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694 · May 2011
I'm losing heat
It’s almost gone, but you
don’t even know what it is.
Its capacity— degrees of freedom,
vibrational
rotational
translational,
its essence— energy
measured absolutely,
first by Kelvin.

So know when I say
I’m losing heat, I’m dropping
Kelvins, quantized packets
that could raise my voice
to jovial screaming, flail my arms
bobble my legs and work my tongue
around my lips, eyes lit like dynamite.

Temperature comes and goes
be careful not to lose your bonds,
double
triple
bonds building bridges
to your childhood,
your capacity to love.

We forget how to laugh
so hard we hurt our bellies
deafen our friends
and scare our lovers. We
forget that the public
is just full of people
and find our tongues
are slaves to only tasting.

So I just make sure I’m waiting
for that mechanical motion,
that disturbance to ride
through my every bond
that won’t be breaking
because I’m not rigid.
I’m making sure I’m ready
to vibrate, rotate
and *******
I’ll translate too.
I’m losing heat,
not degrees of freedom.
690 · May 2011
Painting again
God got bored
with blue,
and started stabbing
with white,
but forgot to stop,

the desert blue canvas
starved of brush
swallows paint.

Faded tan dunes
freckle orange
before flooding

Rust and blue
mix brown drowning
below grey sky smeared solid

green flecks
with lightning’s
silent flash.

I turn to the artist, and ask
will you paint thunder?
688 · Jan 2011
Lost at a Distance
I can't hear snow melt
through glass or over voices,
drops of cold sunshine.
In class watching snow melt out the window.  I felt cheated.
675 · Dec 2010
The Last Petal
A shy girl?
Oblivious yet sharp?
Innocent or simply sweet?
I thought I could know. Instead
you showed me something new:

Birds bathing in the rain fallen from
the darkest clouds laced with lightning.
Lilies blooming under eternal starlight
bursting through the pale lit snow.
Fire glowing in a statue’s gaze,
burning through an ancient moss.

Like the whisper I’ll never see,
thunder I’ll never smell,
and the rose I’ll never hear

What will you say
when I've plucked
the last petal?
Poem for a friend, adapted into a love poem.
675 · Jun 2011
Immortal Eve
Immortal Eve, goddess,
don’t just take a bite
chew and swallow,

but fallen angel,
savor the crisp sweet
essence slipping
from your lips.

Naughty god,
take the second bite,
moon your eyes
and curl your mouth
around truth’s heart.

human being,
gnaw the pale yellow
until it browns,
leave God’s forbidden red
a gnarled husk, hardened
black hearts exposed.
668 · Apr 2011
Brave bird, I whisper
I flew by a greening bush
hiding a bouquet of birds
and scared them all away,
save one,

her eyes— cool blue steel—
stared from the shade.
She fluttered out, falling
under my brooding wings,

her pupils—exposed
to the sun— burned away,
revealing flames hidden inside

which danced to the same orange
tune as her feathers, like the black hearts
of her eyes were meant to be eclipsed in fire

consuming every shadow of doubt
shrouding my thoughts

Will I wait and watch? Will I
hurt and hope? Brave bird, I whisper,
yes.
668 · Jun 2011
File, new, create
I wish my bones were paper, my marrow
pens; my veins were words, and blood
their ink; my skin
was leather—tattoos their titles;
air was inspiration— the oxygen
soluble.  I wish
the publisher was a block away,
but all I have to do,
is click file,
new,
create.
665 · Jan 2011
The People We Trust
Didn’t know I had a bite,
hidden and queer,
but the doctor
took a good hard look

said it wasn’t right, awful bad,
might just burn me,
burn me
an eternity.

Said don’t worry,
applying cream once
a week should
keep the hell away.

It had never burned,
but I used the cream,
which began to bug me,
badly

in the dark I’d scratch it,
‘til it bled, ‘til it was
black and
ready to rot

ridden with ****,
I oozed and withered,
but I was so set to
stop the burning.

A friend said it wasn’t
a bite at all, but a
birthmark, covered
in snake oil.

