Moving shapes, moving ideas- all consisting of
social relations involving authority
or power. Their minds are
running numbers, counting steps and
every fluctuation of the systems they surround themselves with.
The numbers equate somehow to colors and
somehow to hope and
somehow to the logic of         us.
The collective,
the silent moving voice.

Suddenly we are all singing.
We are mourning our dead but
watch us
as we all fight for our futures.
               Ours.
Our flat feet meet only concrete but
we reach downwards, call for home,
cry salty tears for the earth that makes us air,
makes us food,
make us love.
We love, and now we rejoice together for hope,
in numbers. In such great numbers.

We remember the promise, the oath, the flowing words taken straight from the

serpent's crooked mouth. We knew once the promise of immortality, the miracle of my

skin and yours and it was then that we had the miracle cure for loneliness. We knew

once of love and patience and kindness. We knew once of sun and warmth and peace.

We knew all of this, and it never once took its existence from our healthy pink souls.

            Lately, we have been paving our roads in gold. We sing mountain songs to the

resilient soil and murmur our prayers against the air -  all along looking for the right way

to cheat god. Shapes and souls move constantly against each other, but we are all alone

in our own thoughts, singular in our skin. This is the threat of knowing, of seeing

clearly, of looking straight into the sun searching for reason. We together (on our own)

bury out cleared eyes in calculations; latitude, longitude and hemispheric paradises. We

are all looking for Eden.

I'm a little, little teapot, full of secrets.
I'm a girl, all wet eyed and this morning's
careful ministrations are now my
vengeful war paint - dark eyes
like I haven't slept in days.

Slept till noon in a blue T shirt - it's
so much harder to wake up to an empty bed
even with all my sheets exactly where they belong
Me-*******-ticulous, perfect, all mine, stellar.

I'm a normal girl, a girl, a girl,
a twenty-something brunette who
just doesn't know how to turn off
her ****-off attitude. I'm all flesh
and bone and I just spent 30 minutes
ODing on my own adrenaline,
martyring myself secretly like some
glorified, glamourous ******
trying to stick it to the world that
hasn't done me any favors!
But I don't really believe that.

These days I'm dancing like I fight:
all tight fists and closed, wet eyes.
I'm rage and *** and I'm ****** as ****
and you don't know anything about me.

I'm a girl, a ****** *****, a
twenty-something brunette with
no excuses. I'm sad and I'm angry
and I'm so sick of having absolutely
no reasons why.

The ocean breeze caresses her skin
Though she's still in Math 103
It tickles her face and tangles her hair
Though she's still in room 118

The sun peaks out from behind the clouds
Yet she's still in Math 103
It warms the sand beneath her feet
Yet she's still in room 118

She falls in love with the sun and the sea
While she's still in room 118
At this point she's not sure she's going to pass
Pointless old Math 103

I wanted to write you a zombie poem
(Blood is bright red and brains greyish-blue...)
But I get so distracted
When my thoughts turn to  you.

How can I write about rotting flesh,
And bodies being torn limb from limb,
When all I can picture is your intoxicating smile
And how each time I see it my world feels less grim?

It's hard to describe our devious plans
When all thoughts of you make me want to sing.
But I like knowing that I am your queen
And that wherever you are that you are my king.

So, since this is instead
A zombie love poem
I guess I'll just have to say,
"Aaaahahhhh!" and
"Gwraaaar!"
Every single day.

I'm happy for you
I truly am
But this smile is not the portrait of that happiness
It is a poorly formed mask
Used to hide my jealousy
And my pain
And worst of all my self-pity and self-hatred

I want nothing more
Than to smile once again
And to mean it
But the cavernous hole in my heart
That has yet to be filled with the love of another
Grows larger and larger with each passing day
Each week
Each month
Each year
And every day it becomes harder to even put on the mask to hide beneath
Every day a little more of the jealousy
The pain
The self-pity and the self-hatred shows
And I fear that when my heart can no longer bear the weight
Of the mask any longer
I will truly be alone

The myriad of possibilities
enliven my ******* semantics
somewhere to go when
my slippers tell me not to

The words that i exhale
are the engine that fuels imagination
something to sustain when
my noggin is void

The vibrancies that rattle me
attribute to the found experience
somehow they strum
when my heartstrings are mute

The mountains that topple me
serve demise to my slippery friends
someways i have adapted
now i listen to blue boots

It's a good day for happy
such a good day to be,
for backflips and cannonballs
and poetry

Blue skies I see,
not a poofy cloud in sight
but even then, right now,
a rainy day'd do it for me

what there are in the streets is might,
what there is are feelings too,
I've been attempting to bottle them
both, but see the chance of that is slight

where did you put it, where is my glue?
haha, no! i take it back
not the good part but the coupling,
just do what does it for you!