I feel like I have the right
to cuss like a sailor
because I am the descendant of one.
I can remember the stories my mother used to tell,
of the man who made perfect pancakes.
It was all I knew about him besides the other story
about their first kiss in the rain,
then she married him.
And when I braid my hair
I am Pocahontas,
because if my great-grandfather whom I've never known.
I wish I'd been there
when my family lived in Morocco or Puerto Rico,
I wish I was foreign.
Even though,
it takes forever for my mother's files to go through anything
because she is not U.S. born.
I think I just want to know what box to check
in the race section of applications.

I used to cook for her all the time.
I wonder if she remembers. Can she?
Ramen noodles and toast
at 3:30 in the morning, churros at 8:15.
Sometimes in the middle of the night
she’d cat call my name and I’d always
run to her wondering- Is she hurt? and then
She better not have hurt herself.
I knew better though after the first few times,
yet I always went willingly enough through her
open bedroom door because she wanted me to.
But mostly chicken noodle soup on Sundays
and rice and jambalaya on Wednesday.
mmmmmmmmm.... Carminolas with a kick.
Pop pop pop and her buttons would fly across the room
and other times she’d be under the sheets, already
ready to press my hands against her caramelized skin.
And if we add a pinch of saffron, a dash a sumac,
and a teaspoon full of ajwain she will taste like
heaven and for those cherry lovers add a bit of mahlebi.
But I remember. She tasted like homemade chocolate and
marshmallows. Go make Mama something tasty.
She’d say afterwards and send me from the warmth of
her bed, a Saturday Night Live rerun echoing after me.
I’d bring her dumplings and udon and watch her while she ate,
wondering- Can she taste the arsenic?

His dreams are told through the eyes of an honest liar
and those eyes are black like respiratory failure
and sleep paralysis, his passions are inflamed
in monochrome and cream his nights are longer
than evenings in August, the sheets cling like the arms
of a past love, and he feels as though he is drowning
in pools framed with lashes.

Sleeping Beauty never slept
she waited for those men.
High up in her dusky tower
she would sit for years on end.
Cigarette butts littered the floor
around her curtained bed,
and as always a Prince Charming would come,
find her sleeping, dead,
her lips painted red.
Seduction and abduction
no one saw them again.

I was the oldest of four, I'd had friends, a happy family, a warm house to come home to after a long day at school. That was before my parents had started to disagree on things.

Before our home became cold, just a house full of tension, no longer a place I wanted to be. The disagreements, became arguments, that became fights.
My parents became paper tigers, clawing at each other, but never hurting themselves just those around them.
Paper cuts so deep they bled.
I'd patch up my siblings with colorful band aids, the Blue’s Clues ones from the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, I could only reach with the step stool.
I stopped playing with my friends in favor of entertaining my siblings so they didn't have to hear the yelling, so they didn't have to grow up as I had: in a matter of days.
I made up games for them to play in our basement bedroom, catching cave crickets, like dreams, we'd lose sight of more often than not. And some nights, after everyone was supposed to be asleep, I'd creep up the stairs, to the second floor feeling as though I was ascending into hell instead of heaven, to check if my parents were asleep.
They never were, pale light seeping from under the door along with whispered roars, words I wasn't allowed to say. Sometimes I'd sit for hours at the top of the stairs, watching the tiger shadows fight on the carpet.

Time passed, the days filled with Blue’s Clues covered paper cuts, the nights with tiger silhouettes. Nothing really changed except the way my mother smelled. I noticed it when she hugged me before sending me off to school in the mornings. She no longer smelled like home cooked meals and bright smiles, but tears and hollow hate. We left soon after that, my mother, my siblings, and I. She packed only what was necessary and forbade us to tell anyone what we were really doing: Disappearing. Our cousin, helped us get our few things to the bus station, where we waited for what seemed to be just short of eternity.
The big Greyhound bus inched over the hill in slow motion, a giant silver slug, coming to take us away. I helped load our bags into the bottom of the bus, and as I turned back toward the platform, I saw my mother hoist my youngest sister up on her hip, my brother and other sister falling in line behind her, the way she's taught us. I smiled because what I was really seeing was a tiger, no longer made of paper, gathering her cubs and preparing them for the long journey ahead.
Late that night on the bus, my sisters and brother already fast asleep, I asked my mother where we were going. She asked if I trusted her, a thing she did if she couldn't tell us something. I nodded yes and sat back in my seat, soon falling asleep to the breathing of my sister seated beside me.

I dreamed of paper tigers.

