Look at all the ***** that I give
I labor through each, contraction after contraction
pushing through the breach
Nine months of waiting and hours of screams
will not be stillborn

This way, when I give a ****, someone will appreciate it
Someone will be there in the delivery room
cradling my hand as I spasm across the sheets
They will coo and observe over my sweat streaked shoulders
waiting for the feels

But maybe, just once, once my **** is free
sliding from me in a wash of catharsis
after the placenta peels free and the afterbirth escapes
maybe it will be cleaned and weighed and wrapped
and laid upon my arms

maybe then I will feel the feels
I will contract the disease of affection
a want for this **** that I carried
A stubborn resolve may just rise in my throat
and not a single **** will I give

Boldly **** and glowing with pride
The sun preens and shows off what’s inside

Why think of lemon when you can think of lime?
This bright growing color is really sublime

Cool and aloof, all hear the crashing of tides
Stridently true, it gallops and rides

Nothing rhymes with purple
That *****

A draining line that rolls and spreads
It blurs our eyes and fills our heads

Nothing rhymes with orange either
Maybe purple and orange should hook up

I’m always glad to hear your ***** is doing well. Their temperament is, as always, forever hard to tell. I heard that Mercy Lane had to have hers declawed. It scratched her over quite a bit and left her slightly flawed. All the things I know of friends fly from my mouth like birds, but idle gossip I should not spread when purpose steers my words. With weighted heart I tell you the reason that I write. The man she feared used tempered words and put her down tonight. I didn’t know my ***** was tame ‘til she laid heel for him. She rolled right ‘round under his palm and shocked me to the brim. Little more did I suspect that she would now submit, especially when his liquid voice just set her teeth to grit. He oozed some words and touched her sides and caused her eyes to glaze. Then, when we were both sound asleep, he shattered her to haze. It burst me out of all my dreams to find myself worn thin. Now I don’t know what to do without her in my skin. Tell me now, my dearest friend, what should I do hence? Should I let him have me too, or rise to her defense? The only problem seems to be I’m without her; she’s me.

When I remember you, I conspire with you.
now I flee you.

I ran you across the heat of my arguments:
snippets of friends, trials of unfortunate others--

As I stretched out in hope,
I fought you blow by blow.
Your mind should have eased off by now,
not constricted like the strangling fist,
empty angry space--

I touched your every pore,
crimes of the disinterested mind,
the stones of ambivalence dropped into my stomach--
you slathered more, spreading your reasons
like the trails of slugs.

Whatever you think,
you will not sway me thus,
among the condescending blind.
Your path is not sprinkled with wildflowers like mine:

your tongue is the angry chatter of sparrows
which pluck and bicker in wickedness--
which pluck and bicker, in echoes keening
the helix from our sides
to the lake of fire.

They say that a poem can be anything. A bag of jelly beans. An artful array of oranges. The way a seed dances in the wind. But I do not fret for those things. Certainly pretty, but dull on my fingers, soft like a ball of cheese. No, what really matters are not the words, but the blood carrying my thoughts and the jumbled feelings in my spleen. These things cannot fall out in words or march out in lines. No, they come as they please and go as they will, and take far too long to assemble. My soul can writhe and my body can thaw, but no poem shall feel as I do. A poem can be anything. Anything just is not enough.

Red
Apple
Smooth and hard
Reflective bite
Crunch and juice and skin
Laminate precision
Firm and new and sweet
Falling harder
Luminous
Revive
Red

A simple bottle,
Cheap chunky plastic,
Designer garbage.
Empty of its liquid energy.
Glossy label parrying the flash,
Glaring retrieval of light.
Sickly bold orange cap,
Impudently tight,
Defending the blanched carpet below.
Moment of fragility,
Suspended on the humid waves of air,
Eternity in an insubstantial moment.
It wafts away from his fingers,
Plastic given wings,
Fixed by his steely eyes,
A forced arc,
Stretching to the ceiling.
Focused intensity.
An infinite gap looms
Instants before the catch.
He didn’t notice the stray,
A camera pointed his way,
Capturing this moment,
Making it magical.
Clarity is threatened by obscurity,
People pressing in,
Bending the frame.
Time is lost,
Too much wasted on boredom,
And playing catch with yourself.
Spine lax, body slumped.
Interruptions and distractions surround.
His face vivid in the mix,
Lost in the wash of faces,
So much like his,
Flushed by the same blood.
His unwavering gaze
Holds the emptiness in shackles.
Second of silence in the crushing sound,
Relentless muttering rumble,
The voices of family,
So constantly buzzing.
Jumbled tumbling voices.
A peanut gallery seeking constant attention.
The camera congeals the moment,
Silencing the mass.
In the absence the bottle and the boy
Infinitely alone,
Endlessly still.

