torn up lace
and cracking glass bottles
         holding tiny sails and ships

feather pens
and creamy gold paper
         hold words from soft ruby lips

and out of the hand
slipped the delicate chain
and down it fell through the cracks….
until nothing was left
but the memory

of the legend of Pirate Jack

I’m feeling out of order
like inside my pocket
pulling out the pieces
and the crumpled bits of paper
are covered in crumbs
and sticking to my sweating, nervous, palms
as I look for the dollar
as the line grows longer
and the lady at the counter
taps her too-long nails
and stares cold and empty through the laughter
when I find my dollar's gone
when I reach through the hole
and there is nothing left to do
but trudge along home.

bare feet by the creek, cold mud
it’s quick-mud, like quick-sand, slithers up
between your toes
I bet it could swallow you right up
October, maybe, maybe November
swear there are fairies in these woods,
swear it. I do. Can you eat those little red berries
that grow on the bushes?
Lullaby, say your prayers. Pray to the almighty
maker of twigs and leaves and
shallow ponds- slip and slice your toe on a rock,
don’t let them see you crying
your face was cold but your tears were hot
there are no daisies left this time of year
to make a crown with
but I’m still the queen of the forest.
You can’t laugh at me.
I’ll break your arm.

I knew a man who looked like an egg.
His shoulders,
they did this odd thing where they
drooped.
He was a rather droopy man.
His shoulders
sort of melted into his body like
those eyeballs in “Raiders of the Lost Ark”
sliding slickly down into a congealed mess.

It was worse after he shaved his beard.

There was this flabby bit of skin that the beard had previously concealed.

It connected his chin to his chest,
smudging his entire body
into this perfectly oval shape

that rested upon chicken legs.

You know that question
that overused
“What came first, the chicken or the egg?”
question?

I think I found the Queen Mother of them both.

There is an *****
inside of my chest
that squeezes out liquid
to feed to the rest

It keeps me alive,
sustains my breathing,
but with its attributes
it is quite deceiving-

My very own heart!
It’s tied to a string
that is tangled with yours
and all that you bring.

In the palm of your hand-
I feel that I’m only in the palm of your hand
and that I fit there, so tiny,
like a fairy, curled up
inside of a tulip
and safe and content
to sleep,
softly
and
serenely
and
lovely,
with tiny shoes
that always fit.

But, oh, it’s just not fair,
that I can do no more than spin tales and enchant
and there is nothing I can do
there is nothing  to do
looking up from below
that will keep you safe
from you,
for you,
around you.
I’m
sorry.
I’m nothing more
than a tickle at your ear.

I can sit here, yes?
You don’t mind.
You hold me, not trembling.
I think if I just breathe,
you understand
and leak your strength into me
starting with my bare toes
all the way into my brain.
You let me rest.

May I live here, please?
Just us two.
You and I, lovely and free.
I think if I’m alone,
I’ll be myself
and find life within myself
starting with my red heart
leaking to my pale face.
We’ll be okay.

catch your dreams, they say,
those glittering, fluttering, taunting, phantoms
vague and undefined,
but promised to be sweet

make us proud, they say,
because only cowards don’t follow their dreams,
meek and useless,
you waste of flesh and blood

You know, I have heard
that the world is filled with some beautiful things,
and my heart pounds-
head spins- thinking of them.

But my god,
I feel so
****
tired.
and there has to be more
than this.

How can I be so dispensable?
Useful, perhaps,
but dispensable.

Like toothpaste
that you squeeze
and squeeze
and squeeze
until I’ve run dry
and there’s nothing left
that I can give to you,
so you don’t put me away
with your knick knacks and treasures
but place me in the trashcan
without a second thought,
a fond memory,
or kind goodbye.

Goodbye.

I could really go for some sort of surgery right now.
The sort that I could just
open my chest like a door,
swing it open, creaking treasure-chest,
to reveal that throbbing *****,
just to make sure it’s all connected,
because I swear to god it’s there,
but I can’t help but do more than  gaze at it with disdain
and mild amusement.

Forget the hands that held yours:
remember your spine.

Wear your hair how you like it.
Stay up late to sleep through the day.
Research what that lump is in your back.
Do nothing about it.
They tell me: You look prettier when you smile.

They tell me: You have no right to remember,
Because it made you sad.

sharp pangs of anger make me bitter, make me cold


until

you touch my face
or

graze my elbow
or

look my way

and
I
melt.

Shoe laces- unraveling
spilling down the stairs
Raw blisters- ceaseless throbbing
soles begin to tear:
worn out,
torn up,

Pulled In.

I think I’ll like it here.


Soft crashes- they’re echoing
murmur into fizz
Singing wind- it’s gesturing
“come and see what is:”
lovely,
striking,

Haunting.

Moved by the water’s kiss.


Loud voices- painful screeching
pierce into my skin
People laugh- unnoticing
of others’ pain within:
begging,
hopeless,

Smiling.

I cannot help but grin.

Glass figurines and teacups,
china dolls and painted plates,
I’ll pile them all in your hands,
and like a child,
         I will wait-

I’ll wait for you to break them,
but I’ll pray they don’t shatter-
if the pieces hit the ground hard,
they’ll slice through
        my gray matter,

and then I won’t comprehend
what is left of me at all,
beyond pieces left of trinkets
and the man
        who could not fall.


Darling, I hate to say this,
but I swear you must be blind
if you can’t see how much I hang
on each word
        that you design

and ship off and send my way
and the rest that you forget
and I am constantly a wreck
of what you
       have not said quite yet.

I’m tired of your wit, you know.
Tired of your apathy show.
To think that to not give a ****
makes you a better, (wiser) man!

I’m tired of these gross facades
that you rule the world, that you are god.
Quite frankly you are all the same-
I’ve broken you and found your game.

You add a pause, then charming word,
then smirk as if you’d gone unheard.
And all the books and movie screens
are draining out their blood, it seems.

So give me something beautiful,
without wit, but sparkling with soul.
Give me words that grow like vines
out of this production line.

You might not have noticed,
but
I whisper so that
I don’t frighten you,
muttering masterpieces
in the shower,
to the dripping drips of the coffee ***,
veiling my genius under corded sweaters,
keeping the secrets of the universe locked behind my lips.

You might not have noticed
my chapstick-smoothed lips,
but
they have more things to do
than speak to you,
Nerves trembling underneath origami-paper skin
as our lips meet,
myself a connoisseur of kisses,
and I mean kisses,
I am in control-

You might not have noticed
I am utterly in control
of
absolutely every room that I walk into.
I’ll pull eyes toward myself with the furtive glances
that I keep safely in my pocket
and even the
golden bubbles of champagne
leap to meet my tongue.

nothing surrounds me
but the deep shade of indigo
that I am lost in,
speckled with diamonds
and sparkling with the lustrous satin glow of the moon.
I want to melt into it.

I feel beautiful-
the ground is cool against my skin
as I lie undressed,
the wind kissing me,
its touch foreign and divine, exploring and gentle.
I want to give myself to it.  

And while I am lost,
your lips graze my bare shoulder
and I turn to You
and stare hard at You-
your hands are warm as you pull my body close to yours.

You are the universe.
I want to melt into You.
I am yours.