Graceless
You are graceless
She is wingless, like you
Only yours were honorary
Yours she gave to you, so generous
Hers you tore from her
Shoulder blades,
Pulled a feather from every pore
A petal every time
You asked whether or not
She had been in love with you

She was
And she wishes
You were missing the same pieces
That were taken from her
But at the same time
She couldn't hurt a fly
Not on purpose
Nor without consideration
Nor without consequence



Because she knows better than to do what you did.

You cut her
Yet your own blood
Doesn't run with guilt.

You're Graceless
Selfish

Yet not as Graceless
As the young woman
Whom you laid on a metal slab,
Dissected,
And sewed back together
With romantic detachment

You claimed her,
You cut her,
You maimed her,

Don't trivialize her anger
She deserves to feel something again
Let her fly,
Let her fly
*******,

She doesn't  want her family to watch her die

I will do the things
I'm afraid to do

I will drive a car without thinking of
Hydroplaning and rear-endings
I will carve my name into walls
Without thinking about vandalism
I will write this poem on my phone in the bath
Without thinking about electrocution
I will talk to the tall looming figure,
Whoever they may be,
Without looking down on myself
I will read you this poem
Without thinking its even true
I will tell my friends I love them
Without needing them to need me
To love them
 I will tell everyone I'm scared
Without thinking about it being true
I will leave home
Without thinking about comfort
I will get a job
That isn't always comfortable
I will make things that don't have power
Without thinking they need to have power
I will flirt and fall into some arms
Without thinking about the falling part
Or whose arms they are
And I will make love
And I will push away my love
And I will make love with someone else
Without making myself think about
The others I've made love to

But I will think about the others
I've made love to
Because they may not always seem worth
The fear I had to drown in
In order to gasp for air
And I will quit my uncomfortable job
Because I will think I have the right
To never be sweaty under the eyes and arms
And I will delete my friends
Because I stopped talking to them
A year ago when I made love the last time
and quit my job
And I will move back home
And I will stop driving myself elsewhere
And I will stop letting the world know
I have a name
And I will stop writing poems in the bath
And I will stop taking baths,
And I will stop writing poems

And I will try to do these things
I'm afraid to do.

I gave him the plate that I made--the clay that I
Smoothed wrong.
As the artist, I fired it like a master,
Painted it like a saint--but I got it wrong.
My biggest fan said
He could faint.
How disappointed was he--my type-writer-love
The white carnations of our wedding melted like snow
In the blasted coffee
In the aghasted coffee
That scorned it's very existence as much as he.
He who, give or take a few,
Blew many kisses my way--even so I fired that
Mischievous plate--and I gave it to him
And I made him disgusting coffee
As well
That day.

What if I never
Come to terms with
Your
Cockiness?
In another life we
Could be friends
But you prefer
to play poker
Instead of doing
the math
Prefer to play games
Instead of making amends

The story of how
We first met
Goes a little like this;
I was looking forward
To this particular
Class
Until I saw you
Walk in--
I was caught off guard
And on a whim
I refused to push away
The first thought
Which came to my head,
And it was that
Your haircut made me
Want to punch you
In the face.

Love, mostly hate.
Things would be much
Easier
If your brain was
In the right place
It is much too low
For my taste
Stop trying to impress me,
Don't test me
I only have one face

So to thine own self
Be true
And perhaps I'll actually
Like the things you do--
You're quite the hunk
After all
Though you're not
Quite as tall as
I previously thought
You shrank with
Impertinence
The gossip fits you
Like a glove

What are you so afraid of?
Did I scare you
When I said "No"?

Last night the sun didn’t set--
it fell.
It fell into the depths
of the ocean,
it fell into an abyss of stars.
No light is shed on your eyes
anymore, I am not
distracted by their
understanding hue.
The light fell from your smile,
and now every time
it feels new,
almost unfamiliar.
The sun fell from an era


Of longing, of ailment,
of competition, of pseudo-romance.
The room I made for you
in my heart
has no windows and the lightbulbs are out.
The future I made for you
in my mind
is dark.

Lover,
Huntsman,

Burn a dove's heart in your--
campfire.
Serve it to me
in a saucer of tea.
"May your smiles fade to red
& green, sire."
The page will say.
In reply.
And like that our love will die

My breath goes to you
Not my dying breath, but the
bubbles from this sigh

Performing a storm
Is straining a chord, heart-string
Or a lightweight step.

