every sooften, a day will wash over     leaving me
a little paler, a little thin ner

for the most part I crush it like a can and bury it in my chest,
pretend it's a necklace, wear a face to match
I'll take breaths so deep, but my chest won't move
up    or down, some days

I cut it into pieces, dangle it from the ceiling and watch it glint in the  
sunlight, some days

I pull it over my head like a blanket, and keep the dayshine
at bay, leave my limbs pale a little longer

somedays
it's almost a comfort

some days, It's almost as if
I breathe it as it
breathes me and

the wind we create together carries us
in it's length across
the valleys of our        
small universe

I started
buttoning
my clothes,
hugging them
as though
cold.

the cold just wants to hold us -
mold us into the blowing wind, fold us down beneath our coats,
bite deep - beneath our skin, beneath our bones.

so we won't forget
how our legs might shake
and our lips might chap
and our hair might brittle
beneath winter caps.

so we won't forget
how our voices go hoarse
and our noses glow pink
and the colder we get
the more the warmth stings.

so we won't forget
any of these things.

the cold just wants to hold us - selfish, but unknowingly so.
cradle us in long arms, carefully, inside the crook
of winter's elbow.

kisses small and hand-
crafted, broken-in, a feel like
worn leather gloves, slipping
over lips (they were in need
of some warmth) covering no-
thing but the bare necessities - thin, and
they are something when
I am used to
nothing.

I will rip the first three pages
from your favorite book and I will
eat the memories I have of you
in one
bite.

I will devour any trace of you by
burning
my skin
away.

I will dissolve every look every time every
good intention on my tongue like
bad
sugar

and

like bad sugar, you
will remain
a temporary
satisfaction
for anyone
you touch.

used to think
I was a dandelion,
as you were,

my end
tied to where you
begin,

rubbing
yellow into
skin.

your skin is not animated as I would have   imagined, a little
freckled, bespeckled with blemishes but I don't
mind those -- only the way your mouth is so pink after kissing me,
only how your tongue blooms from the back of your throat.

you don't     differ from
any lover in any specific way, just
the after, and how I don't feel
cold. no, just
calm.

I hear no thunder, see no storm slow approaching,
but rain hits the pavement I stand on, which in it's solidity
impresses upon me the urge to run  -   but I won't just yet

a nefarious dead-pan glance and
all I can think about is how I have
your favorite book tucked away, safe,
because I want an excuse for my
trembling hands and the constant
chugging of my mind at times, the ever-
present headache that originates in
my stomach. I am hosting a
cavernous black hole there
that spreads it's lips
wider and
wider
and

w   i     d             e             r

every day that washes over,
leaving me a little paler a little thinner a
little hungrier than
before

I am s
        i
     n
   k
  i
n
g

reachreach a
littlemore a
littlemore

closetoyou, closeto me

enoughtobe
close toyou

enough tobe
just
be.

the floor is covered in ash, we trudge
through to the kitchen to pour ourselves some coffee,
then to the bedroom to lay in the empty space there, left

our hands are never clean, our feet are always cold and
we don't have enough sense to cover them.

heavy faces, giving off sawdust smiles and
big red-marked cheeks from leaning too ******* other people.
we are craning over one another, reaching past one another, never holding
eye-contact

it's the emptiness left
from the previous emptiness
here, it's

awful here,
it's awful
here.

I'm revving my engine and I expect
to see your *** in this velvet throne of
queens in one
second.

I'm just going to pick up a few things,
shampoo
toothpaste
a bag of cookies
and probably
a little perpsective with a side of
I-don't-give-a-****-anymore.

Sit down. Enjoy your free ride.
But please, don't talk to me about
getting laid and
getting paid and
things that shouldn't come out of a mouth so young.

You should be asking me when we're stopping at the park
because you want to see the sunset from on top of
the monkey bars (it's the best spot in town.)

You should be asking me
to drive faster because you can feel the adrenaline
rushing up through your throat and out in a shout,
making you feel even more alive.

You should be leaning out of the car window and
feeling the rush of wind in your hair buzzing through your body into your fingers
and down to your toes.