I hate this time of year.
Everyone's always singing
stupid christmas songs
and wearing even stupider sweaters.
People say 'bah humbug',
I say **** it.
I hate the cold and snow.
The getting totally twisted off of disgusting eggnog
and falling into bed with your best friend
only to regret it in the morning.
I hate that everyone's so giggly and rosy cheeked.
The old men in the malls posing as the
overweight **** that watches us all while we're sleeping.
I hate the gaudy wrapping
paper hiding pointless gifts
no one really needs.
And the people who're usually *******
kissing up to get something good.
I hate how lovey-dovey everyone is,
holding hands and snuggling in public places.
And how everyone has someone to kiss
when the ball drops on New Years.
Everyone but me.

Her eyes were the color of solar flares
and the remnants  of super novae,
eyelashes damp with Venus’ acid rain.

Body in the curves of the Northern Lights,
there were stars at her fingertips,
galaxies twined in the star dust of her hair.

Constellations lined her dress
as she danced in the celeste of red ribbon clouds
the storms created.

She travelled across the icelands of Neptune
though days never passed through the tail of Hailey’s comet,
only sulfuric nights on Io.

I was the oldest of four; I'd had friends, a happy family, and a warm house to come home to after a long day at school. That was before my parents had started to disagree on things.

Before our home became cold, just a house full of tension, no longer a place I wanted to be. The disagreements became arguments that became fights.
My parents became paper tigers, ethereal imitations of the ones in the zoo; clawing at each other, but never hurting themselves just those around them.
Paper cuts so deep they bled.
I'd patch up my siblings with colorful band aids, the Blue’s Clues ones from the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, only I could reach with the step stool.
I stopped playing with my friends in favor of entertaining my siblings so they didn't have to hear the yelling, so they didn't have to grow up as I had: in a matter of days.
I made up games for them to play in our basement bedroom, catching cave crickets, like dreams, that we'd lose sight of more often than not. And some nights, after everyone was supposed to be asleep, I'd creep up the stairs, to the second floor feeling as though I was ascending into hell instead of heaven, to check if my parents were asleep.
They never were, pale light seeping from under the door along with whispered roars, words I wasn't allowed to say. Sometimes I'd sit for hours at the top of the stairs, watching the tiger shadows fight on the carpet.

Time passed, the days filled with Blue’s Clues covered paper cuts, the nights with tiger silhouettes. Nothing really changed except the way my mother smelled. I noticed it when she hugged me before sending me off to school in the mornings. She no longer smelled like home cooked meals and bright smiles, but tears and hollow hate. We left soon after that, my mother, my siblings, and I. She packed only what was necessary and forbade us to tell anyone what we were really doing: Disappearing. Our cousin, helped us get our few things to the bus station, where we waited for what seemed to be just short of eternity.
The big Greyhound bus inched over the hill in slow motion, a giant silver slug, coming to take us away. I helped load our bags into the bottom of the bus, and as I turned back toward the platform, I saw my mother hoist my youngest sister up on her hip, my brother and other sister falling in line behind her, the way she's taught us. I smiled because what I was really seeing was a tiger, no longer made of paper, gathering her cubs and preparing them for the long journey ahead.
Late that night on the bus, my sisters and brother already fast asleep, I asked my mother where we were going. She asked if I trusted her, a thing she did if she couldn't tell us something. I nodded yes and sat back in my seat, soon falling asleep to the breathing of my sister seated beside me and the promise of troubled imaginings.

I dreamed of paper tigers.

I am weightless,
Zero gravity.
My ears pop,
No chewing gum.
Synthetic leather squeaks
Under the pressure of my little hands,
Take off.
The city shrinks outside my window.
Lights like stars blink on the ground.
Generic food smells mix
With the feather soft voices
Of flight attendants.
We're almost first class.

