There is no arguing when you're drunk
You never listen to what I say.
And there's no use trying even when you're not.
You don't understand either way.

for me
you have become
many things
you are a mirror under my bed
and the rotting cross over my doorway
you are the velvet midnight sky
and the honey air sneaking through my window
you are the half moon cuts on my palm
and the empty gas tank in my dying car
you are alluring sheets of my bed
begging me to return
you are sweet and tempting
you are my lover
and my prescription
my savior
my greatest friend

whatever form you take
    sweet
           sour
                 stale
                      a cup
                              a can
                                     a bottle

they are just vessels
you are always all those things and more

i wonder what i am to you?

all the tragic love songs are starting to make sense

there was once a man
with a pocket full of rainbows
and some were sharp
and some were warm
and some were in between
but they were all beautiful
and the man would pull them out
one at a time
and feel their reflection in his chest
and he would know he was alive

but one day he reached into his pocket
and found that a color was gone
but he had so many more colors
so he thought nothing more of it
and felt the reflection of his almost full rainbow in his chest

yet more and more colors went missing
and his rainbow got smaller
and thinner
and its reflection was not so bright as it once was
and one day he reached into his pocket
and all that was left was blue
and his chest felt hollow
for without the other colors in the rainbow
the reflection of blue was nothing more than grey mist

but blue was all the man had
so he held it tighter to his chest
and decided to never return it to his pocket
out of fear that he might loose the only color he had left

so the mist surrounded him
and dyed his skin grey
and turned his eyes into cold diamonds
and fashioned his feet into stone
and the man was afraid
afraid to let go of his blue
and discover
that it was the only thing left
anchoring him to the earth.

what a way to live

me
        and my soul
                                 and your skin

the way the words die on my lips,
the way my stomach flips,
when you grab me by my hips.

i miss having somebody...
but i don't miss having you.

i don't much think about time until i am with you.
until i am with you,
time drifts by like lazy mid-summer clouds,
the occasional tardy spring breeze sweeping them
slowly across a blue sky in a steady handed brush.
it cruises in the right hand lane on highway 101
as the truck horns call out in unison
and i am impatient in the passenger seat.

i want the big things to happen.
i want to pass from one state to the next
at a hundred miles per hour
and i want to feel big enough.

i don't much think about time,
but now that i am with you,
i must because
your laugh seems to stir the air into
grey and shifting images that
flit and disappear before i have painted them,
and the car speeds up and we have arrived before
my tongue has time to form the word hello
and i always thought that time was my one true god but
it is clear now,
time doesn't hold a candle to you.

there's a boy
but he doesn't know i exist
and maybe i'm okay with that
there will be another
some day
and maybe he will see me
like no one else has

i just want somebody for some time
it can be a short forever
as long as you're all mine
whatever you got in mind, i'm down
just hold me for a moment
make me feel a little more found

i will go softly into the new year
hiding from the night before the clock strikes twelve
i will be asleep
buried six feet in my bed
a silent suffocation
a quiet crime
i wish i could gather some bravery
watch the time tick tick twelve and feel something close to fireworks settle in my stomach
but i know
that the stones that live between my ribs will pull my body down
and my blankets will pile like dirt
and my pillows will hold my breath in place
and i will go softly
i will go without a fight
there is so much weight that resides in my chest
and it whispers to me
that in this new year
perhaps it is better to be a ghost

it's past midnight now
the house is silent except for the creaking wind
groaning softly through the rusted vent in my floor
the window is cracked open
i can never sleep with it closed
even though the frost bites at my toes
but i like to hear the sighing of the trees
and the cold reminds me that i exist
my headphones buzz the harmonies of strings
the sound will soon leak into my ears
and drown out my incessant overthinking
or so i wish
i close my eyes and hope that sleep will take me

and they looked at each other and
yes it was a look of love but
it was also more because it was like
they saw through each other to
the bottom of their soul and
found that there was
family there they looked
at each other like
they were their hope and
their strength and
heart and mind and
everything in between like
they prayed every night that
death would claim them first so
it was not simply love and
friendship it had to be
something else and
i can't quite put my
finger on it

the cynic in me wants to brush it off but
i'd never seen anything like it before

i wish this body
would melt off of my soul
like a popsicle on a hot summers day

i wish this body
could unzip itself
like a hazmat suit

and i could float out and leave my tarnished anchor behind

she waits until the door closes,
and pauses,
and listens,
while her hands grip the bathroom counter,
white like the first blizzard of a snowy December,
and hawklike she listens,
for the slightest creak of the floorboards,
for a stifled hum or a muffled footstep,
and when she hears no one,
her face begins to break,
like a piece of china crashing to the ground in slow motion,
and with one shuddering breath,
she allows herself to fall to pieces.

