and for the first time
see with your eyes the eyes
that are not less than you wished
but are instead clear
no, they are green
they are you

they never return your call
says it all

feel the sensation
of your insides rotting
within the confines
of a gray cube

why should i continue to pour out to you
you seem not to care one way or the other
i ask my heart why she holds on
to each empty promise,
break again
and become stronger
strong enough to let go

Sigh. Not nice in Nice.

We live in a lifetime
that fears not dying from
illness or old age, but instead
from terror attacks.

A lifetime governed by fear.
What kind of life is that?

We live in a lifetime
that dying from the inevitable,
that dying from the formidable,
is a path we hope for.

A lifetime forced to fear.
What kind of life is that?

We live in a lifetime
that is continuously reminded of death
that stays shut up
that hobbies in fear
that losses dreams
that dreads.

What kind of life is that?
And seldom do we focus on what it is to live
And maybe it's beginning to look unavoidable?
Even still, sigh, I will continue to fight the fear.

Dreaming is important
in and out of the sheets;
inhale the sea
and bring it back to me.
Please, don't go,
but if you do,
breathe me in and
take me too.

though quite dramatic,
and quite active,
and quite loving.

Love is an action;
less a feeling,
less an idea,
less a word.

I read:
there are no stressful situations, only stressful responses.

My, I must be more responsive than I thought.

To d(liberate)ly love:
the kind I'm in the market for.

This time is for me, snipping away any of you.

I have a headache from dreams clawing to break free.

You found four last cigarettes,
One for me, for him, for her, for you.

But I said, "Nah, you can't! You've come so far..."
Then I started to think: What's one last drag?

Times before. Yellowed teeth.
**** it, babe, let's just drink.

It's not about where you're going
You said.
It's about how far you've come
You said.
But I wanna go far
I said,
Let's go, come
I said let's go far away, come on

I do many different things at many different times
And mostly it makes me feel alright.
But then a few weeks pass and I am back on my ***
Wondering what I did to lose the fight.

I'm stuck in a dreamland, honey, but what else is there to do?

I'm trying to find the right thing,
To feel alright doing what it is I dream,
And if not for me then for who?
What else is there to do?

I'm stuck in a dreamland, honey, but what else is there to do?

A friend asked what I've been up to lately
And my only response was "just livin' life."
"Whatever that means," she said
And, honey, what's truer than that?


I'm stuck in a dreamland, honey, but what else is there to do?

I'm stuck in a dreamland, honey, but what else is there to do?

I'm stuck.

We have potential, why do I feel mental
most of the time?
We have potential, it doesn't have to be confidential
that you're mine.

They say Jesus turned the other cheek
to give us all the lovin' that we could get.
When I lean in for a kiss I get either the right or the left
What's this, love?
I forget.

We have potential, why do I feel mental
most of the time?
We have potential, it doesn't have to be confidential
that you're mine.

I've spent too much time bein' sad,
It's not wrong, I'm not mad,
Just wastin' time.

you don't have to do it better if you already do it best.

What if on my way home I was in a car crash...
...I am fine,
but before you disappear a night at a time
let me know if you love me.
Miscommunication,
or needing space,
whatever we have doesn't need to be a race,
but let me know if you love me.

Peachy ****,
lipstick prints on necks
of boys.
No,
of bottles.

Alcohol leaves me puffy-eyed,
& so do the boys,
& if both are the same
I choose bottles, readily
available for only me.

I've been wanting true love,
& I've got a guy who will tell it true.
Not sure if what we've got is love,
but it'll have to do.

When you don't put your passions to use,
leave them unmarked & unloved
in collectible cases up on the shelf,

When you don't put your gifts to test,
leave them wrapped & tucked away
in the corners of "some day,"

Do you feel like you are wasting your life, too?

I dream to string
words together,
that one day
someone might sing
them & say
that I mean
everything to them
in every way.

Where do I start
where do I begin

I dream he'll string
words together,
that one day
he might sing
them & say
that I mean
everything to him
in every way.

Where do we start
where do we begin

I want someone
to sing to me
that I mean
everything to them
in every way,
& in return I
will sing the same.

It's when you sigh
after
I kiss you
deep
& the sound of our
laughter;
It's moments I want to
keep.

Dreamer until I die/Doer as I am still alive.

Tousled hair,
Friday's cologne,
I thirst to sip you up.

Last night I touched a hot pan
& today my fingerprints seem to be missing
& turned to smoothed over glass, no longer skin.

Long list of Starbucks lovers.

I would like to consume without
feeling like I am bursting the seams
that my first crush stitched me up into;
a tight, designer dress he unveiled: "fat."

Each morning when I neglect to make my bed, I see your faded red towel folded on the corner of my nightstand.

This is a reminder that you will eventually spend the night again.
This is a reminder that you will eventually share wine with me  again.
A reminder that you will eventually hold me, eventually swing me     around in the kitchen, eventually kiss me first.

I don't know when, and the uncertainty wells up in my eyes. I guess this is what it feels like to miss someone who is right there.
We have not reached the point of routine, which is to say that we are not dull, though I cannot say this in confidence.

Each night when I climb back into my bed, I see your faded red towel, still folded, at the corner of my nightstand.

This is a reminder that he will eventually spend the night again, I tell myself.

One word answers. Red. A red towel reminder. Towel. When was it touched last? Tears. When was I touched last?

Like throwing in a white flag, I surrender to this sadness.

It's cold.
It's quiet.
I am cold
& I am quiet.
I feel cold.
To the touch,
in my organs,
& I hear quiet.
I hear everything
except for what I want to.
What I need to.