Blue.
That’s all I can see everywhere I look.
Beautiful dangerous blue.
I feel like I’m suspended in air, light, free, but sinking.
I’m running out of air! I think as my lungs start constricting themselves.
My feet finally touch the black and blue-white tile; my hair comes down around my face, soft, like feathers.
I look up and I can see the lights on the ceiling, and beyond that the fluffy white clouds in the baby blue sky.
I feel so heavy. I don’t think I can make it back up again. I push feebly at the floor, but I don’t get anywhere.
My vision starts to dim, and as I sink limply to my knees, I sigh.
What’s the point of even trying anymore?   I watch the bubbles dance their way back to the surface.
I know I should try again, but I’m just too tired.
Another parade of bubbles escape my parted lips, my drowsy lids slowly close, the thudding heartbeat in my ears lulling me to sleep, and setting the tempo for the tiny  air dancers as they float toward the sky.
In the darkness I feel an immense weight lift from my shoulders, and my eyes fly open.
What’s going on?!
I look to the left and right, everything is still blue. I realize I’m still at the bottom, but I feel weightless.
The pain in my chest is gone and the thumping in my ears. I turn around and look directly into my own face. Understanding hits me like a runaway whale, but I don’t want to believe it’s true. I want to feel sad, yet there’s no emotion trying to overtake me; nothing to fight. I reach out and touch my cold cheek.
Why?  Is the only thing running through my cotton stuffed head. Again I look over my sleeping face, my hand traveling over my features.
I have to be sure.  I gently lift one lid.
The brown eye I look into is dull, empty… lifeless. I expect a train wreck of emotion to come crashing down on me, but I feel nothing.
A flurry of movement above me catches my eye, and I look up to see Mr.Jones jetting down towards me. He reaches my body, quickly wrapping an arm around my stomach.
He kicks off the bottom paddling his way to the surface, my useless arms and legs trailing after him like limp seaweed. I follow him, walking through the smooth blue. Mr.Jones breaks the surface, clenching me to his side as he tows me to the wall.
A waterfall of chlorinated water gushed from my mouth, and I am yanked, like a shard of metal to a magnet, back into my body. I cough and spit, riding my lungs of the foreign substance. Mr.Jones boosts me up on the wall and pats my back until I can breathe again.
My grandmother rushes over and hugs me to her despite the fact that I’m sopping wet. She brushes my hair away from my face and asks if I’m alright.
I do my best to nod, but I don’t think I’m very successful; seeing as I’m shaking so hard. I try to get up, but my legs are like silly string. Gram helps me up and half supports half carries me to the locker rooms.
I stand under the shower in my swimsuit, hot water pelting the top of my head; masking the silent tears that are streaming down my face. Despite the water’s heat, I’m still shivering and my whole body is cold; inside and out.
I get out, towel off, and put on a pair of blue jeans and a plain red shirt. The bright red a comforting change from the cold, clear blue.
I stand in front of the mirror and brush the tangles from my hair, but I won’t look into the mirror. I cant. I’m afraid of what will be staring back at me.
I don’t know how long I stand in front of the mirror trying to make myself look up. It feels like hours. I feel a hand come down on my shoulder and I jump. I look up warily and sigh with relief.
Oh good, it’s just Gram. She says its time to leave and she goes to get my bag. I take a deep breath, cough a few times, and force myself  to face the mirror. Staring back at me is a girl- me yet its not me somehow. Something is different, my hair is the same, my face is the same, but wait!
I lean over the sink, nearly pressing my nose against the glass. Now I see whats so different, what changes everything. I step back from the mirror and stare into the strangely cold, older looking eyes, and think...
*That's me...

Camel Crush.
A blue pack or red.
Squeeze, click,
different taste same effect.
Smoky circles that drift and fade,
a yellow smile traced with shaky hands
and shallow breaths.
Too experienced to cough,
just hold it in and enjoy the burn.
Is there a synonym for cigarettes besides death?

I remember I was the new kid again when I first met you.
I remember a flash or bright orange hair and tan freckles
as you stumbled over my bag.
I remember the exact shade of crimson our faces turned
as we rushed to take blame.

I remember the dusk blue smile in your eyes as you helped to gather
the scrambled contents of my backpack.
I remember avoiding you and the rest of humanity for the rest of the day.
I remember sitting alone on a cold bus seat and suddenly feeling
someone warm sliding in next to me.

I remember the smell of oranges crawling through the air as you introduced yourself
and apologized again for being a klutz.
I remember struggling with shyness for a moment before I could whisper a reply.
And I remember sitting awkwardly in the corner of our seat,
catching a little grin from you out of the corner of my eye after every bump
  that made our shoulders brush.

