Jul 2012
The Scalding Openness Of An Open Palm. Cradling The Broken Syllabubs Of A First Name, Between Flesh And Bone, Between Thumb And Forefinger, The 'E' And The 'A' Estranged Lovers. The 'L' And The 'H' A Mangled Broken Record Of "I'm Sorry"s. The Letters Falling Apart As If They Are Afraid, Embarrassed Almost To Be Seen Together. Someone Closes The Fist, And Silences Them.
I Am Sure They Weren't Aware That The Anciently Intimate Lines Of My Mother's Face Had Pulled A Loud Smile Across Her Lips, Traced Fingertip To Wrist Across The Swollen Plains Of Her Stomach And Imagined This Name, Written In Silver, Traced Across My Flesh Like A Second Skin. I Am Sure They Hadn't Known This When They Held My Name In The Palm Of Their Hand, Opened Up To Its Delicate Petals, Something So Easy To Slaughter, Hello My Dear Hero.
It's The Sick Stick Of Death On Your Tongue Before You Even Have The Chance To Speak It, Removing Each Individual Petal, Plucking Them Their Center
One The Absence Of Any Hue In My Skin, Dark Enough To Add An Identity That My Clawed Fingertips Could Hold On To, Although Guilt Has Turned Me Several Shades Of Scarlet Once Before.
Two The Brittle Backwash Of Rocks Against The Bared Molars Of My Back Teeth. How Do You Say It Again? Where Does It Come From? What Human Vessel Carried It, Clinging To His Chest For Me To Wear Like Both A Battle Scar, And A Metal Of Honor? This Unpronounceable Character Building Beauty Laces My Fingers With Regret, So That I May Whisper One Day "I Am So Sorry For Not Knowing Your Name" When I Do Finally Meet Him.
Three The Crucible Of Color Found Behind Closed Eyelids, Like A War Was Happening Inside Myself Before I Even Had The Opportunity To Open My Eyes
Four The Way The Word Poet Seems Too Open To Me, Like A ***** Word In Different Language, Yet To Be Defined, I Want It To Be Mine, But I Know That It Can't Be.
Five My Father Will Tell You That When I Was Little I Talked A Lot. He Says That I Liked To Fix Things. But These Days I Spend My Time Mending Things That Don't Consider Themselves Broken Until After I Am Through With Them.
Six I Cried When They Cut Down The Tree In Our Backyard. Watched It's Bowed Limbs, Hit The Ground, Like Dream Catchers, Felt The Trunk Of Its Spine Splinter, Under The Weight Of A Thousand Gravity's. The Earth Quaked, As If Saying Goodbye To An Old Friend. She Tells Me That I Am Overly, And Excessively Attached To Strange Things.
Seven The Primal Wet Hot Heat Between Bone And Brain At The Base Of My Skull, Whispering That The Sweet Siren Call To Depravity Is Not Too Far Behind. Meant To Bring You To Bowed Knees, Step One Foot Closer. There Is A Ten Story Drop Between Me, And Heaven. And Tonight I Think I Willing To Take It.
Eight I Hold A Hundred Years Of Waged Weaponry Between My Ribs. Built A Body Out Of Bullet Shells And Have Learned That It's About The Honesty, And The Warmth Of Human Connection. Because We Are Solar Systems, And Grains Of Sand, Revolving Around One Another Like The Two Sides Of A Coin, Ready To Be Kissed By A Shoreline, And Pulled Back Out To Sea To Begin Again.
Nine Tonight I Will Be A Classic Work, Like Edgar Allen Poe. So For This One Moment I Will Worthy Of Literary Merit, Of Scholars, And That Place In The Center Of My Chest Will Be Glowing. Throbbing At All Hours Of The Morning, So This Once I Will Be Enough To Be Quoted, Worthy Enough To Be Remembered.
Ten It's Voice Is So Weak. Tender Almost, It's Name Has Been Carved Into The Meadow Of It's Velvet Valley. I Pull Down The Collar Of My Shirt, To Press The Petal To My Bare Skin. It Speaks Half English, And Half God. It Tells Me That I Am Weeping To Be Made Real. It Says That I Am A Fragile, Starry Eyed, Empty Handed, Soft Spoken Work Of Art. It Whispers That I Have Sunsets In My Skeleton, And That The Molecules Of My Form Had Never Before Existed Before This Moment. The Curve Of My Spine, The Updraft Of My Eyelashes, The ***** Of My Cheek Bone, It Says "Close Your Eyes, Love, You Are Swelling And Swallowing Yourself Whole, You Are Immortal, And You Aren't Going Anywhere."
