishy with
veined markings.

Sometimes I'd amass
several bags of carrots
in my backpack over a couple days,
which is more gross than it sounds.
Especially for someone who hates carrots.
I'd get home before my parents,
and cover the carrot bags with yesterday's garbage.

Cooked carrots are better, but
still kind of gross.
Unless they are in some sort of stew.
I bought one recently,
but it rotted within a day,
of course.

This has happened multiple times
and I continue to buy them,
let them rot,
and discard.

I reminisce and wish to get back to her.
She was free time, carefree, kind of gypsy-like.
Just one, two, three, four years ago...

I left her to search for purpose,
to build an edifice to lay
my wispy hair upon,
outside the window of a cathedral,
outside the window of a
tumbling Bolivian bus,
outside the window of a
Medellin teleferico,
outside the windows of
the crumbling concrete houses
below,
outside the window of
a drunken car; blurred cobblestone streets,
cooking asado with
my friend Jeriff,
cooking plataños alone
in a cast-iron skillet.
starting a small fire,
cooking tortillas,
spreading dulce de leche.

hearing sea turtles breathe.

pushing a motorcycle up a hill,
in the rain, for some lazy Colombian.
losing sleep under stars,
drowning in a waterfall,
drowning in the Peruvian swells,
running from a belligerent coke dealer,
escaping the shaman with drunken red eyes,
emerging from silver mines unscathed,
traversing 100km in four days,
escaping an Austrian love triangle,
leaving a loyal stray behind.

I don't have wispy hair anymore.
I left, led a boring life,
built an edifice, and watched it crumble before me.
Where is the girl I left behind?

I take my time.
When I was five,
I got my first bicycle for Christmas.
It had training wheels.
I stopped every few feet and looked around.
I don't know why I did that.
I think I was trying  to make sure I was doing it right,
before moving forward.
When I was ten, my coaches told me to
have more confidence after they told me to **** in.
When I was 19, I cried in front of my philosophy advisor and told him I had no idea what I wanted to do the rest of my life.
He listened and then told me I was brilliant.
He was the most brilliant man I knew.
I try to convince myself I still have time to figure all this out,
But my bank account says otherwise.
All I want to do is learn.
All they want me to do is do.
All I want to do is pedal a bit and look around.
All they want is me flooring it to be on time.
I hate this culture.
I should have been born somewhere else.
Why doesn't anyone want to take their time?
Why does everyone want to skim over life,
and jump to conclusions about it.
Why must we learn for some end.
Why don't we have more time to sit and read books together.
Why does it take me so long to read a book now.
Why do I sometimes forget what the moon looks like.
Can I jump into that home video and be that girl with helmet again?
Can I jump back into my father's energy,
when he told me to keep going?
We all know the 90s were better, but what if now is much worse.
I don't know anymore..
I don't...
know.

I want to be above it all.

Will I ever be above it all?
Isn't that why men made heaven after all?

Hell underground, earth uphill by free-fall,
I want to be above it all.

Sit in a comfortable chair,
turn on my satellite TV,
and enjoy the show.
Above it all.

I'll be the only person watching me,
watching Sims watch tv,
go to work and drown in pools.
Above it all.

8 stories high aiming for a blue spec.
CANNONBALL!

Above it all.
Top and bottom.
The perfect mix of blue and yellow.
A circle of fifths.

But who says what's symmetrical, in-tune or
perfectly mixed.
Who says whose above it all?

Down here, the mimes do.

The mimes say all.
In fact, their vocabulary rivals
Oxford's own dictionary and
is equally fruitless to memorize.
They're all good people,
even if they point to the orchestra
everytime you seek a violin.
or provide canned fruit
for a sweet tooth.

I want to be
Above
    it

            all.

masked among mimes,
a top less vigilante,
sitting back
with my elbows crossed,
waiting.

It makes me crazy,
Those knawing pops of color.

Welcome distractions!
Abstracts.
Plentiful letters stuck
To loved ones.
Characters
With layers.
Annoyances
to empty minds.
Friends,
Faithful and familiar.
Electric acquaintances
Jolting perspectives.
Careful and considered.
Almost silent.
All purpose.
Niche.
Violent.
Hypocritical.
Invaluable.
Unnecessary.

­Soft.

Solipsary.