Everybody calls me Front Porch. It might be ‘cause I’m always in front of the house or maybe it’s just a pet name. Either way I answer to it. I hop down off the railing of our front porch and walk around the big oaks all over the yard. I like the way they turn me all green and how the grass tickles the bottoms of my bare feet. I wonder what I’m gonna play today.
“Hey look, it’s the clown!” a kid yells from the gate, “You know the circus left weeks ago right?”
“Yup!” I yell back, my hands on my hips, “Why didn’t you go with ‘em, Archie?”
“Dang! You look like paper!” another kid, Patrick I think, shouts as he joins Archie at the gate.
“Like you look any better.” I say, turning my nose up at them the way Granma said to when people tease me.
“Hey don’t get mad us at us ‘cause you’re a mutant.” Archie says.
Despite my intentions to ignore them, he’d quipped my interest, “Whadyou mean?”  
“Don’t you know?” Patrick asks, snickering.
“Apparently not, ******.” I say. He glares flamin’ arrows at me, but I ignore him.
“Bein’ albino is a mutation, you know.” Archie says, and gives me a superior look.
I roll my eyes, but make a mental note to ask Momma about it later. I take a few steps back toward the porch to go play soldier and a rock bounces off the grass near my foot. I turn around and one hits me on the arm. It’s gonna leave a bruise.
“The confederates are coming! Protect the flag!” I shout and duck behind an oak. I know Mississippi was part of the confederates, but I’ve always liked the unions. Besides the Civil War was 147 years ago.
“******!” Patrick yells and throws more rocks, but they become confederate bullets in my imagination.  I let loose some fire of my own, the rocks that have landed near me, and I peg Archie right in his pug nose.
“Score!” I shout and pump my fists in the air.
“Alright, that’s enough.” Daniel says, shooing the boys away. “So Momma finally let you dye your hair? Looks nice on you Front Porch.” He says, ruffling my now fire engine red mop.
“I’m not speakin’ to you.” I say, turning around and crossing my arms across my chest.
“Why not?” he asks, scooping me up in a hug.
“A good brother would stop aging and wait for his little sister to catch up. You’re eighteen today, that’s eight years I gotta catch up.” I say, frowning because he’s laughing.
“I’d stop if I could.” He says, setting me on my feet.
“Well I got you a present anyway.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t tell you or it wouldn’t be a surprise.”
He sighs and looks disappointed, but I know he’s faking it.
“Does Momma know you’re out here?” he asks, as we walk up on the porch.
“Nope. She doesn’t ever want me outside, so I had to sneak out.” I say, moving in front of the box with the frog I caught in the creek behind the house in it, “She thinks I’m upstairs.”
“How’d you get down here then?”
“I climbed out the window.”
“Frontia Ann Porch, if you don’t get yourself in this house, you’re gonna get sunburn again!” Momma yells from inside.
“Busted.” Daniel whispers, with a smile.
“Alright Momma, I’m comin’!” I yell back, givin’ Daniel the evil eye. I pick up his amphibious birthday present and hope it doesn’t croak.
It does.

First off I am the ****.
I slap ******* in Target
and steal them electric carts
to get away from the popo
I start low speed chases
down sidewalks on three wheeled motorcycles.
I got arrested, but that's a'ite.

I am the ****.
I start bar fights
with pool cues
and hit ****** with beer bottles.
I throw rocks
through car windows.
I got arrested, but that's a'ite.

I am the ****.
I threaten Subway employees
with my ******* gun
while Suge gets mani-pedis.
I get my motherfucckin' sandwich anyway.
I got arrested, but that's a'ite.

I am the ****.
I got fo kids and I keep my guns in a box.
I smoke ****.
It aint a drug.
Its something you smoke when you want to feel good.
I got arrested, but that's a'ite.

Let me tell you of the day that never came.
The one we thought we’d see
So soon after the night.
Night of fire, day of searing light
That burned all the sinners
All of us,
And dragged us all to hell.
Hell.
Always hot and dry
We can’t wait until it freezes over
Freezes all of them.
All of us.
No more stench of charred flesh
No more black and crumbling bodies
With dry water eyes.
But the day never came
When we’d beg for water-
Ice.
Something other than
The lava forced down our throats on a daily basis.
We are tired of this!
No more, never ever, ever never forever will we
Finish burning
In Hell.
But we never did now did we?
The day never came, and
We
Are forever living.
Maybe more a torture than fire and brimstone.
But the day won’t come when it will all end
Or has it come already and this is our eternal punishment
For being sinners,
Sacrilegious in the way we moved.
And in hell we trudge up hills of spike rock
Carrying boulders the size of pandas with the attitudes of great whites
And all the stripes and teeth of rabid tigers,
Jagged claws of koalas and the ability to scent fear like no other animal can
And they are always afraid
All of us
That maybe one day
the day will come
and we will burn.

Around the christmas tree the family gathers.
Wrapping paper litters the floor
and giggles trickle through the air.
Pause.
Everyone has wishes for christmas.
Marie wishes for her boyfriend
to leave her alone so she won't lose her baby.
Anne wishes for forgiveness
from her husband because she has suspicions
about how her lovers left.
Marcus wishes he  knew
just where his wife's last affair had run off to.
Jason wishes for acceptance
from his parents for him and his boyfriend.
And little Katie wishes she had someone
to talk to when she thinks about ending it all.