There's a rainy state
State of mind
Mind not heart
Heart is too fickle
Fickle and amorous too
Too much so to contain
Contain the rainy state
State of mind
Mind not body
Body is too present
Present, not a gift
Gift is too shiny, glimmering
Glimmering like raindrops
Raindrops that never smile

I.
He doesn't have a
harmonious voice but he
does know what soul is

II.
She hated his song.
But, secretly in love, she
forgave him for it

The worst part is
I don't need to make amends
because I didn't
do anything wrong.
Not in my whole life.

I've done nothing
to earn years beyond my age.
You can only believe my words
mean something,
you can only feel something,
you can't make it exist.

"You're a doctor, right?"
he said as he lifted his shirt
"Tell me, is this normal?"

Across his torso were threads
of red, rose, gold
coinciding with black
They circled, they swirled, they turned,
They stretched upward
from his ribs, and from his gut
and became the shape
of a heart

I said, "I knew you were
hiding something."

You know you're sick
when your body is in constant need of warmth,
head aching like a broken heart,
and you know it's not within your control yet
somehow you are to blame.
Trust me, I've been there.
I know that feeling, that disease.
There isn't anything more tragic than
a bad habit which
you don't seem to feel the need of
breaking.
And so, in a way, you're always
breaking the good ones
until you get the chance, the time,
the motivation to build them back up again.

I'm here to tell you
it's no use,
your determination to
cause destruction.
To **** isn't to create,
to ****** isn't to make something
beautiful out of this
personal violence.
Be kind to yourself.

Today
my head is a garden
and I am keeping the flowers
from rotting, the peppers,
pears, peaches, and co.
from ripening.
And though I wish I could
clip these producers
the way a China Doll
clips her nails
I vow not to do so
wholeheartedly,
For soon these musings will
choose to die.

By lunch
the weeds will come up.
And they will have work to do
they will have work--
We have work to do!
The green lush fills me
too full,
Whatever words they make
I can't even tell,
but at least I have enough
Common Sense
not to shoot [them out of]
myself.

Tuesday's got a broken hot rod
It drives too slow, or doesn't go
Tuesday's got a lazy day ahead,
has creativity at best
has no productivity
but many things to arrest
And she's not only a loner
driving on a road,
she just doesn't want an answer
wants to keep her glow
Where is it?
Not where she thinks it is
Not in the trunk
not in the birdcage with the canary
not in the pistol in her kiss
Where is Tuesday going?
Not to Wednesday, that's for sure
Thursday's daydream makes her
unable to settle down anymore
She smiles, the sun is setting
If only Tuesday could learn to fix
that broken hot rod already

Morning to me is watching the boy eat
while I impatiently tap my book
with a pencil.

Singing,
"Excess ain't rebellion
Your drinkin' what they're sellin'..."
while he painstakingly tries
to play air guitar and grab strawberries
at the same time.

My favorite time of day
is when it's too early to lie to myself
in small ways,
or even in positive ways.

Makes the dew damper felt,
though the coffee more disgusting,
sunlight brighter,
though shadows darker,
secrets less loud,
though truth remains quiet and tired

I am afraid for
what he would do if one day
he caught me crying

Tell mother I found my way
and this time I'll stay

Tell insegnante I've got something to say
and it all still sounds the same
but I'm saying it my way

Tell my favorite songs
I think they're too long
because they contain
more than what I've seen

Yell at the devil for being too loud,
leaving me deaf, though I hear
well enough, and tell him I've heard,
well, enough of his cliche,
heavy metal crowd

Yell at the band wagon
Tell it to stop for an oil change,
and make sure it never rides again
Its passengers have something to say,
though they don't want to stay
but they don't want to go away,
though their noses are too long,
and there's no fire in their song

Tell them to say it their way
though they want to runaway
from their minds and from their hearts
while never growing apart
They can't have the best of both worlds
My mind curls

to the beat of its own bongos
and shades of pink and red and black
I find I don't lack

firm ground,
but am more abundant in frowns
sometimes more abundant in smiles.
Depends on the weather.

After  the people leave, that's when
I know where I've come,
how far I've come back to them

So tell my best friend I'm still intact
Tell the crowd I'm not out-of-whack
Tell my favorite songs I've turned them into facts
Tell all poets their words aren't to blame
Tell mother that I'm okay

"So you're a writer?
That must be what brings you here.
Tell me where you've been."