Florescent.

Phosphorescent.

Like freshly polished sin, ripe with toxins and swarmed with rainbows. Its skin is powdered in fairy wings, grown for this purpose, making it glitter and gleam like malevolence incarnate.

Tiers of tears trickle down the windows of my soul. Waste not. I spin them on my spinning wheel. Don’t ***** your finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel.

Don’t move into a stranger’s house without permission, especially if you have never met or spoken with them before. Don’t speak to strangers. Don’t invite strangers into your home. Don’t accept food from strangers. Don’t wait around for the prince; the wolf might have eaten him.

Planks, splintering in solidity
Together twined in tedium
Curving cords of mated metal
Lost in ludicrous loops
Twines of tetanus protrude
Danger danger
Rising flying roaring floating
Above the stillborn trains
Arching acrid aerial arms
Lazy concrete spiral, neighbor snail
Inverse slide with railings
Rumble rumble try and grumble
Jitter in jumpy juxtaposition
Guts of grotesque giants
Flayed flawed under flaming flight
Blink away oblivion
Orange and omnificent, opaque concern
Useful hangnail, table scraps
Rise above
Shocked stillness soon stumbling
Ornamental oasis for the oracles
Unseen unheard untasted unsmelled
Unfeeling unused to understanding
Carry me across
Fly me over
Lift me beyond
Suspend.
Glimpse the unparalleled phenomenon
Ribs of steel, rain has parted
Seeping to the soul
Buzzing through the boards
Immobile, cradle in the wind
Twist
Take off your sunglasses
Be sure to look around as you pass through

They proclaimed she
was the “all-or-nothing” breed,
  a single lark thriving amongst the wrens.
   Her eyes were as lanterns, luminous and protruding,
    as if she had ingested the heavens and now
     they sought a means to escape.
      The slow slant of her lips
       was textured and fine,
        a simpering halt in her meadow of face.
         They sang at her alters and allow
          her put-upon face to blur through the lines,
           streaking under the curls of their incense.
            Skin faintly blue shines silky as lies,
             still like the cloak wrapped tight around her soul.
              A knife was pressed close, slight
               and silver as the pulse of her heart.
                Eyes flicker wide; her
                 last breath slides through.
She is the world,
    they whisper,
  hushed as the tears of her blood cry down their arms.

They proclaimed she
was the “all-or-nothing” breed,
a single lark thriving amongst the wrens.

                              The sweetest sacrifice

   Her eyes were as lanterns, luminous and protruding,
    as if she had ingested the heavens and now
     they sought a means to escape.

                              For the good of the many

      The slow slant of her lips
       was textured and fine,
        a simpering halt in her meadow of face.

                              Do not fear, little one

         The disciples sang at her altars and allow
          her put-upon face to blur through the lines,
           streaking under the curls of their incense.

                              You will be blessed

            Skin faintly blue shines silky as lies,
             still like the cloak wrapped tight around her soul.
              A knife presses close, slight

                              You are the savior

               and silver as the pulse of her heart.
                Eyes flicker wide; her
                 last breath slides through.

                                One life paid for all

She is the world,
they whisper,
hushed as the tears of her blood cry down their arms.

I grew up fed on Disney and love
Building expectations
Telling me the thing I hoped for most

For years I kept my eyes open
Enjoying everything
But expectant for the impending more

Then smiles passed and hands let go
Leaving all my
Hopes splattered across the pavement

Time and time and time slipped by
While I sat
And twiddled my thumbs

This summer I spent in watching
Lost in waiting
Impatiently patient in one million breaths

So my hand fell to keys
And you
Reached right on through

A meeting, then two, then many again,
A spark flared up
And I was scorched to the soul

Would you be the one to look?
Could you?
Would you really be the first to see?

I found myself on your fingertips
Wrapped up
Finally warming in your arms

Now a whisper and a smile are all that I need
I lean in to find
That your breath tastes like hope

I deny your whole stupid game.
It always ends up just the same.
You forever jest
Never your best,
You forever missing
A beckoning thought,
You forever running,
An infinite cost,
An infinite lurching,
An infinite frost.

