Your commitments and word
Are inks stained on cold skin
Taken without pain sacrificed,
Easily washed away in water:
Simple imitations...
That at its essence
Mock the sanctity and identity
of actual tattoos.

I’ve always been intimidated
By the man in the mirror
With his cocky face and his self-assured grin

I’ve always been imitated
By the man in the mirror
With his worried sigh and his eyes full of doubt

I am from the tears of an aged woman,
who cried happily to a worn down man.
I am from bare grass,
where my shoeless feet felt the gentle blades,
and my tender hands gripped the bark.

I am from the countless fights,
the destructiveness of different personalities
all forced into one home.
I am from the coffee-stained house,
from the  yeses and no's,
from the broken glass.
I am from the ballerina-pink room
where I spent most of my time.

I'm from the unwelcomed situations,
naked and unbearably lost.
From the broken bones,
to the broken hearts.
I am from emotions.

There, in my mind,
all these memories,
good and bad,
are the important stuff.
I am from what she made,
but I created,
and I will destroy.

Under the porch


of someone’s apartment


shrouded in a cloud of


cigarette smoke and a


lingering winter’s breeze lies


twinkling plastic jewels


in the damp dirt

The king and queen cried
“Bless us! We cannot conceive!”
And “blessed” they were.
Their heir, a miracle, a vision of royalties.

And so a celebration was in order
(as is most pertinent in events such as princess births)
to adorn the little lamb with gifts.

“Gifts”.

Whether the blame lies here or there
our princess lamb heir stands the most to suffer
in cases such as forgotten friends.

Or unforgetful vengeance--

So spite screeched an everlasting “CURSE THEE TO DEATH ON THE ***** OF A SPINDLE!”
And with a turn of its heels shock
set       in.
...shock
sinks
in.
The well-intentioned sprite attempts to soften the wolf’s blow on our little lamb heir--

Only a nap--
only it would seem such in the conjecture of events.

Now no longer is she princess baby heir then does a spindle come alive
X winters later!
(convenient, one might say--in all the land one’s but burned, temptingly locked away in the curious tower)
Insert fainting sounds.
Insert crowded gasps.
Insert “told you so!”
And the sheep follow our little lamb’s sleep.
One hundred year sleep.

Hair follicles sprout a slimy green, and not-so-royal fungi flourishes--
brash brambles tuck in the herd as if to say
“Sleep tight!
Don’t let the mites bite!”
But not our little lamb.
Reassuringly beautiful princess lamb heir keeps
like red wine.
She is only to be drank up from the
right cup--
a proper lamb.
Prince Lamb.
Whose worries consist of much different things than our lamb heir--
but for another ‘lore.

Our Prince Lamb dips, sips,
lips on lips
and she is awake!
Beautiful princess lamb knows exactly what to make
of all this?

The sheep herd rises,
and their “joyous” bleating reverberate
and penetrate
cold castle walls and break down the thorny cover.

And they lived happily
(and most originally)
ever after--
as sheep tend to do.

I
“I didn’t know anything”

Astrapia,
the beautiful arcs of plum and golden
wrap in you a security.
It is disconcerting to see you know
so little--
to not see such daunting arcs
for rhetoric.
Hold steady.

II
“about the facts of life and that I didn’t know that I would conceive or so on.”

Misconceptions most fed,
generational ignorance liberating
throb and leisure and pleasure and…

Seemingly perfectly perched.
Feathery flow and bend
swoons over the exotic excitement
naturally--
unknowingly.
The color flushes,
flashing bright, a melting beauty.  
To know of this must be to know serenity…

III
“I stayed with him and he said he loved me.”

Every
prismatic fiber
is yours.

IV
“He said this was the only true way to show that you loved somebody.”

Paradise, what alluring shades you show.
The better to attract you, my love.
Oh, what mysterious gaze you hold.
The better to captivate you, my love.
Oh, what sturdy frame you stand.
The better to surround you, my love.
Oh, what fierce talons you stretch.
The better to clutch you, my dearest love.



V
“And I met him again then, and he said, Well you did it before; why can’t you do it now?”

He reaches for her once more,
as if for lifetimes
this had been the norm.
She settles in the familiarity and
loveliness that is,
or so would seem.
Neither flushed
nor melting,
with one door another opens.

“And that was the time I got pregnant.”

I looked out the kitchen window to see the new springtime grass
But fog from your tea on the sill blocked the view.

Rain came pouring down
To expose a sunny day.

You complained your green tea
Was over steeped. It was brown.

Did you open the (cabinet
To get the sugar) from the top shelf?

I used your mug today
As a bowl to hold my soup.

You were raking outside
But there were no leaves to form a substantial collection.

The grass was frogs’ legs
And told you to jump, jump, jump.

Did you open the (shed
To get the fertilizer) from the top shelf?