You shouldn't be asking me
for my phone number.

the blue&purplelike;
is brush and stroked lightly so, my sister's
painting is brand new, ev'n though her
fingers have since threaded her through continents and
many a limb once thought dead, and then there was
atinglin'

no matter where my compass points,   the north is always new, and
my sister's blue never ages; only gradually does it grow dark in some
places, only over time does it     deepen and
                                                      settlei­n, cozy


nice n' clean, smooth on the surface but it goes
                deeper than you
            could imagine

there's something in the middle of me, in the middle of
me there is a large amount of something
pushpushing against my skin and
aching against my vital organs, I
can feel the strain as my heart strings are
tuned up up up and pulled to the taunt
-ness of a mandolin.

the monotonous monks that haunt
my chest cavity take on a barely audible
angelic hum - the lightness of their voices
driven in
to the tips of my
limbs,
which are
quivering
     as if
                
            they
                        

                     were



          feathers.

My hands look old.
I don't know what happened to their previous beings,
their soft, pale, younger selves.
My hands are cracked from the dry humorless days of anticipation.
I have hangnails, my skin so dry it's splitting from itself.
And they shake.
They shake along with my voice and my thoughts.
Trembling with excitement and worry.
When you're in the room,
especially when you're not, though.

I have stretch marks.
On my inner thighs, and on my sides,
they remind me of roads, of maps, of going places.
Each goosebump is a hillside,
each little crack in my dry skin is a riverbed, waiting for rain.
My body is a terrain of  imperfections,
and I'm just trying to keep still enough
as to not disturb the world that I harvest.

there are pocket s
of time  we use
to crawl inside one another, sleep like we would
have never known the difference, before       /after

& our excuse is
the skin of our hands meeting that of our thighs and
we are all at once a giant        sigh, together

we come, beautiful,
in the moment s like this,

we shift,

like this
like this

that anyone could make me feel naked in
suspense, a need to curl my fingers? I'll remind myself
that I need my bed rest, that I need
the thing that heals, that I need
anything at all is too much, it's too
tedious to need, I won't admit to
it, most of the time I won't.

groaning grows from the throat,  trickling down,
my voice isn't sweet like honey,
but more harsh harsh harsh in ways like
dry swallowing big pill after pill after pill.

the ends of my fingers are beams, they are brightest
when I touch the space between me and
the space between you and the soft space
left after drinking what we
bottle
up,

every time
every time.

arms around you
like a sack of flour

curled up
     so delicate

there you are:
shaking your fist as if it were a rattle and
aimlessly insulting the air
in front of you.

there isn't anyone blocking your view
of what just might be a good place,
if you let it, a good
moment or two if you
want them,
a good year
or so if you
work
for
it.

left the lid off and it molded over
night, let it sit out a little too
long, the taste is a little off-- I hope you got my message.

my aimless fingers, are spinning webs of websof
whatif's
whatnow's
you

probably won't answer.

I have no direction, only
intentions and a bowl full of hope, Ihave
an extra   spoon.

a little past noon, now.

and I find I have trouble
taking you in all at once, there is
a pink-like hue   to all of your newness,
like I'm looking through
rose-colored glasses

like there is always a 'Theme For A Pretty Girl Who Makes You Believe God Exists' playing in the background when you cross the street or
stand, waiting for a friend.

I'm not sure whether it is you I miss, or
the coffee-stained pages of music (at least
I thought it was music)     we made when
we were together.

I often over-romanticize, but
I just thought I'd ask, just thought
I'd see if the breeze I felt was
from an open door or
from the inevitable cracks around the door frame.

I just thought--
I don't know.

oh god.

maybe you can feel me,               the clunk
in my chest                                    in yours

the drop                                    
                                                       in your
                                                        diaphragm

maybe you can see it,                   seeing
my eyes open as open                  your
                                      ­                 eyes
                                                

maybe you can hear it,                is
the hum inside my                       from your
                                                       mouth


maybe you can think me            as I
                                                       think
  ­                                                     you

I like to think I have a little moon
behind my lips, that you
could reach in & pluck

and in your eyes, reflecting
the rare bits of light that slip through
the blankets we cover the windows
with

I never know whether to look away
or to let them fade  
in slow-     motion

You kept trying
to make me
'see'
but I assure you, I
have 20/20 vision
without your specs
and I
can
see
exactly what you can.