The only bright thing is the quilt
Slung closely around her shoulders,
Surrounding her eyes in paisley knots.
Drifts lean against the windows,
Huddling tight against the panes.
Everything is bleached in the
Sheepish grin of snow.
Even her face,
The face that used to glow for me,
Washed out like the children’s drawings
Left in the sun too long.
She opens her mouth and lets the sorrows drip out,
Quietly trickling to the carpet.
I say nothing and see her eyes glint,
Emotion rising in the tides.

Today we woke up.

Enough.
I will make a *** of tea.
I let her disappear over my shoulder and step out
Like someone walking in water.
Her breath is but a whisper
In the shell of our home,
Soon to be smothered
In the wail of the kettle I place on the stove.
I feel my lip crack as I inhale the dry air,
Tentative bead of blood gathering in the fissure,
Iron laced.
Licking my lips, I taste irony.

The kitchen window is nearly swallowed.
Beyond the cloud of frost is the expanse of our yard,
Laid out like the tale of our love,
Bare under my scrutiny.
Smothered,
Buried,
Lost under the noiseless drifts,
Our garden had once bloomed.
The world fallen under this falling.

Keening rises in the mist of steam,
Curling out of the china teapot behind me.
I tip the languid water into a white mug,
Letting it settle around the teabag like an arthritic cat,
Seeping through the cloth and herbs,
Tearing free the perfumes and
Wafting them about on lazy paws.

I press it to her chill,
Lacing it between her fingers,
Ignoring the seeping
Distress that still carves her face.
In a while we will put on our masquerade,
Venturing through the drifts
To carry the children home on our shoulders.
But not yet.
For now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
Blanched under a gossamer blanket.

I drift away as a specter.
Beyond these windows the
Snow is a white flag waving over everything.
Give in and surrender,
Lay down my arms and admit defeat.

The door looms out of the glare,
Sudden,
Whole.
Hesitate a moment and turn back.

I never go in here, into the playroom.
It is all blocks of color,
Primaries comfortable in their paint.
In the bleach of home,
They hurt the eyes in their folly.
I sink into a small chair.
So this is where the children hide all day.
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
Tucked away from my conscious.
How long since I drawled a story here,
Held a little hand or two,
Conformed to innocence.

A sadness wells and I
Punctuate the blankness,
Letting the waves sweep out my cobwebs.
Let it go.
Try again.
I will shake a laden branch,
Sending a cold shower down on us both.

-Clap your hands-

I clamber back to her,
Resting her wrists in my palms,
Slipping the blanket around us both,
Enveloping possibilities in color.
I search for her and let her seek me out,
Lifting us from the freeze,
Bit by agonizing bit.
Don’t give up.
It’s just the weight of the snow and all its little pieces.

You know it’s good when it takes
ahold and refuses to let go.
Even better when it climbs
inside and wiggles to and fro.
It argues around inside your
ribs and creates a mighty row.
It builds itself inside your lungs
and takes your air to grow.
Open your mouth and let
it out with a mighty crow.
Sometimes it leaps but other
times it simply drips with woe.
Either way, if it’s done right,
it should set your heart aglow.
The only thing that matters is
that if it’s good, you’ll know.

Trapped.

     I am snared,

forever burning.
The very feathers

circling my throat
tingle with flame.
Embers shiver

as they drip
down my back.

     I am ashes.

There are hands,
with want to touch,

the desperate
feverish mortals
seeking forever,

scrabble about,
thieving my eternity.

But I do not hold
the grail they seek.

I am no fountain
for life and for living.

     I am an undead curse,

ringed with flame.
My talons are pitch
and empty as coal.

The pool of my eye has
the haze of raw steam.

     I did not choose.

I was a spark and
no new-born flicker
shall birth from my

flank. I will never put
tinder and flint to my

breast, never pull forth
a struggling bairn.

     I am barren.

Never will the scorch
spread further than
my soul. The swoop

of my neck is the
tongue of the flames.

     I am bound in this burning.

The smoke fills my lungs,
blacken and sear.

     I cough as I choke,

my skin catches light.
Cracks.

     I am dying.

Everything flames,
spirals within.

     I am free,

roasting to pieces,
crumble to dust.

     I am burning,

beaten wings
an inferno.