Black wings cross
sapphire wind.
All black.
Black palm.
Black sea.
Black shore.

Yellow bulb light wall
Soft gray hue.
All gray.
Gray floor.
Gray legs.
Gray seat.

Red glass drip clear sweet
Ink **** hue.
All red.
Red hands.
Red cheeks.
Red eyes too.

Am I:

enlightened or crazy?
eccentric or weird?
self-aware or selfish?
insightful or long-winded?
introverted or isolated?
passionate or obsessed?
conservative or *****?
minimal or drab?
organized or ****?
alive or hyper?
wise or clever?
careful or worrisome?
powerful or power hungry?
meek or subservient?
good or bad?
here or there?
right or wrong?

Guess it depends who you ask.

I listen to books alone and walk to the grocery store to buy chocolate, and other things.

It is surprisingly full for a Friday night.

I walk past the aisles, on a hunt for candy.

Around me the mania of people shopping seems to slow and I forget why I am here.

Oh, yes.

To buy chocolate.

I was listening to an audio recording of George Orwell's 1984 and during the scene where Julia and Winston make love in the field encircled by saplings, I suddenly felt the need for it.

Chocolate, that is.

Bad for my head cold, good for my body.

I also picked up bread, milk, kombucha, and sharp white cheddar cheese, which I later found out, wasn't as sharp as I would have liked.

I didn't eat dinner, but I wasn't hungry.

I just wanted chocolate.

When I returned home, I turned on the recording again. Alone in my studio, I stared at the high ceilings, doing nothing else, and feeling uneasy about it, even with the company of the recording.

Listening to it was like having some omnipotent person sitting with me in the room. I wasn't even interested in the chocolate at this point.

I ate some anyway, feeling a little guilty, but rationalizing that I was trapped inside via this head cold, and there was not much else I felt like doing. I needed to take it easy.

Still listening to the recording, I reflected on the feeling in the grocery store again — the people milling around, standing in lines, and adding stuff to carts. Then I contrasted it with the feeling in the room — the raw space, glowing light, and diminutive demeanor.

I longed to share the feeling of the room with someone, like Julia shared her secret hiding place with Winston in 1984. I knew several people I could invite over, but only one who mattered.

In fact, there was a person spitting distance I could have invited over to ravish me if I had wanted that. But he didn't belong in this space, nor had he ever entered it. Only one person belonged.

The person that belonged was kind, thoughtful, and curiously distracted. He would generally acquiesce to my invitations, in the kind of disinterested way that made him fun to pursue. Despite this reluctance, we always had a good time. A great time, in fact. But once he left, it always felt like I'd never see him again, which was torture. Weeks later,  I would sheepishly send him a message to reconnect, detesting myself for it afterward. The process of meeting up, not hearing from him, and then re-inviting him to meet up was humiliating.

How could a person be so intimate with you one moment, and then ignore you the next?

Didn't he see I wanted him badly. Didn't he want me badly? Wasn't the general consensus that our bodies were meant for each other's. Why couldn't we lay in each other's arms for hours, comfortable and hidden and safe from the outside, like the room above the antique shop where Winston and Julia stayed. Our goodbyes were equally prolonged. The desire between us just as strong. What was he scared of? There were no thought police to fear. No explicit rules against intimacy.

I craved him so badly, it grayed out my sentiments for everyone else. In fact, the thought of ******* someone else after him just seemed...unnatural. I wouldn't be into it. Because anything other than his kiss, his touch, was just a kiss, or just being touched. Physical acts that carried no meaning for me. All I wanted was to create meaning from physical acts with him!

The fact that he didn't express this nagging feeling with his actions was unbearable. That fact that I might...bore him outside of providing physical pleasure, a nightmare. The fact that he might crave me like I craved the chocolate, as a temporary pacifier, kept me up at night.

I wanted to belief that he felt differently. That I wasn't just eye candy, but a human being, with feelings he wanted to nurture and respect.  A human he desperately wanted to get to know, like I desperately wanted to know him. A friend, not a comrade, whom he could talk with about anything.

But it was clear that whatever the motivation behind his disinterest, whether it was fear, genuine, or sociopathic, it bothered me. And despite this, all I wanted was to be around him. I wasn't expecting anything more or less. At least, I told myself I wasn't.

