your deceiving sentences
in pretty paper,
letting the gold flecks
blind the careful,
each fold you made
masked the truth
the edges too thick
to tear through.
you made lying
perfecting your trickery
with each crease;
the false concern
on your brow.
how many steps
did you take to hide
or your secrets?
how many incisions
did you make
on your victims?
are supposed to be
not crumpled up
pieces of false hope
& fake actions,
curated to bend
at your command.
i tried to keep track
of what moves you made
so that i could make sure
you wouldn’t repeat them
but your nimble, paper cut
fingers moved too fast,
& before i knew it,
i was trapped in a suffocating
paper thin, paper-slicing
if only i had the scissors
to cut myself out of this pointy mess.
but once i unfolded one lie,
the rest unraveled before me
til there was just one
piece of paper
with the marks
showing where i
could have caught you out.
look at all those little lies folded up
into something so intricate
that looked treacherously beautiful
from the outside,
but was simple & sinister from the start.
you contorted me into myself,
creating an aesthetic crane.
but i learnt to fly out of my cage,
& out of your clasp.
i won’t be pleated
into an origami opus
for you to
display & deride.
i am not your paper to fold or decorate.
not aimed at all. just caught inspiration from origami and though that lies unfold just like it; when you discover one, the rest of them unfold.
The behoof of cheer
White crane of hunger
***** the peach bitter
The desire went sour
Alleging for better
Written in Lai Poetry form.
The lai is another French form. It’s a nine-line poem or stanza that uses an “a” and “b” rhyme following this pattern: aabaabaab. The lines with an “a” rhyme use 5 syllables; the “b” rhyme lines have 2 syllables. It feels kind of like organized skeletonic verse.
The wilted crane,
The crimson flower,
Too far to fly,
Too beautiful to pick,
Destined to never reach.
A single hesitation is a dozen years.
The midnight air is filled with
the city block houses
yards of gravel and broken bricks
decorated streets of graffiti and *****
roaches skitter across sidewalks
A homeless woman sleeps on the sidewalk
a hundred yards away from the lofts
where I am safe
And I think where did it go wrong?
You lie here every night
with a casted foot and crutches
covered with the remains of a blanket
wondering where the next meal hides
Do you beg or play the raccoon?
This city never slows
sirens howl to the light polluted sky
like a coyotes staccato bark
Cranes reach toward the heavens
with a question to ask God
Can we build to your home and charge a fee to view the gates?
The nightclub below full of drunks
or to be drunks,
bellowing for attention
before riding home with a stranger
and waking up to another mistake
of empty emotions
With a hunger for acceptance
one will venture out
with one of questionable honesty
if the drugs are cheap
And here I am
walking the ***** streets
at one in the morning
in this menagerie of a city
because I can’t
absorbing the sights and the smell
of sick and disgust
but in the morning all will be
The sun will hide the dark
the sky will add color
the homeless will be camouflaged
with the busy crowd
buildings will look alive
bustling with people
the crane will be building
looking for an answer
And I still will not be able to
**** this filthy city.
And yet, I wouldn’t call any other place home.
In the nausea of suburbia
Houseguests, cigarettes, and having ***
Headlights on the lake
Make me think of my mistakes
Who hasn’t been there before?
Small towns make b i g thoughts
How I wish I could understand
The roads I walk, every bit of gravel, every pothole, every turn of a corner
I saw a flash of white on the lake
Which was a crane, taking flight
I’m going insane
The grass is taller than me
Sometimes the water is deeper than what can be seen
Sometimes the sky seems too blue
To be true
And I wonder
Why I’m here and
So should you
i still can’t say your name.
not because, the sound makes me sad,
but rather because
the way the letters sit on my tongue and,
the way the syllables leave my lips
simply don’t feel as comfortable as they used to.
i wonder if you can’t hear my name.
the way you told me to add an accent to the end.
the way I made it sound like the ending to a love note,
a love note my diction could fold into a paper crane
that could fly to your heart.
i remember how you recorded me saying my own name,
because, you loved the way the vowels
dripped off my lips one by one,
the way I could curl the four letter nickname so gently
it sounded like a cursive word,
wrapped and tucked behind your ear.
i hope you can’t listen to those recordings,
because I can’t listen to my favorite songs.
i hope one day your mouth opens to say her name
and closes knowing it said my own,
because any time I type another man’s name on my phone,
it somehow autocorrects to yours.
i hope my paper crane name has made a nest in the back of your mind,
laying eggs that will hatch whenever you touch her,
so when you hold her hand,
the little crane in your skull says that only word it knows infinitely well:
Lone crane fly crying,
chasing mates went awry,
from despair swinging.
A construction crane,
Kisses skyscraper maiden
Red faced sun on edge.