After making love we hear footsteps,
Quiet patter of bare feet on the finished oak floor makes us freeze.
No more after-the-act pillow talk.
I feel her skin prickle with fearful goosebumps, her breath catch in her chest.
Her husband doesn’t know.
As the slow beat of our hearts becomes erratic,
They stop.
Silence.
The door creaks as its pushed open
Ever. So. Slowly,
Making me think of a bad horror movie.
The greyblue sheets whisper
Over our sweat damp skin as she clutches them to her *******;
Her impenetrable shield, leaving me cold and exposed.
I want to hide.
Every atom in my body screams at me to do so.
But I lay here, waiting for the creeping door to reveal the intruder.
I listen to her whimper as he looks over us, sprawled across the bed.
His eyes, her husband’s eyes,
Are pinned on me and his face is flushed
I assume with anger as he stalks towards me,
Reaches for me.
The bed sinks as he leans over me,
Not saying a word.

Lets ruin ourselves.*
She'd whisper,
a silken silver siren's song.
I just couldn't resist.
My Di, Dian, Dianna.
She was perfect
In all her savage sateen beauty,
even though she didn't think so.
Her pale chalky skin
stretched over her sharp bones
and her grey-blue eyes
always hidden by her curtain
of inky black hair.
I remember when we would have contests
to see who could overdose first.
A bowl full of little colored pills
was all we ever needed.
And one night
After our potpourri party,
we lay on her bed
In the bliss of oblivion,
Overdose heaven.
Dawn came,
too soon for either of us.
I woke, numbly, but she never did.
And I looked at her, but I didn't cry.
She was my everything
my nothing,
but this was the life we'd chosen
and this was just another night in the ruins.

My place, my secret haven is the forest.
I love it because it’s an escape from the torture of reality that plagues me each and everyday.  
It’s where I can go when I’m close to breaking down and losing my mind.
Where heaven meets Earth, if just for a little while.
Where the wind blows gently through the tree’s shimmering green leaves.
Where the moonlit air warms everything and the nightingale sings the songs of blessed night.
The grass is thick, a carpet of living emerald that’s softer than feathers against travel weary feet.
Flowers the colors of precious jewels cluster in pools of the moon’s love; delighting the eye with their sprightly smiles.
Gaia’s forest children fly through her many wooden arms on light paws and hooves.
Deep within this holy sanctuary lies a waterfall that cascades into a pool and runs off in a waist deep stream. The water is of the clearest blue with fish of brilliant colors and gleaming scales.
The air smells forever fresh, like after a storm, and the heady aroma of pine drifts on soft breezes.
Moonlight plays on the dappled spots of wide-eyed fawns as they romp in the grass under the watchful eyes of their mothers. A lone wolf laps up cool water from the pool after a long run through the trees, and then lies in a bed of grass near a cluster of does in amiable silence.
The chirp of crickets hidden in the brush accompanies the trickling of the waterfall, and the whisper of the wind through the trees.
The faint hooting of a dwarf owl barely disturbs the orchestra of midnight sounds.
The earth sighs in contentment caressing her children in the featherlike grass, as she and they prepare for sleep.
A family of thrushes snuggle in their nest, lulled by the nightingale’s lullaby.
A little ways away silken chrysalis split and Tearful Underwing take their first flight on newborn wings.

i am
three days past
an expiration date
already lost
more than just
the starlighting
seven shades darker
than your ethereal silence
and two missing persons
reports, more than your four

IF you hold this poem up to the light.
it will interpret your dreams.
Just beneath the surface,
the dead use this poem to claim lives.
That is an orphan.
It says this psychic reading may cause it to bleed ink.
It detects irregular heartbeats
by the accidental, the psychological.
This usually means three things:
***, *****, gambling.
When certain people get special powers
dial 1-800-F-O-R-T-U-N-E for only 99 cents per minute.
The mystery is, this poem can crack all family secrets
if you put it under your pillow,
processes that seem to be outside
the physical and natural laws.