Maybe I expected everything.

peace of time.

Lost in the family jar,

        
   eternity.

IN

    CRED

              I

                BLE,



                          as usual.

I bled a little
after those encounters,
a careful cat stretched across
the mattress.
Pleasantly empty.
Presently staring
space     between
leftover glasses,
water be temporary.

They cloud my view
until I can't see the sun.

(ahhhhhh)

I quietly experiment with my life.
No one needs to know.
The feeling of the glowing light
in a dark room all alone.
Wishing for you.
Wishing for exercise.
Wishing for inspiration
outside of the frame,
the page,
the screen.
Anxious about my shaved head,
my protruding ribs,
and childlike body.
Anxious what you'll think,
what they'll think...
afraid to go outside;
afraid of nothing.
Manic.
Afraid to talk to anyone.
Suddenly feeling the urge
to email my grandmother
and ask her about
the anonymous weight of people
who refuse to get off me,
and then hate myself
for sounding like a
hipster war-victim.

I stand still,
and they push me in circles.
Circles of friends, lovers,
and kindred spirits
who think I'm too much.
I hold hands and look away.
Close my eyes while they **** me.
Avoid their kisses and remarks,
devoid of attachment.

I was dazed
twenty-five-three-hundred-sixty days.
Nights itching, wishing,
to be a door.
Ed, I needed love,
but wanted release —
naturally —
when I least expected...

FINALLY!
I can't articulate how,
but I know why.
I let my body take over
and then I cried,
my bliss all over the pillow.
Everything I had resisted,
Gone with *******!
Yet the trust lingered.
A blur in the dissipating bliss...
but at least a blur!

I am proud.
The shadow of men thinking I'm crazy.
I am still proud.
I will shout loudly off empty rooftops for no one to hear,
that I am PROUD of my ****.
My breast swells deep with enormous pride —
I am free. I am free!
Giving up  knowing what feeling means.
My **** clearly know better.
She is my teacher.

They teach me things and I **** them in return.
It's all I have to offer.
They wouldn't bother otherwise.
I'm  good at *** and they want me.
All I want is to learn.

I am curious.
I want to get ahead.
Even if I'm tired
or not in the mood,
I pretend I like it.
I like seeing their faces
light up with glee
when I give them what they want,
after they've given that to me.
I like hearing them
tell me I'm beautiful robotically.
I like hearing them
lose control and moan,
surrendering their
worthless pretenses.


Maybe one day the trade
won't be the same.
I'll be older, wiser, uglier,
and generally less fuckable.
And then who will teach me new things?

Warm brick glows every night;
a friendly embrace lighting the way.

Always someone wants not you.

Wine, us Italians do:
Woke; hung over
impure thoughts of you.

In the arena,
success means everything,
and potential means nothing.
And everyone with tattered sleeves
is written off as vague, gray, and
lost to the doldrums of dreams.

No one wants you to be lost here.

It was cute when you were younger,
but you're too old to pretend.
Just be successful at being you,
whatever it is, that you do.

I want to go back to the playpen,
but not just to **** around.
I want to be a puppy with potential,
not what you perceive
to be the success
or failure of my identity,
Because my potential
is what makes me successful
as a human being,
so, believe in ME!

Mother, please believe that
my zigzagging monogamy
is a rainbow array, not color theory.
I'm sorry you'll have to wait
for grandchildren to play
in your backyard...
with my future husband...
What if they were playing...
with my future wife?

Lover, please believe that
when I open my heart
I'm not doing it
to capture and pin yours down
I just want to feel it beat.

Stranger, believe that
I am not trying to win your praise,
I am ignorant, naive,
and ambivalent to white lies.

Friend, believe that
I am actually concerned
with how YOU feel.
I'm not just asking to be polite.

Boss, believe that
I am not the title
you use to assign and reward me.
I am a human.
I'm good at learning the rules of these games.

Audience, believe
that I am not a poet.
I just feel strongly
and write those feelings down.

Ego, believe that
I am smarter than you, wrapped up
in other's presence about ME.

I am just ME,
yet I rarely feel like ME.
I often just feel like trying to be
what you want me to be.
Ego, I must remind you everyday
to leave ME at peace.