I fired my doctor forever,
quit the cream, and
cleared up
      just
              like
                     that.
663 · Jul 2011
I dreamt about this
Eyes open too early
taking in only street light
and midnight travelers
through an open window,

so shoulders dig
back into mattress
trying to bury cheeks
into pillow, and pillow into dream.

As I fall softly through feathers
into a dimly lit reality
I am reading perfect word
after perfect word

rolling gently into sentences
stacked into stanzas
traveled by footprints, set
in the slowly falling snow.

At the end of every poem,
I am sitting before a fireplace,
flame dancing on your face
smile hidden by wineglass,
eyes lost in my voice,
hands—mine—
warming every page I turn.

The moonlit snowmen outside
wave as I begin to sweat,
waking finally to early joggers
beating the heat, through my window.
I think I am
therefore I am
in love. You say
you only think you're in love,
I say, therefore I am.
Walk by all the flowers.
strong orchids, dark lilacs, dim roses
potted perfectly
on familiar porches

Breathe deeply as you pass them
bruise the petals with a touch goodbye
because Summer is coming
and with it, you’re going

Walk by the yellow graffiti
rooted in the lawns
                                but stop.
if only for a moment
      to see the white

      the dead dandelion, whose unborn roots
             wish to fall from their ovule.
              They wait trembling in Spring’s
                                  cruel sunny breeze

                                             Waiting for you to blow
                                                   because with your breath
                                                             the wind blows too, and the wind
                                                                                     can carry me with you.
647 · May 2011
Every honest day
I’ll wake up to your
dead bunny breath
allergic to sunrise eyes
pillow plowed hair
and say darling—
because I know
you hate that word—
did you know it’s true
that I still love you?

You’ll turn to me and say,
you just rhymed true and you
using the word love
in between, and I’ll say
that’s true, but only
because I love you.

I’ll spend the morning
finding more words
to play with, because
I’ll never get sick of the way
your head and shoulders sway
dancing your happy dance.
You’ll turn to me and say,
you’re using repetition
like those sad jazzy blues,
and I’ll say that’s true,
but only because I love you.

By midday your eyes will have rolled
right out of their sockets, because
I made up the word sockettes
to make fun of your
size five feet. You’ll say
I love your words,
and I’ll say you love me—
the words just come for free.

By this time
we’ve agitated our ears
into the afternoon.  They look over
to our cheeks and eyes, and down to our lips
and complain: for the love of god
contain yourselves, but we only laugh harder
by this time
you, even before me.

We’ll keep on smiling—
ignoring our faces—
using phrases like
long into the night,
then lay down to
tasty tic-tac flavored tongues
waning crescent moon eyes
and pink frosting flavored hair

and just before drifting off
we’ll say,
did you know it’s true—
despite the day—
that I still love you?
:-)
641 · May 2011
Peaceful schizophrenics
I'm going to run tonight.  
After the sun is down, the moon
has dipped into the starry sky's darkness
and the weekend fire pits are dancing with my shadow.
I'm going to breathe tonight,
deeply of the budding greens and mulching blacks
until my nostrils are painted with earth.  I'll let the sprinklers
drench every inch of my body until
I can flick the water from my hair
and all the world soaks through my chest
so my heart can beat against it.
I'm going to howl tonight,
from the very bottom of my breast with a smile on my face
legs never stopping to catch the air my lungs are surely missing
because tonight, the little boy, the lover, the beast—
tonight— they are the poet.
I never even thought how hard
it’d be, to watch you with him.  
Silently observe him sip coffee
you might have made,
while he sits close enough to whisper
the lines I love through your hair
that’d catch on his lips,
if they weren’t silent.

It hadn’t occurred to me
that seeing your left hand,
dangle there next to his, empty,
could hurt more than if your
head was buried in his chest
which a week ago
stung like watching a bee
eviscerate itself in my palm.

I hadn’t realized I had no idea
how this would end.  Could I even
see myself sitting next to you in class,
holding your hand, whispering the words
just to taste your hair? I can dream
these things, like I’m dreaming now
but it’s just as hard to know this
as it was to know we
existed.
628 · Feb 2011
I can't just say it
The silence of poetry stings
in a dry mouth filled with fear,
And regret
that grows with every smile,
blush, and signal from the wilting
petals, but even dew
drops falling from an Iris
fail to wet dry wells.