I wish she was still here
That girl I let drown
Oh so long ago
Before the hurricanes came
The ones that took the rest of her
Away
Oh so far away
Past the horizon where heat lightning
Strikes the smudge line things
I assume are people or better yet
That I hope are
Me
Finally coming back to the empty
Turtle shell-like thing left
After the rains came
The rains that left me hollow
Like chocolate Easter bunny
Lies
Told to little children
Children who will believe everything
Is gonna be alright just because
Momma said so
Because everything is even though she is
Gone
Forever lost to our growing hands
Always reaching for more
Even when there’s nothing left
To fill our empty hearts
Longing for something other than ever-present
Rain
Angel’s tears turned to searing silver
Bullets trying to pierce me
Though there’s nothing remaining
But a healthy 5.11 skeleton
Living through life just waiting to
Crumble
Like old walls or old cake
Even though it was frozen
In our memories for eternity
Our version of heaven
When we gave up on the everlasting
Life
Was promised us, but people break
Promises, bones, hearts, things
Never to be fixed again
Even when we used Elmer’s glue
The strongest thing we had besides
Love
Which I can never give
Though I’ve tried to
Keep the double edged blade away
So I wouldn’t get hurt
So I wouldn’t have to experience
Death
Something so complete so final
The empty darkness weighing a ton
Though there’s nothing left to hold
No friends or family no lover’s last
Kiss upon soft lips meant only for
Nevermore.

Some days when the sun doesn’t
come out in
the morning and the sky is dark and

grey, sometimes she just wants
to run out into
the storms with her arms out to the sky.

She wishes she’d be struck by
the lightning that
tickles the tops of the trees towering

above her and that her ashes
would fly out
over the winds to some faraway place.

There she would rise like the phoenix
in the stories her
grandmother told her about when she

was but a child and she would
be herself again.
Or maybe for once she’d be

someone else, one of those people
that have enviable lives.
The ones that were like her

mother, or the way she thought
her mother was
because she’d never really known her

in the first place.

Let me tell you
there are things you'll want to do
before you die.

Kiss
every family member
even those you wish
eight feet under.

Tell that family
that you love them.

Tell them not to mourn our death,
to celebrate it.

Make your great nieces and nephews
promise to be good,
even though you know
they'll break that promise,
sooner or later.

Look through those family photo albums
that make you remissness
while you drink wine straight from the bottle.

Take a trip
to those places
you dreamt about,
the ones  you talked about to your spouse
for hours on end afterwards
because they'd felt so real.

Straighten out you will
and leave that obnoxious relative
your ****** sweaters and cheap trinkets.

Take another walk on the cliffs
where you lost your virginity
and had your heart broken,
yell your frustrations into the wind.

Spend the nights
in the arms of the one you love,
every time its better,
impossibly so.

And now that you've done all
the meaningful things,
the things you wont regret doing;
die happy.

A blow
dish a blow
in its pace,
colors.
Marry the horizon.
Right a curve,
navigation.
So immense in a soul
see and pray- repeat.

A blow
dish a blow
In marriage
dont they love-
Roses,
tiny forms
of sable petals
flying through the wind.

A blow
dish a blow.
All aching
no longer
cones of Carnival.
Retracted,
cake crowns.
Those veils
they part solemnly.

A blow
dish a blow.
Paces,
they amble on
tracing the incalculable.
Love, the perfume
is lethal.
They lost and lost.

Phantom footsteps
thrusting bodies into the lithely changing
lights of winter.
A melody of pastelled green,
leaping past the first Spring
into the swirling colors
of neon petals blooming.
When the acrylic shades of night
set, the Summer's nightingale sings
the lullaby of amber afternoons and the decay
of Autumn leaves resting on the ground.

The family sits around the table,
freeze-frame their laughing faces.
Everyone is thankful for something.
The eldest daughter, Marie
is thankful for not having any bruises to hide,
this time.
Her mother, Anne,
is thankful that her husband hasnt found out,
about the seven men she's been sleeping with.
Her husband, Marcus,
is thankful for the gun he bought yesterday
to take care of the men his wife thinks he doesnt know about.
His son, Jason,
is thankful that his 'good Christian' parents
dont know that he finds men attractive.
And his little sister, Katie,
is thankful for her happy family
and that no one can see the cuts she's made
on her legs.

The twelfth time he
willow than others
and old spring breeze
sat in silence
the closest tears
he didn't want
watching his face
"Did you know I cry blood?"
would have called
hazel eyes for tears
a little smile
tugged the legs
was trying to hide
this stupid lovely boy
flesh in several places
broken up
like crazy
we were together again.

There is a war in his bones, &

the violets have lost their colours

between gunfire & shrapnel.

Like petals in the sand, roasting in the

sun’s stare,

the photograph of the woman

he met in Chu Lai has faded.

He can’t remember what her face

looked like once she was buried.

Vô danh was carved into her headstone.