left me empty
now leave me hollow
regret and guilt
just pills to swallow
learned to breathe
under the ocean
paper doll
going through the motions

this summer i have been gardening.
it is something else new.
it is almost july and you would laugh to
see my hands in the dirt.
i have rocks under my fingernails
from scratching at the soil
to see what
it is like underneath.
i’ve seen worms and spiders and
spiny crawlers with squirming legs.
but my dear, i have yet
to come across you.

i've got this ache in my chest

says
the
old
man

as his heart lays bleeding on the bench beside him

i tried to buy a heart across the street,
but the man there said new hearts don't come cheap.

i know i am not good
i hear it in your sighs
hear it in your heavy feet
see it in your tired eyes

i know this and more
i  know and i try
i'll stay up all night
fix the wings, make it fly

i know your hate
your resentment is sincere
i am not good
i am the reflection you fear

dear mom, i know
i am not good
i hate and i love
far more than a daughter should

if i died tomorrow,
the many poems stuck in my head would be left unwritten,
and the lyrics hidden in my guitar would remain without a tune.
the "i love you”s i carried to and from school would be covered in regret like thick dust,
almost as heavy as the chains made of “i’m sorry”s concealed in side pockets of my backpack.
the kisses I saved for the right moment would remain in my desk drawer,
melting into a gooey mess of doubt and hesitations.

if i died tomorrow,
i would beg for more time,
and for that I am ashamed.

beau·ti·ful
/ˈbyo͞odəfəl/

adjective


a thing with soul

i do not kiss you in my dreams
i do not feel the heat of your breath
nor smell the honeyed perfume of your sheets
nor taste the bitter salt of your skin

i do not dream of falling asleep in your arms
tracing the silhouette of your body with my fingertips
and i do not feel the of the burning of your palms
nor hear the sound of your breathy sighs
nor savor the smoky baritone of your laughter
nor drink in the lavender of your warmth

i do not dream of this
i do not dream at all

i have many saved drafts
my fellow poets
and i believe you may have some too
at least
if you are a poet like me
there are many kinds of poets
for we seem to be incapable
of staying in a box
but if you are a poet like me
you have more drafts than published works
and your drafts are alive
and breathing
shaky breaths
in and out
trying to keep their heart beating
to stay written for a few moments longer
before their maker
presses delete

my poems call me cruel
and i know i am
poems are not meant to hide in the dark
even if they are cheesy and childish and revolting
an infestation of misplaced and uncertain words

even then
poems should be heard

sometimes i wish i was a different kind of poet
sometimes i wish i wasn't cruel
sometimes i wish i was kind
to my poems
and perhaps to myself

and i'll go to sleep tonight
so i can dream of a boy
who just might love me right

i can see it now
you'll pick me up at the corner
just like you used to
and we'll drive down the coast
heading nowhere with no cares
and the salty pacific wind
will weave through our hair
and make you laugh the way you do
from the bottom of your chest to my smile
you'll play me songs you found
and stowed away for this moment
like tiny treasure boxes of gold
with "i love you" inscribed on the side

this is what i dream about
this is what gives me peace

i never thought i would miss it so much.

i smoke
                and i drink

'*** i thought it would help me not to think . . .

but here i am
                         after several shots

thinking all my anxious thoughts.

I used to play
in a great big band,
I say.
the others laugh,
they can’t understand
what it was like
to yawn and stretch and
play
in a great big band
on a misty morning field,
just beginning
to feel
the sun in your bones,
a dose in your chest
of something greater,
a golden dragon high,
the euphoria of
a musician
with no grand dreams,
just
a great big band
and the Morning Sun.

most people say
they are are afraid of dying,
but perhaps it is love
that is most terrifying.

there are girls
that glow like a warm sunset
their bodies are flowers
delicate and small and easy

for now i'm a wallflower
i've run out of words to say
seems so long since i felt new
for now it's all the same

for now i'll keep my heart whole
no need to answer the phone
seems so long since i took chances
for now i'm fine all on my own

for now i'll keep on moving
there's bound to be an upswing
for now is not forever
who knows what tomorrow will bring

It was a good life.
For sure, there was no doubting that.
there were parties,
and fun and excitement,
and adventures and lovers and affairs,
and everything anyone had ever wanted.