The flower will die of neglect
but there are dozens waiting
to take its place.

Poetry will never forget
the piles of withered brown
stems, hardened thorns
and blackened petals

but still will never speak
for a tongue that quakes
behind its pearly prison.
Valentines day is coming up :-P If the poem is too familiar/cliche, let me know... I know flowers are dangerous territory.
626 · Jul 2011
Trees grow mirrors
Trees grow mirrors

Trees grow roots
for soil and water,
roots for sun and air.
The grass, a reflecting pool,
the pavement, a man made mirror,
the side of a mountain, a shining jewel.

Do branches worry
about the vacuum of space
like roots do magma?
Is it scarier to watch a cloud
hide the sun, or never know
when water will come?

Are the roots jealous?
Locked beneath the earth,
their twin free
to breathe blue sky.
Do they ever worry
the other would let them die?

But if they ever fought, one choking
their brother, who would wither
first, wouldn’t matter—
wind takes care of one,
worms, the other
Wake up ten times too early
thinking about you
like that’s what I
was born to do.
River island picnic,
sun on your face,
water in my toes.
Walking to class
with fiery eyes,
waiting an hour
to see them again.
Downing midday drinks,
walking home again—
with you— waiting
in a lobby to see
your smile rise
over the banister,
reading passed microphones,
just to you. Hands
not breaking contact
through snow or traffic,
head on my chest, safe
and simply warm.  I invite you
stay forever.

Then a tapping on the window.
Steel blue eyes turn to mercury  
and freeze with reality.

Surrealism knocks on the door
and walks in, drunk
and clueless.

Never have I held back
so much anger with a smile
and a handshake.

Drive home.
Lose reality.
Burn my own flesh

from the inside out with the torch
I swallowed, instead of trying
to melt mercury,
destroy a demon,
or reveal the truth.
616 · May 2010
9:16, Thursday Night
Hallway light is out,
lost, leaving frigid darkness,
key can’t find the lock.
603 · May 2011
I don't break well
It tends to be an awful mess.
I play with the glue, tape, staples
sutures, stitches, rivets, screws.
Bolts, nails, Band-Aids, string and
chewing gum
for as long as I can.

That’s why when you broke my fingers,
I didn’t say a word, I didn’t want you
to notice I hadn’t any fingers left—
when I was done
with my makeshift med kit.

That’s why when you bruised my ribs,
I only winced once, when you hammered
my toes, there were only two tears, when
you cracked my skull I stayed conscious to say
I’d be okay, but when you were done reshaping
everything, replacing every part of me and finally
turned on my heart, I let you take it, stitching only
what was left
of my lips together so I couldn’t scream.

Which was a mistake.  Of all the holes left
I wouldn’t repair, leaving my core hollow
was sure to collapse every single
*****-trapped, ghetto-rigged,
and half-*** bandaged
contraption I used
to replace
myself.
598 · Jun 2011
You wish you could fly
Your
Fire Gobi eyes,
ethereal portals
to lucid dreaming

in the deep ocean,
now lakes of light
through which

I can walk,
never needing to fly
590 · Nov 2010
Our Funny Future
I wish you could see me, the new me, now.
I’d take back the words I used to believe.
Blind faith, was all our age would allow.
All of us right or wrong were still naïve.
Would you laugh at me? Or would you smile?
If I knocked on your door- said I’m sorry?
My memories sweet, of a girl thought vile-
the cloudy night sky now clear and starry.
You were just confused, godless and alone-
given a life we didn’t understand.
Too young to have known, we’d cast our cold stone.
So strong, ****** and bruised, yet still you’d stand.
Dare I say these words? Catlin, I love you.
Funny, you’d never believe it was true.
566 · Apr 2010
It's Okay
You're still breathing.
Listen-- yes--
it's still beating.

Why so aflutter?
Say it-- yes--
words sweet to utter.

Summon strength and rile.
Flex-- yes--
your cheeks still smile.