     I am free.

Inhale the ashes.

     I am reborn.


Again.


Trapped.

The spring air, dusted with pollen,
Yet clear as fine glass
Filled our lungs as we ran
Laughing teasing
Breathing until it hurt

Remember the books I gave you
Returning what was stolen
And adding something more
The heavy smell of your fireplace
Coated my tongue
We sat on your hard red
Furniture, uncomfortably fancy.

That day in the light was the first,
The buds in the apple tree were bursting,
Flowering in the clarity of the day,
Exposing their sweet butter insides.
We were the constants,
Uninterrupted energy
Flowing like water in the sunlight

Staring at the eggshell walls
On that wooden bench
As dark as my soul
I watched you pass by
Without the slightest
Glance in my direction
I never saw your face as
I kissed your forehead

Poetry is written.
For some it is forced,
bled from dehydrated veins.
The words are awkward,
looking at each other with shifty eyes.

Poetry is expelled.
For some it tears free,
shattering sternums as it flees from the heart.
The words all scatter,
cacophonous on the wind.

Poetry is crafted.
For some it takes time,
looped together thread by thread.
The words are a set,
glittery and sticky with glue.

Poetry is caught.
For some it is gathered,
alighting in nets as a taste on the air.
The words drift together
like dust in the sun.

Poetry is subdued.
For some it is hidden,
held tight with ribbon and barbed wire.
The words huddle close,
silent, unborn.

Poetry is.
For me it just leaks,
oozing from my pores,
leaving damp fingerprints on the page.
The words stand still and mourn,
then gossip and dance,
refusing directions from me.

Socks are only really okay when they have holes in the soles and some scary stories to tell

The prettiest leaves are wrapped up in fingers and traded around for some days

A nothing together is better than many a venture alone

Knowing where the fork belongs is not a real thing

Best kind of weather is cuddling weather

Life music plays on windchimes

Don’t sleep but for dreams

Never go

Breathing

The ghost from my lungs on the first cold step, the vapor that spirals out of my blood to dance as crystals on the cape of the dawn.
Her arms around my shoulders, pressing the blades, lamenting climbing in together when I would be the only one getting out.
Stepping in and dropping my bags in all directions, having none of them come running to investigate the invader of days.
Chill rolling on the inside of my skin and across the palms of my hands, only combated by the brush of your kiss.
A mistress of mistrust who sets lasers to **** just let you waltz in, even curling up behind your knees like you’ve been here forever.
Sweeping of lips on the line of my shoulder, a sweet settling of nerves so I won’t miss you too much on the far side of the bed.
When she lays on my bed with a gap in between, leaving just enough room from elbow to elbow for our souls to slide in and conspire.
The probing of the snowy wet nose of the gummy-eyed dog, bald but for patches of scratches and running zany with zest.
Swelling that builds up in my spine as you leave, filling and growing like insulating foam, an expanding despair.
Bristled fur and the slink in her walk when she’s asking for favors, a coyote stalking voles in the stems of dry grass.
Standing again as a phantom on the path, reading again the first tentative steps, still yet to find a single thing to regret.
The way the words just come pouring out like well water when she asks, running out the mud until it flows clear.
When the sun shivers and floats and then settles like dust on your eyelashes as you sleep.

Watch me

Watch me
because I’m
trying to
dance on
the wind

Watch me
so I don’t
scald the
milk

Watch me
as I brush
out my
hair
fluttering
my hands
down the
hips of my
gown

Just watch

Watch me
as my face
sears hot
and melts
to ash in
your hands

Watch me
stagger
when the
sidewalk
heaves

Watch me
when we
are
but one
soul
a single
person
entangled
in arms

Just watch

Watch me
agonize
over every
crease in
the tearful
paper

Watch me
picking
up leaves
and calling
your name

Watch me
as the
stillness
watches
the deep
silver lake
just feeling
my silence
as home

Just watch

Watch me
fly back
to your
chest
when the
door closes
again

Watch me
curling my
fingers
inside your
palm

Watch me
as the
stars circle
overhead
falling
like fruit
from a
frostbitten
tree

Please watch

Watch me
rip
open my
skin so
to present
you my
soul

Watch me
grovel and
plead to
be only
yours

Watch me
press my
arms
against my
ribs closing
my eyes as
your lips
brush
my neck

Just watch

Close
your eyes
and see