So you tried to make me
'under
stand'

Always standing a tad taller,
just a
bit,
barely noticeable
but an eye-strain
away.

But I reached my arms
above
my head and
fooled you
into thinking
that I am as tall
as I wish I was.

Your point of
view is
a bullet
and mine
is
the
gun.

They could smell our smoke, I'm sure,
when we would pass by passively
                    - existing and wishing wanting.

Forgetting each word stumbling from our lips, tumbling
to their deaths on the hard, warm concrete.

The golden whispers we kept to ourselves,
which made them all the more profound
and we were proud to call ourselves
what we were then  
               - what we are still.

Can you be anything but reckless and cowardly in your own way?
We were children out every night that we were sleeping together,
sitting together around fires, making stars and
laughing drunkenly on a cloud above everything.

They could see our glazed eyes for what they were, too,
for what they were
            - dreams.

there is all this tissue before
The Heart

poorly guided fingers     Reach
turning stones in their wake
freeing half-formed ideas

wading through
pools of inhibitions and
Fear and --
then

there is a Sunset

cheek-to-cheek with Missouri hills in the distance, tickling wildflowers with
bated breath
as you        
       Approach

this escapes me like the sigh escapes through the
teeth, feeling lucky to have been breathed
so it can graze lips
and finally d i  s    p       e            r                     s                                      e

into
the
                                                                ­                     e
            at                        s                        ­    
                  mo                                r
      ­                                           phe

it helps to cradle your own, in the crook of your elbow like
a catch in the throat, like pulling off a sweater's static cling and
stripping down to nothing but a a set of teeth for eating and
a set of eyes for tearing up when you feel human enough

That looks
like
violence,
but he wears it so
proudly and
I find I like the way
his hips
swing
almost like he has a
purpose when
everyone else has lost
or not yet found
theirs.

My jaw hurts because it might as well be wired shut. I have nothing
to say for myself, no, nothing to say.

And my thoughts tend to come in tiny red boxes,
when they open all I can see is a wisp of smoke
like a lightning bolt it's gone and in the air again.

I busy myself by keeping my teeth clean, menial things like
licking stamps and sending 'thank yous' and resting too much but
not sleeping enough.

I don't think about things too often, I try to get lost, more often than not,
I try to get lost.

wish I could push    when push is needed
keep a distance long enough and let the salt set
there is a bitter-
nesslike in the corners of my mouth
that I lick when you are too close,
your sweet becomes the air around me,
your sweet, dear

it is so much to
bear

I'll take your breath in
my lungs,      have it ready for la petite mort

your many
little
deaths

exhale &giv;; you
la vie     again,

push all the air out – roll me up
so that I can cradle all of my solidity(as if it exists at all) and
stay in one place, perhaps grow roots there, as well
and begin to notice the slowly things, the tid bits, the every aspect in
the every eye about this    one    place. Watch it change and mourn it’s

yesterday as if it were a dear friend.

you give off
a sort of disgustingly wonderful sweet music.
I find myself humming it every time you pass me.

spill out your heart, sister,
show me you're warm inside,
show me you're not just a popsicle with a
hard center holding you upright

show me
please
show
me.

I feel as if I lost this gigantic piece of myself in the storm drain,
sifting through gunk and garbarge you can see an enormous
chunk of skin and self left over.

It's been cut from my side and from some of my head,
and the odd thing is, if I remember correctly, I was the on holding the axe.
A small little axe like the one everyone has hidden in
their pockets and their backpacks and for the creative ones,
on their chests.

I feel as if..I lost what I lost because I'd decided to keep it,
and when decisions are made,
others are still straddling the line
and every decision affects the other.
So. I had fifty decisions
and only one that I could see clearly enough to
work out an outline that made some sense and
had some flair.

And the hole in my head has grown teeth and lips and a tongue and it's screaming,
"Make me younger!
Make me younger!"
in a voice that seems all too familiar.

My mother's voice,
my father's voice

But awakened from reality, it's not so hard to realize that
smaller things are versions of larger.