The dormitory of routine ends,
clouds form in purple sky,
silent air absorbs
into the soft night. 
The black palm trees,
a welcome void,
The wind,
a lonely whisper,
the chill,
a curious reminder
of your cool palms
caressing my warm skin,
in a crowded parking lot,
where no one could see us.
Still, you hid your hands
in the folds of my jacket.

Clenching my teeth,
I cringe while you read my old poems.

Ahhhhh!
That's not me!
I swear!
I've changed!
I'm not so immature!

There would be nothing more satisfying
than crumbling that **** up
and showing you how great I am.

But those poems are the legs I stand on.
I can't cut them off, can I?

Those awful poems!
Sporn from longing and lust -
I called it "love" -
my cranky post-grad years,
living with my parents,
and working minimum wage jobs...
all I hide is there, for you to see;
most people don't look.

I want to erase it all!
I sometimes hope my old poems
are accidentally thrown away.
Then I wouldn't be at fault for
all those lost thoughts.

I don't want you to read them,
but I just can't rid myself of them!
Even now,
when those reflections seem far from the truth.
I hoard them. They are pasted on my mirror.

So I stand,
begrudgingly transparent.
Front to back, see through
and scared shitless you'll
discover I'm not perfect
in this personality economy;
I prepare my list of apologies:

Sorry I'm scarred
Sorry I'm chopped
Sorry I'm *******.

So please —
don't talk about my old poems.
Let's pretend you haven't read them.

When I was a child
my only task
was to write the world down...

But too often I had
neither pen nor paper.

Now I have
a fingertip keyboard,
and I write sometimes...

But too often
I'm just
responding to messages.

The goat cries
and cries
and cries
and cries
Everyone says shut up
but it still cries.

I'm not a poet?
I just write things down...

The old man with no luggage
wears a pilling houndstooth jacket
and suede fedora with a
leather strap and horse-bit buckle.
Stark seams line his trousers.

He has:

Wirey gray hair, calloused wrists,
a popped blood vessel neath his thumbnail,
and deep crevices in his palms.
He folds his boarding pass into a kite,
as he looks into the sun
through the tiny cube of a window.

He sees:

The geometric shadows
cast in early afternoon.
And skyscrapers.
They cut through the sprawling
grid like an artery.

Chest tight as you depart
into the foggy grove:
A black speck dissolving
into forest green.
Sitting on a stump,
willing we cross paths,
again. Calm as dew.
Precipitation
cools a warmed heart.

Silence
Lightness
Breaking Free
Twisted heavy heart
Reach into my soul and tear it out
The shaman
Tension release
Details in your watchful eyes
new process of being
Listening
Genuine concern
All yummy
It seduces me with faith
Moonrocks
Vagos
No problems
Beck
Radiohead
Jamorequi at your request
Most comfortable bed
More than just the week's tension
Themes not rhymes
Truth not games
Breaking through to 25
Growth accelerator
Your learned eyes
Whats behind them
Magician
Wizard man
Trying to figure it out ruins the high
I can see you fighting
Your putting your guards up
Tears at my slow pace
Not being able to catch up
Grasping for any thread of intimacy
I can find neath the cloak
of ****** favors
Not so naiive now
I was performing
An oriface of experience
Needing to be
Filled
Filled
Filled
Until naturally i exploded
Guards down but fighting back
Taken a night
to look at my self

I will listen to you muse all day,
closeted dreamer;
I want so badly for your dreams to come true;
I want so badly for you to be you;
I want so badly for happiness to fill you...
More than I want to fill your time,
Or your body,
Or your mind,
And while I may swallow and choke
at the thought of not getting to know...
Knowing you exist is enough.

He said he loved my body;
then i felt satisfied.
We had only talked of fruit
all dinner for christ sake.
In his studio:
white walls; white sheets;
french romance novels
stacked beside
bright sneakers.
A shell; no story here -
just objects sorted in
nondescript piles.

Lizard kisses,
soft moans and
pathetic utterances;
chest puffed
neath my palms,
riding him half soft,
barely penetrating.
He fought his eyes open;
mesmerized.
I came bored and empty,
validated; ****,
waiting for him to come
and ask me to leave.
Instead we showered;
he was all over me,
after all.

Open hips
Open lips
Open throats
Open arms
Open minds
Open ears

Where are the open hearts?