The last rays of starshine broke
up the northern skies
shoved their finger
into the crevices
the horizon cut into the land so
that tomorrow could hide
from yesterday on back
there had been some inconsistencies :

the sun beat the moon to rising
waves stood stock still in rows
of porcelain twilight and - -
The last rays of starshine broke up

i'm afraid to fall asleep
to your faerie lullabies and
find you in a dream, just
whispers in my ear.
can you see the
sorrow on my breath?

i can only taste the rattle
of your bones like sulfur and petals,
like poison.
you are wilted and rotting
in my arms,
the decay of an orchid.

your beauty spent, but
i'll still pillow the pieces
of you that I find in my
hair and under my sheets,
against my tongue and pray
you're still warm.

Glassy gold eyes, perfect porcelain face, ruby red lips, a raven spill of tresses.
Slender white arms, lengthy legs, miniature black shoes, a golden buckle.
Knee length black ruffles, puffed sleeves, a sparkly gold sash snug around my middle.
Round teeny cheeks, a tiny gold bracelet, dainty gold studs punctuate my ears.
A little rouge gives my eyes some life.
Master smiles.
I am a doll.
He checks his pocket watch; my new family is almost here.
He poses me high on a shelf in a pitch black room, my face and limbs giving off an unnatural luminosity.
The ****** of the shop’s bell tells me they’ve arrived; they’ve come to take me home.
An impatient child squeals.
A mother reprimands.
The anxious child gives a quiet complaint.
The mother inquires.
Master answers and comes for me.
The darkness floods with light.
Master’s hands gently encircle my waist.
He whispers caution and presents me to my owner.
The excited child snatches me from his hands, jerking my head back awkwardly.
The daughter of Queen Elizabeth I’s fourth cousin, twice removed.
“The most spoiled brat in all of England,” my Master might say.
She stares into my eyes.
She greets me with joy and a flicker of fear at how lifelike I stare back.
Her mother pays and I am cuddled and cradled.
Over her shoulder I pull back my ruby lips, my sharp grin flashes privately for my Master.
We leave the shop and stroll into the night.
The sound of his laughter echoes triumphantly in our ears.
In the sitting room, the dying embers in the fireplace cast a red glow on their lifeless features.
The door in the foyer creaks, opening.
A smile lights my face.
They have paid the highest price and Master has come to collect his favorite toy.

Tell me where the Sunshine went
And why she won’t come back.
Whatever happened to the sticky little fingers
that would reach through the tree leaves to paint the sky?
The patter of little feet on the linoleum is gone.
The ***** smudges on the walls are all that’s left
of the child the Moonlight once was.
Before she grew tall, and thin, and shapely.
Before she lost herself in yesterday’s storm.
Now she stands above all, cold and untouchable,
as she watches over the stars.
Tell me where the Sunshine went
And why she won’t come back.
Why the night will never cease just like the rain,
as it courses over the Moonlight and masks her tears.
She cries for the Sunshine
that can no longer light the dark
as the stars streak across the sky,
imitating the comets they wish to be.
While the Moonlight stands, faux sunshine, and watches over the stars.
That smudge the walls as they glide across the linoleum.
The pitter-patter of their tiny feet echoing
through the tree leaves they reach through
with pudgy little fingers to paint the sky.
So tell me where the Sunshine went
And why she wont come back.

Can we go back to the times when we could escape?
When we would run across the neighbor's field to the tree,
OUR tree, overlooking the river.
I want to smell the gritty bank mingled with your citrus scent.
I want to hear your secrets again, the ones you'd slip into my mouth
when we kissed.
Do you remember when we held hands and watched the leaves speckle our
skin green and gold?
I want your ocean eyes to warm me more than the sun,
for the grass to bend underneath our weight as skin touches skin.
I want you to sneak home with me again, lock my bedroom door,
and crawl under my blankets to kiss me for real.
I want to run my fingers through your satiny burnt umber hair,
look into those sapphire eyes as my lips mold to fit your pale pink ones,
perfectly.
I think I just want to love you again.

Bathsalts,
Oh bathsalts.
How I love to smoke you
and get so high.
I swear sometimes I bump my head on the clouds.
Epson's your hard sharp crystals
sift through my fingers,
stick under my nails
when I scoop you out of your bag
and dump you in my pipe.
I love the sandy sound you make,
the gritty smell you give off when you burn.
I'll hold you in my lings like a lover
and cough you back out.
I'll embrace the munchies
and eat everything in sight.
You make everything taste better,
especially my neighbors.

Taken out of context
this is an end.