The world is bright.
Look-- yes--
morning sings its light.
564 · Jul 2011
You've got what?
a funny feeling it’s
all just fantasy
can’t shake the facts before you
until the
pockets empty
to sort through the change
you have to
trust that it’s there
which isn’t hard
really
you hear the jingle
observe the bulge
but
you still can’t believe
a million dollars’ worth of
quarters
could fit into those
size double zero
jeans
564 · Mar 2011
An unlikely muse
I apologize,
I have not kissed a woman--
most certainly a ****** too--
which might shed light on why
you’ve become my muse,
merely at the thought,
of someday loving you.
Does the last line sound ******? Or endearing?
552 · Mar 2011
Awkward Eyes for You
The wino took the corner like a 4 year old performs surgery.

His eyes roll into glue
and dry on her instantly.
She notices and
they rip away. Blurry

He swerves to avoid the railing.  Dizzy

Intoxicated, they forget it’s not polite to stare
but his possession is met with a smile
he panics, puts his eyes on the road
and smiles back

                       while driving

                                          off the mountain
How I feel playing eye contact tag with girls in class.
527 · Jan 2011
Morning's Dawn
Mornings dawn chunky brown
with the sting of acid in my throat,
a cold winter’s gust without a coat,
a thousand miles of ocean
without a boat,

but it only takes minutes
to throw up, get dressed
and learn to float.
521 · Apr 2011
Being an other
it’s like honey stuck to the sweetest places around your lips
but can’t taste in public.

a river washing away every word unspoken
stirring about new worries.

a perfect silence only interrupted
by a tender touch.

imaginary sails set high
on simple seas,

but a complex
lie

underneath
After Lorrie Moore's "Self Help" -- How to Be an Other Woman.
508 · Feb 2011
it wouldn't matter
if i commanded every atom
with half a thought
and pulled your eyes to mine
                                just to smile.

if i twisted the paths of time
and space
just to pass you walking
                               all i could do is smile.

even if i ruled the universe,
Your slightest glance
smallest smirk
wanton quirk, would bring
lips to hide my tongue
and lungs to miss the air.

yet you'll wonder why
i don’t want the universe
479 · Sep 2010
There's no reason
The stars hid behind clouds that night
and the cacophony of the bustling city was silenced—
drowned out by a symphony of frogs and crickets.
The summer breeze blowing off the lake was musty
but refreshing.

As my brother and I walked farther from city light
he asked the same question again, “But why?”
I’d ramble, “Because I can feel it, and see it.”
“How so? Why don’t I? I don’t understand.”
he’d reply.

It was the same walk, and the same question.
But tonight was different— I was frustrated.
God’s symphony sunk into silence, and His curious
creature grew louder.  He asked one last time,
“Why do you?”

“Because Mom and Dad do!” I blurted out.
An abrupt yet fleeting silence struck.  My feet were
crunching on the dirt path again, and the frogs
and crickets returned, louder.  I walked,
mind swamped.

I was scared to think, but yet I did.
l listened and looked around with awe.
The stars came out, and the wind blew the leaves
in the trees and the tall blades of grass with hush,
and I knew.

All of a sudden consciousness was a billion stars—
a full yellow moon setting over houses’ silhouettes.
I smiled.  “So this… all this, really did just
happen on its own?” I whispered to my brother.
He smiled.

I spread my arms and lifted my eyes to heaven,
floating in the cool breeze.  The stars, wind and
frogs singing to me as my mind danced. I asked,
“Do Mom and Dad know why, does anyone know why,
they believe in god?”
I feel all my work is still in progress, feel free to give pointers.
456 · Jun 2011
But you are not a flower
"I miss you like the sun misses the flower
in the dead of winter."* -- A Knight's Tale

If you should weep
in the absence of flowers,
I would craft you one
from whatever material winter has left
and lift it high, toward the heat on your face.

While your smile melts away the snow
I’ll lie the flower down, and plant it
in the warming ground
to grow into fields
of bright reminders.

If you should hide
from me during night,
I would wait for Earth
to make her way around the wobble
on the tips of my toes—arms stretched east.

When you splash my face with light overflowing
the horizon, smiling I’ll turn to you and say,
“I’m really glad you
got me up early, I am
not a morning person”

— The End —