I have fought with my wings with a disrespectful son
I have fought for my wings on a garden of fire and rage
and I will be painted across the stars
eternal, all-knowing
So give me my wings
let me fly away
Stop holding me down
Pull out the pushpins, I need to fly
I need to be
Pull out the pushpins and let me go
Stop fighting so hard to keep be grounded
let me fly across the sky and find my way home

Gold glitter
Only stays on the ceiling
When the upholstery is gray.

Church gyms are suddenly
Piggy banks to play
Basketball upon.

I will draw a city on
The bulletin board
And owl pushpins will inhabit it.

My mind is no longer in a
Casing of gray rick-rack
And suppositions I do not feel.

It is a precarious thing to
Play a solar piano
Under the midday sky.

Have you ever heard
A pumpkin-flavored
Volkswagen van?

It happened suddenly
That everything I could possibly
See became a photography contest.

your words are pushpins.

pushpins that held my dreams in place
on the wall of lilac lies
that you built around me.

they left termite holes
in the gypsum board
that remind me

of how useless a promise can be.

-Parsley flakes
-Cheap pens
-Memo notebook
-Breaded fish filets
-1% milk
-Bleach for the bathroom floor
-Brillo pads
-Italian Wedding soup
-Instant meals
-Pushpins
-2 cans of fruit cocktail

      Man, I grew up on fruit cocktail.
      Waxy cherries, see-through grapes, grain pineapples,
      and wrinkled peaches bathing in thick syrup,
      waiting to see 1990s kitchen lights.

      But it probably costs $2, or more, now.
     And I've got a car I need to keep runnin',
      a house I gotta keep standin',
      a job I have to keep goin' to /
      keep bustin' my *** for.
      I guess I can see how things go
      in the next few years.
      Maybe it'll be in paste form then.

In that,
the tiny pushpins
that invade my clumsy pulse.
In that
I find you
in that-
the electric scarf
I wear around my neck
Insomuch I find
you choke me
so I am not wordless,
I am not without screaming-
dripping and falling from my lips
wrapped like gifts of mortar
more out than in
no I am not wordless.
I see you and tiny electric pulses
dance on me
dice through me
I feel you
touch so perfect
like a violin string
strung-
strung taught
tight against my mouth
tight against you leaving.
I am sensory.
I am sound that bounces angry
I am sound that chisels
the prayers of the prayer wheels
upon the bumps of my spine.
listen, listen
for your footfalls
and you will touch me,
perfect touch
of space and air
and fingertips that have no bones
no skin
just a note on a
cello-of a touch
and a kiss from behind my neck
a strangle,
such the kiss is tight.
tiny electric pulses through me,
oh, love,
for the tiny electric pulses
that bounce through,
move me.
prayers on the prayer wheel
spinning.
sahn 01/22/15

the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now empty.

i packed everyone's bags,
gathered the last pushpins
from the wall in the kitchen,
and went on with my life.

i made sure to grab
the books we'd hidden in the attic
as well as the photo album
you'd stashed under the floorboards.

i opened the curtains
and then swept the floors.
i made our bed for the last time
and collected the closings
of the dust on the mantelpiece
that nobody ever cleaned.

i got two extra boxes
for all of the medication unfinished.
i marked them "fragile", for they were glass capsules
containing the substance needed to keep my daughter alive.
but her illness didn't **** her.

i was well aware of the dog's bed,
and it found a place
in the passenger seat of my suv.
his quiet whimpers and cries
were all i heard that evening
as i drove away from what once was my life.

when i finally got to my feet again,
i returned to making dinner for myself.
i only knew how to cook for seven,
and i found tranquility in washing things in sevens.
now i made food for one
and washed for one.

i accidentally brewed two coffees this morning,
in hopes you were still here to take it
and laugh at me for making it too strong,
but you're not.
i awoke at noon the day before and sobbed,
for i was used to being awoken by child's laughter
and small bodies climbing into our bed.

tomorrow, i will bring your briefcase to work
and leave it on your desk.
i'll collect it when i go to leave
and frown at the fact you never opened it.
i'll dispatch you three times in the field,
but you won't respond.

i used to see our wedding day,
but now i see your funeral.
i used to see our children's births;
but i've gotten used to their bodies in morgues.

your physical features
become the trauma described during your autopsies,
and our family photos
became the ones used in the funeral program.

the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now a house;

a house with things
that even i can't pack away.

well, she's a pretty scene
but the characters keep passing out from lack of sleep
and the understudies don't kiss the way she's used to.

a cardboard backdrop of exaggerated proportions
with its painstakingly painted mural of smiles
couldn't hold up to the critic's deep scrutiny
(he later bashed it in a local newspaper review that no one would read)

packing my father's vinyl collection in each ear, i left you.
or you left me; i can't be sure,
but i vaguely remember us stepping out the fourth-floor window at the same time.

you run like a stain through an oxford shirt
handing out your unemployed business cards (blank on both sides)
but once i grabbed a handful of pushpins and tacked you to my door.
i have this laugh-out-loud feeling that says you won't be coming 'round anymore.

In this house
sticky thin floorboards
slinking from wall to wall.
Everything dripping down,
pictures taped,
a story told through
ticket stubs
and pushpins.

The amount of stuff
is astounding,
every piece exact,
writing an encyclopaedia.
Teal doors chipping,
holes at hand-height
with paw prints
adorning every corner.

She's numb
To the last crumb
Eyes like stale bread,
Lying there as if dead
Her bed no coffin,
But wood not lacking
She welcomes no feeling,
Her hair pushpins
Nails like chalk,
She won't talk
All her thoughts are sins
Send her reeling
Hear a cat hacking
Fur ***** and she's coughing
Blood into her hands
Blink again
And it's saliva and phlegm,
Clouds and rain
Are all to her; pain,
The skie's greys are black
Makes her heart a heavy sack,
To push much less carry
She can't even cry
Just sigh all dark and dreary,
Return to sleep, living lie,
As her hope is flickering
But she's a Zippo among BICs
And though her thoughts are bickering,
No heart beating is just she's a Rolex with no ticks...
© okpoet

I remember when Twitter was
what your heart felt like when falling in love

I remember Pinterest was when you put pushpins on
the map hanging on the wall for where you planed to travel

I remember back when the only Facebook
was Mom's photo album

I remember when Tumblr was
rolling down the hill for fun as a child

I remember when Gay used to mean you were happy
And a Joint was a bad place to be

When I Hooked Up it was usually my stereo
All these newfangled meanings are so confusing to me

Or when Bad really meant Bad
And sick was what you did all over the floor

Now they both seem to mean a good thing
Can anyone tell me what for?

And don't even get me started on Thongs
That we wore on our feet to go to the beach

Now they're used to cover up what?
The rear with a piece of string?

I remember when we did not have to worry
about being politically correct

Or even have to worry about
who we might offend back

I remember back then
we were free to speak our minds

And not have to worry about how
everything would be perceived by society as a whole

I sure do miss back then
But at least I still remember when...