The light of a half
sun has spilled over
the horizon, caked in peach
and the cream of clouds
that the trees in our yard
have bruised the bottoms of.

But what if-
the stars are glowing in
the canvas sky
and the light flickers through
the blinds to pierce
our drowsy eyes? If
the birds are ruffling their feathers
on the fence outside and
the grass is starting dew,

is this still an end?
taken out of context
this is the beginning.

The city is on fire and what a beautiful display.
Flames lapping at charred bodies.
Buildings already just crumbled heaps of stone and steel.
The soft tinkling of glass on the cracked and broken sidewalk,
Screeching police sirens already too late to save them.
The sweet sound of a death scream pierces the smoky night.

The evergreen is burning again
the ashes transcending up into tree heaven
or tree hell,
in other words the fireplace
painted up in festive Christmas colors,
not including the My Chemical Romance posters
singing on the walls.
The only decision left for her to make
is whether or not to let the house burn down.

You don’t come visit your daughter who lives with her grandmother—who don’t like you no way—with your new wife and eight month old son, just before her bedtime.
You don’t tell your little four-year-old daughter “Daddy will ALWAYS be there.” Then leave her with a picture of you and your new family.
You don’t expect to waltz back into her life and pick up right where you left off after 9 years, 10 months, 7 hours, 46 minutes, and 23 seconds of not being there.  Oh yea, she kept count.
You don’t expect her to still love you after all that. When she had nightmares about you leaving her in the middle of nowhere with a ratty little teddy bear with only one eye. When she couldn’t sleep without listening to that Luther Van Dross song at least five times. When she couldn’t blink without seeing your taillights speeding off into the night. When you joined the army to “take care of her.” ***** you got a degree go get a JOB.
You don’t expect her to still be good, perfect. When all her life she thought, “Maybe if I’m a good girl, maybe if I get all A’s all the time. Maybe he’ll come back. Maybe he’ll come hold me again. Take me out for ice cream and gummy bears. “ Even though she knew none of that would ever happen again.
Don’t expect her to still be an angel, when you’ve put her through Hell.

Shut up
SHUT UP!
Let me think
about something else
besides your problems.
I am only human,
let me breathe.
Quiet
QUIET!
I just want to sleep.
Leave me alone
for a little while.
I just want
to live my own life,
for once.
Shh
Shh....
Let me be
myself for a minute.
I want
to take care of me,
not you.
So do me a favor
and ****.

((By WAffle and SÜryp))

The burning sun sets on the horizon.

The fires die away.

Everything black and crumbling.

What were once great buildings float away on the wind, dust.

And night falls upon the charred wasteland of empty dreams.

Stars in the sky.
That we put there for once.
Ones that don’t last long like our lives.
Bright sparks, explosions, excitement.
If only for a moment.
Colors that promise happiness that fades like everything else
Only leaving pale imitations of things that once were.

The final sounds of trumpets fade
in the wake of Horsemen's hooves
after the day of Resurrection,
making way for Adrianna & Edgar.
The last woman & man.

Only this time,
Lucifer made man
from the skin on the bottom
of woman's feet.

She could not decide
whether that meant she was
allowed to tread on him or not.

Instead of creation,
in seven days there was destruction.
The earth tore and buildings crumbled,
leaving spindle arms
like the branches of so many fleshy trees  
sticking out of the rubble.

Adrianna pauses here & wonders
if she should imitate the gesture,
throw her palms to the sky
and wave at the shadows of dying sun.

There are things there
he'd never noticed before.
The crack in the wall
just behind the bed,
that dark spot on the carpet,
the chip in the balcony railing.
She's left again,
the wrinkle on the pillowcase confirms it.
There's a ***** missing, somewhere
that he doesn't care to find.
Another woman warms his bed and
he'd found a scare on her chest.
She didn't seem to realize
she was never there
even when his hands left their watermarks
on the ceiling.

Be a silhouette
                                                                                     Of you, of me
And together we could be
                                                                                      Reflections.
We can stand
                                                                                      On opposite sides of the mirror
While our shadows dance
                                                                                      On the walls.
Black and white imitations
                                                      ­                                 Of our silently screamed whispers
Through slightly frowning smiles.
                                                                                       And when we fall through the floor,
Thicker than helium
                                                                                        We could be
Chalk outlines
                                                        ­                                 Of imagination.

You can't stop saving the people
you know you shouldn't help.
They are the shadows on the walls at night
that call out your name in your dreams.
There are no tomorrows for them,
just the insecurities of yesterday.
You haven't learned to say "No."
and it kills you every time
the words don't come out.