Quietly I sit, watching the cold waves of Lake Michigan
come crashing in, just like you & me.

Re-cap:

I cried because the only thing that made me want to find love again was a gun pointed at the back of my head.

I know why they do it.
I know why they do it.
  I wouldn't do it.
  But
I know why they do it.

After you made the comment that we spent the past 48 hours together,
         as if you had been counting down the second- ticks on your watch,
         I spent the next 48 hours in my car,
         crying.
It was innocent enough, your comment.
& sometimes it feels nice to cry.

Please do not ever say that again.

A Boy and a Girl

Stretched out on the grass,
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their oranges,
giving their kisses like waves exchanging foam.


Stretched out on the beach,
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their limes,
giving their kisses like clouds exchanging foam.


Stretched out underground,
a boy and a girl.
Saying nothing, never kissing,
giving silence for silence.
     Octavio Paz (1914-1998)

& I spy a tight dress ghost.

What it must be like...you know what I mean?

Thirty is too young to know you’re nothing,
so get your head out of the gas.
Thirty is old enough to know you’re something,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Pressure expands more than your skull.
Mason jars in the cupboard clink
all the reasons you should be annulled,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Here’s what you missed in the other room:
no mother, no father, wooden food,
children play mommy better than you.
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

countertop, she lays. Succulent globe for my palms, poignant reminder of winter. Acid will waken the cracks on my knuckles like dipping my fingers into the saltwater at the edge of Florida. This morning she perfumes the room from a splintering wicker bowl. My fingers could claw at her dimples. Tear away the flesh beneath her beady cover-up. Expose her bones and find new jewels encased. Torn pieces of her bikini would spiral to the tabletop. My eyes dance across her scaly membrane. Blood orange. The sun setting and bleeding. I thought of the sea again this morning, stepping out into winter.

His soft hands at your waist constantly remind you of your imperfections. Thorns hold your identity. Your jagged body pierces palms. You would be all thorns if you could. Now plucked clean, stripped of all you were; you have kept each thorn in glass jars. Your bones hollow, more fragile than glass. Dried. Used. Showcased to old and new lovers’ below. Little victim girl. Your beauty is marred, though your fidelity to perfection resonates in an elegant face.

Inspired by: “Vase with Red Poppies”
Vincent Van Gogh (1886)*

Through teary eyes, a blur
of succulent fruit hangs
from ends of stems,

perhaps tomatoes ripe
for picking. Tomatoes
like the ones a mother

used to grow before she
died. The poppies seem
to conquer the whirlwind

storm of blue wallpaper
smudged in the background,
the color a father chose.

The table holds pieces
Of once living stems
that they could not put

back together. Some buds
haven't bloomed, and you
wonder if they'll ever.

Two showy petals pounce at me –
a magenta jaguar.

A porcelain mask,
a radiance of boasting jewels.

Preying, your menacing glare falls
bashful, dabbing a blush upon your

face of fragile petals, a myriad of kiss
prints upon velvet cheeks.

Spew butterflies from your tongue –
released, they scatter to the horizon.

Dawn frees them, fading into a rosy fog.

Nightly, she mirrored his skin
with her hands pressed
to the places considered sin
when not properly dressed.

Connected dots with kisses
on his back, arms, lips;
the things she misses
are ghosts on **** ships.

Soft skin lotions her bones
soothing the stinging insults, raw
by his words in harsh tones,
like snapping the straps of her bra.

Retching over the rim of a toilet bowl,
how I was ever intimate with porcelain.
How or where I began is a misplaced origin.

He got me higher than I’d ever been before,
a relational swing, I dug into the unsteady gravel;
hours passed before my guard began to unravel.

***** never followed us to the park that day,
and he didn’t blink – even while we were liable –
as he rolled a fat blunt out of a page from the Bible.

Hurry waitress to the lackluster pancakes of the restaurant, your fingers smelling from its bacon.
Past my dingy silverware, vacuous plates, a cup of dead coffee grounds, your watered eggs. Your hair-tie snapped like a bomb exploding on the cover of a paperback Hiroshima. Let us go, waitress, and learn all of the reds in that sunset. The crimson sun hovers over deep cornflower waves. The ocean’s mist blinds us from ketchup-smeared napkins fallen onto waterlogged tabletops. A disaster zone you hope to be rescued from through an exit sign door.

3.12

For no one particular,

I can only assume that you feel like love. Rather, your
fleece under my palms, like soft summer sand, burns.
But I love that and therefore must love you.
There’s anger running off my tongue, too cold. It’s
March, and I am not a fan of this, of you.


3.21

Went for a run on a projected-to-be beautiful day,

The sky rained angry. Though the hail did not last long,
it only seemed to pelt my face when I thought of you. Even the
sky pushes me forward. The flowers you gave me last week have died.

I didn’t even forget to water them.


4.8

To the one I now love less,

Admiring many new beards passing through
the line at the coffee shop this morning. From here,
even squinting, none of them resemble you. This
is satisfying. One orders an extra shot of espresso. Strong. I
think I have moved on.


4.9

A guy in line,

Your sport coat and sling bag hold you together well.
Elegant glue I do not often find around this part of town.
I am window-shopping. I haven’t worked in a week,
and even then I couldn’t afford you.

4.16

Eavesdropping,

I ordered an Earl Grey.
“It’s no big deal,” the barista said in some northern dialect.
I don’t belong in this conversation, but at least I am listening.
That’s what you wanted, right? Earl Grey. No big deal. Bite marks
on my tongue grow deeper still.