I Am Sure They Weren't Aware That The Anciently Intimate Lines Of My Mother's Face Had Pulled A Loud Smile Across Her Lips, Traced Fingertip To Wrist Across The Swollen Plains Of Her Stomach And Imagined This Name, Written In Silver, Traced Across My Flesh Like A Second Skin. I Am Sure They Hadn't Known This When They Held My Name In The Palm Of Their Hand, Opened Up To Its Delicate Petals, Something So Easy To Slaughter, Hello My Dear Hero.
It's The Sick Stick Of Death On Your Tongue Before You Even Have The Chance To Speak It, Removing Each Individual Petal, Plucking Them Their Center
One The Absence Of Any Hue In My Skin, Dark Enough To Add An Identity That My Clawed Fingertips Could Hold On To, Although Guilt Has Turned Me Several Shades Of Scarlet Once Before.
Two The Brittle Backwash Of Rocks Against The Bared Molars Of My Back Teeth. How Do You Say It Again? Where Does It Come From? What Human Vessel Carried It, Clinging To His Chest For Me To Wear Like Both A Battle Scar, And A Metal Of Honor? This Unpronounceable Character Building Beauty Laces My Fingers With Regret, So That I May Whisper One Day "I Am So Sorry For Not Knowing Your Name" When I Do Finally Meet Him.
Three The Crucible Of Color Found Behind Closed Eyelids, Like A War Was Happening Inside Myself Before I Even Had The Opportunity To Open My Eyes
Four The Way The Word Poet Seems Too Open To Me, Like A ***** Word In Different Language, Yet To Be Defined, I Want It To Be Mine, But I Know That It Can't Be.
Five My Father Will Tell You That When I Was Little I Talked A Lot. He Says That I Liked To Fix Things. But These Days I Spend My Time Mending Things That Don't Consider Themselves Broken Until After I Am Through With Them.
Six I Cried When They Cut Down The Tree In Our Backyard. Watched It's Bowed Limbs, Hit The Ground, Like Dream Catchers, Felt The Trunk Of Its Spine Splinter, Under The Weight Of A Thousand Gravity's. The Earth Quaked, As If Saying Goodbye To An Old Friend. She Tells Me That I Am Overly, And Excessively Attached To Strange Things.
Seven The Primal Wet Hot Heat Between Bone And Brain At The Base Of My Skull, Whispering That The Sweet Siren Call To Depravity Is Not Too Far Behind. Meant To Bring You To Bowed Knees, Step One Foot Closer. There Is A Ten Story Drop Between Me, And Heaven. And Tonight I Think I Willing To Take It.
Eight I Hold A Hundred Years Of Waged Weaponry Between My Ribs. Built A Body Out Of Bullet Shells And Have Learned That It's About The Honesty, And The Warmth Of Human Connection. Because We Are Solar Systems, And Grains Of Sand, Revolving Around One Another Like The Two Sides Of A Coin, Ready To Be Kissed By A Shoreline, And Pulled Back Out To Sea To Begin Again.
Nine Tonight I Will Be A Classic Work, Like Edgar Allen Poe. So For This One Moment I Will Worthy Of Literary Merit, Of Scholars, And That Place In The Center Of My Chest Will Be Glowing. Throbbing At All Hours Of The Morning, So This Once I Will Be Enough To Be Quoted, Worthy Enough To Be Remembered.
Ten It's Voice Is So Weak. Tender Almost, It's Name Has Been Carved Into The Meadow Of It's Velvet Valley. I Pull Down The Collar Of My Shirt, To Press The Petal To My Bare Skin. It Speaks Half English, And Half God. It Tells Me That I Am Weeping To Be Made Real. It Says That I Am A Fragile, Starry Eyed, Empty Handed, Soft Spoken Work Of Art. It Whispers That I Have Sunsets In My Skeleton, And That The Molecules Of My Form Had Never Before Existed Before This Moment. The Curve Of My Spine, The Updraft Of My Eyelashes, The ***** Of My Cheek Bone, It Says "Close Your Eyes, Love, You Are Swelling And Swallowing Yourself Whole, You Are Immortal, And You Aren't Going Anywhere."
