i told my mother
this place haunted me in my sleep
feverish
sweet-syrupy, drowning in other people's memories

he reminds me of someone a long time ago
small and broken
tough, i even remember
that other person saying
if he ever got a tattoo, it would be a smiley face
on his arm--
exactly the same as the one this boy has.
he wakes up with the dust of last night's numbness
in his eyes, washes it out first thing with a warm beer
and stumbles around the ***** glasses, tripping
over the bits of broken rules on the floor, fumbling
for a slightly crumpled cigarette.
he says good morning when it's three oclock in the afternoon,
because bedtime was nine am, and creatures only come out at night--
because he feels safer in the dark,
because there's something
inside him that cracked once
and will never grow back, something inside him
that i bruised and made him give to me, made him hold me
as if i were the damaged one.

i know these small dark spaces so well--
i sleep right next to them, try not to roll over
and fall in. these cavities dark like
dilated pupils, huge and haunting, pulling the light away
i remember this face but i don't know
where have we met? you couldn't be the boy i knew
and yet
you're so familiar.

The mannish boy I am
the boy you see before you stand
unless you hear the cry
you could'nt understand
you cannot see
for you
do not believe
as I stand right here
right here before you
you refuse to see
depiction
restriction
inside our crucifiction
as our lord let us live
oh' he let us live
but not with him
only within'
if that is what you wish
but is that what you wish ?
his eyes is of sadness
for we, the people
are the murderes of sin
born to good and evil
saints of insanity
devils of reality
so why do we keep
on forgetting
for the rest of our lives

Our words are but codes
to emotions as we feel
can you decipher mine
can you feel what I feel
grasp what you may,
I cannot promise you tomorrow, only today..
and with that - we yearn for a way
an insight to our lives
gained through heartache and pain
so I ask again
do you feel what I feel
my lover, my mother, my lord and my friend
whichever you are
may you enrich
may you seed and sow
with the tears of the rain
from above and down below
for all is known in the shade of light
the shade of light will shine bright
on the promised night
but only for you
and those who hold the truth
insight

Before bed I poured my joy into a jar on the stand,
and when it was full
flecks of light glided around our bodies.
Her ears sang a lo-fi lullaby
as her eyelids caught each fleeting note.
When you look away from me
what are you trying to hide?
Our wild skin cooled on cotton
as our minds dipped
into fragments of what pains us.
Get close to me.
During the moment I was sad because
I imagined myself as an old man
forgetting most of it.
We didn’t invent a new thing,
just a simple thing so simple it was beautiful.
And when you finally spoke
only the sensation of touch was left of me.

My body is not poetry.
My spine is curled up
into a question mark
from centuries of insecurity
and the weight of the
worlds trapped in my skull.

My thighs are canvases for
atlases, road maps, and
interstate highways that lead to
nowhere. Or everywhere.
They’re big enough for both.

Not when my hands
are the kind that are meant to tremble
not the kind meant to be held.

My hips are not made
for you to skim
your hands over.
They are guideposts:
between (here) and (here)
lies a dreadfully broken girl.

My body is not poetry.
Because it won’t last as long as
dried ink on yellowed, musty pages.
Because it breaks more easily
than the cracked spines
of a beloved, well-read book.
Because it is not something that
soothes the soul and
makes my heart ache all at once.

My body is not poetry.*
Mostly because I’m
just a little afraid
of anybody who would be able
to read me so well
to put me into words.

I have a few unhealthy habits that my therapist wants me to shake.
Chewing my nails is a nervous habit, he says.
Smoking cigarettes is only a crutch, he says.
Gorging/starving is a personality flaw, he says.
Drinking alone will cause problems, he says.
Falling for those who are leaving, have left, or are simply out of reach is a death wish, he says.
Hating yourself simply won't do, he says.


Tonight,
a hot summer night,
spent cigaretteless,
loveless,
and sleepless,
teach me more about myself
than Doctor Eric Schlanger, L.C.S.W.
ever could.

I know not about the feelings I have,
and the urges I get.
I know not when they'll come,
how long they will last,
and what my actions shall be.

I'm a mess.
This is the only way to describe it.
I'd rather breakdown in your arms,
than be at ease alone.

I walked the path that wound
alongside the river

It was along this bend that settlers had their boats
dashed on the rocks by nature's unexpected fury

I wanted to see the river,
these rapids that turn the world,
this reminder of earth's power

So I stepped off the path
and headed down the bank
over rocks and bushes

And aside from the static white noise
of water, the first thing to greet me
at the edge was a cross

Two simple sticks, with a ribbon
draped over its outstretched arms

The unmistakable symbol of a life lived
and a life lost

The only thing between me and the rushing water
was this
               monument
                                     to
                                           mortality

For some reason
this terrified me more
than any man-made disaster can

This was nature,

Pure and indifferent

My mind wandered to the obvious void

This space that used to be occupied
by a living, breathing being

Someone with fears and joys of their own
Someone who had seen things and known people
Someone who had stood where I am standing right now

But who were you?

And who missed you?

What was your name?

What did you love?

Did you fall?
Or did you leap into the waiting arms of the river?

Were you afraid, as I am, standing here
just inches away from something that can't be controlled?

I have so many questions that will never be answered,
except by the deafening rush of water, and the

Cold spray of mist at my face

moon light shined off the irisis of her eyes,
creating the tides,
she brung in the waves
that once use to wash up upon your heart;
soaking up the sea foam
from within your veins,
the esquisite lining
around every tear drop
that had fallen into the ocean,
reached your soul;
they cried out, the pain,
the heart ache, the sorrow,
you felt it, you felt it all;
you then knew,
she was apart of you, again