I have smaller fish to fry, though.
I have something to gain.

watching your
lipslikepetals
caress the air and ****** my
breath, knowingly
or not.

the couch doesn't fit so  
I suggest that we saw it in half (no one laughed.)
my mother finds that the legs
***** off and a phillips would be choice but
when we were searching
the boy walking by
who offered his knife
was so
kind.

I tried his knife and hid
the screwdriver I found
in my back
pocket.

just not
when I am
looking.

push me!
listen just

show me where it hurts
or do I have to
start
like
always?

words that gnaw our bones
aren't enough anymore and
names and slang and angst
aren't enough

show me
what it's like
when you're
naked
with a
fist

we can't dance the dance when
we haven't even gotten up
yet

make eyes, little girl, make
eyes
at me.

make them stars so I may not
lose them in the over-bearing light
of day at times and
make them burn like
third-degree burns so I'll
never forget the feeling of them
on my skin.

make them that sweet poetry you speak so that
my palpitating heart can know what it's like to
stop mid-sentence and


(quietly, now)

make eyes, little girl, make
eyes
at
me.

If you hold her
for the allotted time of
20 seconds

it is enough time for
a masterpiece to be finished
a pair of pants mended
a riot to ensue and  

for the endorphins in her brain
to be released and she'll forget
whatever it was

she was yelling
about.

the face of today is tired, tiring
to look at like aged and crinkled
paper, just
waiting to be
burned.

the cold inside my nose,
inside my eyes, inside my
hope globes and my curled
toes.

no heavy lifting or light
shifting of winds, just
full-on stale and hard and

cold.

my love is in this place;
runs through it like
blushed
cheeks,

and the wind carries our laughter.

I'm very afraid that
one day I'll wake and
find myself
as smug as can be
sitting in a pile
of my
own
mistakes,
of my own
regrets,
holding them over
everyone's heads


like you do
to me.

tonight is speaking in some strange tongue that I can't
quite make out while you're standing and staring at
my neck with your 'a heck of a lot' of hair and my
scalp, practically visible beneath the
moon at the moment, I can feel something slide
inside myself and though I have yet to 'click'
the sound will come from you, I feel,
with you, I feel
with you.

You're so special, boy.
Confident with words and smart
with accents of verse and your art,
your poems, opinions
overall pinache.
Greeting with an always-outstretched hand
and may I add?
You're thoughtful and mind-full
and beautiful.

If I could be so bold,
I'd ask if I could borrow your brain,
I'd give it back,
but in return I have only one offer.

If ever again you need help
to figure out why you're so dear to me,

you could borrow mine.

I feel like all the time I have this
feeling of being under
cover (keep me warm)

Heavy-duty
winter covers with the
cigarette burns from fifth grade
and the smell of *** forever
ingrained from high school.

It's the kind of night where I can't
breathe because of this smothering mother
of a blanket, and if I venture from my fortress
I'll surely be bitten
by the outside,

I'll surely
be (keep me
warm) bitten
in this

cold.

I'll never know
if those are
giant troll heads

or people

behind me,
will I?

I am slowly falling in love with
my stomach constantly hitching
and my nerves always bending in a way that
makes me itch
just to look at
you.

yesterday I spoke to the moon.

after a time, with the distance and all
I hardly expected an answer but when
I felt her sigh, I knew she had heard me so I
climbed to the top of a nearby car and
asked her if she could, please,
repeat that.

she hadn't been spoken to in so long, she confided,
she had grown ancient and old and she felt we no longer
spoke her language and
we no longer cared to.

she spoke for a long while, I felt her growing closer and the gap between us
closing. I felt a calm like the calm you feel at sea, and the
calm you feel in the warmth of another person.

if I reached my hands up I could touch surface and
feel her old majesty.

humbled, I asked if once more she could dust the earth with her wind
and kiss my skin, but before she could answer
a car horn ripped the sound waves open and left them
gagging.

as I refocused, my moon seemed as far away as ever
and I folded myself into my coat and went
on my way, disheartened,
to say the least.

it wasn't until, glooming the night away on my couch,  the 11 o'clock news said
that strange and powerful winds were sweeping the nation,
then I knew
my moon
had heard me.