But that was before.
That was before he met her and his life changed,
and he no longer wanted to aimlessly
but charmingly stumble through the rest of his life.
He was so busy running from one place to the next that before he could stop himself,
she was gone.

And now,
all that was left was a memory.

i used to trust my lovers
but that was long ago
now i see no others
the past my mind must go

i used to trust my lovers
but now i doubt my heart
heirloom of my mother's
and it's tearing me apart

suburban tears
followed me here
tropical days
cloudy grey haze
hot summer breeze
take this heart please

i wish
             for many things

         i dream
                           of one or two desires

                       and i hope
                                              for nothing at all

my grandfather didn't speak much
he barely asked any questions
besides a quiet "how are you?"
he sat in his chair with his newspaper
a grimacing statue
the center of orbit in the house

my grandfather gave me icecream
without me asking
a clinking bowl with sweet vanilla
would appear next to me
and no words would be spoken

my father gives me icecream
without me asking
a clinking bowl before he fades back into the shadows
and i think i'm starting to understand
how we learn to love

i hope i will do more
than give someone a bowl of icecream

people say
their love burns like fire,

but mine burns like ice
which much more suits my desire.

i could write about the sun
or the sea
or the terrier that lives on 5th,
i could write about my dad's baseball cap
or his blue jacket that stubbornly refuses to tear,
i could write about life and love
and all those other things that poets seem to know about,
i could write about the condition of my soul
and the slight concave in my chest that steals away the air,
i could write about my favorite song,
the winding drive back from the beach,
the softness of a clean bed,
i could write about all these things
but yet,
               i only seem to write of you.

the man at the bus stop used to write me short poems
while downing a glass of liquor

but he smashed the glass
and now he writes long poems

somehow he's gotten much sicker

he asked to read my poetry
and i had to tell him no
and when he wondered why
i had to reply
you've undressed my body
but poetry is my naked soul

and it's hard sometimes,
when you perform the part,
but no longer know who the actor is.

the world needs more dancing fools.

there is a boy
and we meet in his car
and he has a sweet smile
and we go pretty far

there is another boy
and we sometimes lock eyes
for just a burning second
i can't tell if they lie

and when we brush past
i swear i feel thunder
just a slight breeze
but it brings me under

there is an air in his ways
and i struggle to not stare
i long to hear his laugh
to run my hands through his hair

and although we pass briefly
although it wouldn't seem
the latter has more heat
he's the one in my dreams

i would write just a line or two

i think it could be that i had much less to say
or maybe i didn't know how to say it
or perhaps i didn't feel as deeply
or cry as desperately
or smile as sweetly

sometimes i wish for my shorter poems
but most of the time
i am happy

i have grown

i am seventeen soon
two days from sunday to be exact
i don’t know how i feel about growing old
i still feel like i am waiting to be young
will it always feel like this?
there were days when seventeen seemed
so unattainable
i didn’t plan to still be
but i’m here i guess
seventeen
how odd

crawling above me,
there is a bug.
he could be an ant
or maybe a small spider,
but he doesn't much mind
what I call him.
he's above me in the sycamore tree,
and I am below him,
and the sun is starting to disappear
against the horizon.
he walks furiously to and fro,
my unnamed bug,
and he seems to be saying
"look up! look up!"
"there is so much MORE!"
so I stare at the stained glass sky above me,
feel the wet earth pressing against my back,
the grass whispering around my ankles,
smell the eastern wind taking its nightly stroll,
and I turn to say thank you to my little bug,
but he has already gone.
so I say it to the sky instead:
"thank you. thank you."
"there IS so much more"

let yourself be killed dear child
let yourself go blind
let your love get close enough
to stab you from behind

let yourself be killed my dear
let yourself bleed out
let your blood stain the Earth
your heart be cut from doubt

let me die, my love, my shield
my blood is mine to give
let me be killed, i plead of you
for to die is to live

a middle-aged suburban mother clutches
her purse with a shiny red claw and
a child in ***** overalls chews
on the last half of an apple green jolly rancher
a twenty something shows off
the tattoo on her arm and it
reads
remember that you will die

the mother clutches her purse tighter

the child gives a green stained smile

by being a poet
i have condemned myself
i have sentenced myself to silence
a clean cut to the throat

by being a poet
i burned the bridges
i ****** myself to the tallest tower
where no one can hear my screams

by being a poet
i've been tried and convicted
i have only this page and this pen
this is my freedom and my prison