Warm water turned cold

by winter's flair, And the memory

is still there

folding like its own waves. Hear blood rushing in your ear,

the memory speaks

to you through conch shell. Its sussurus

sounds blue, warm black,

hues of a silvery orange, gold green. And when you step

in the water you think of

the way it had reflected your gleeful posture. The way everyone

advanced on the

translucent blue with texture like crumpled paper. When ice

did not threaten your toes

but instead gave all limbs flight. All this

undefinable like jazz...

Do what you know is right
The fae-eyed stare
Pulls you outward
Thank them for the cool air
Brushing your feverish hair
Stop walking
Sit down before the world
Falls on your shoulders


I care enough to
bake a batch of innocence
before I go and
I struggle with my sweaters
everytime that it snows
And some days are more
difficult
than others, yes I'm not
often present in front
of the mirror
But give me a little time
to buy new furniture
And put things back
where they belong
Won't be long

Soon
I will swim without falling
Soon
I'll be able to observe
strangers while sitting
on a park bench
without being accused
of stalking

Soon
I can pause
for comedic timing [thank you, thank you]
Soon
maybe I'll have a new
best friend who I can
make out with
strings attached
And he'll like my hair
(...as much as I do)
Soon
people will say things
and really fathom
their words
They're wrong--
Won't be long

Until
I have a little fun
Until
I get to see someone
fall in love
Until
we crash and dance and
burn simultaneously
as if dying after living
only a short time
that felt long
Until
I die alone but maybe
a bit happy on the side
Then until
I live again

You say to yourself,
"Do what you know is right
and hang strife from the sun"
How do I know when I've
won?
("Won" is just a letter
and an apostrophe from
"won't"
And that's the funny thing
The future hasn't
met us yet, but it knows
how to play games)
Here's the perfect analogy
ever created:
To reach the answer
is to dig down down down
to china!

Yet doesn't it feel like
a daydream?
Like befriending your
favorite celebrity or perhaps
even seeing the end
of a war begun before
your lifetime

When all you can do is

Sit down, stop walking
before the future clutches
your arms, pressing
hard.
This is when you pull outward
and away.
You stare with those
unblinking, glassy eyes
who look omnipotent because
you're middle-aged and
they contain the
words from your wild youth.
(And with these words I can say
'I love you', future which I
will come to know.)

The closet which is warm
and cautious
has enough goals to drive-by
Hit-and-run ridding of
the winning that I live by
I struggle to walk in flip-flops
in the summer
But remind me that I'm
somewhat lost and I enjoy it,
sort of, once in a while,
Especially when everything
comes together again

The chair wheels are caught
On the carpet and I don't
Want to speak aloud.

The globe on top of
the cabinet wants to fall
Has a world of woes

Hundreds of orders behind but never
never
never
Never quite
out of business. I cut my finger often
but my carvings are cut, always
must be.
I owe the people wooden hearts
to call their own.
And I owe myself a living,
living with clocks and statues and cabinets
for some purpose
known by God.

Eyes are sensitive
Heart is foul on the outside
But you are moving on

Study your hopes and
fails; you might find you will grow
weary of it all

You deserve that new leopard print dress
you bought to straighten your figure.
You’re tired of A-line dresses that hide your broad hips.
Your new dress has no form, but it clings to you
Like an ex-boyfriend whom you deserve better than.
Your new life is doesn’t replace the old one; they are co-dominant traits.
The fact that it feels new has nothing to do with
The new threads hanging on your shoulders, weightless but slightly burdensome.
Your face is older but it looks better to you.
You sweat less in these drafty spaghetti straps, and when you do
The beads don’t reach the edge of the armholes;
They just keep sliding down to your hips.
This is natural for you and if you would just let your hips dance
You would find the sweat cools their pink-hot heat.
You may be sore afterward, but your mind is usually sore anyway
From recalculating and budgeting your love.

By the time I get home from rehearsal,
The world has stopped.
I'm watching the movie
You've Got Mail,
and earlier the director said
our cast had finally achieved art.
Tom Hanks is a businessman
with the heart of a philosopher.
Kathleen saw a butterfly
on the subway
She thinks it went to
Bloomingdale's to buy a hat--
I envision monarchs
preferring kimonos.