I wonder why you want to row
When there are just so many terms to know
Before you get in the boat and place an oar in the water,
Before you take a single stroke don’t think you ought to
Remind yourself of what they are, these parts and pieces,
Actions and orders that rowers use (but poets don’t)
So forgive me if I leave some out.
 
Let’s take a look at the boat (or rather the shell):
The seat you sit on,
​slides, backstop, shoes and riggers.
 
The skeg that stabilizes the shell,
​shoulder, saxboard, and pogies.
The top-nut that keeps the rowlock in place,
​swivel, stretcher and rollers.
 
Now for the oar (or rather the scull):
There’s the Spoon blade, the Macon blade,
​Smoothie or Tulip.
 
Ready (or not) for the stroke you take ?
An Airstroke (in the air) ,
​backsplash, backwater, or body stroke,
 
Go on bury the blade, check the cover,
​ but don’t catch a crab!
Mind out for the drunken spider,
​watch the feather and the finish,
 
Inside hand, outside hand,
​hands away, miss the water,
Leg back, lie back,
​pause the paddling, watch the pitch,
 
Release and recover,
​don’t shoot your slide,
Swing the stroke rate,
​and space those puddles.
 
Careful there’s no skying,
​and absolutely no washing out.
 
Ready for a repecharge?
Or perhaps you’d prefer an egg-beater?
Ask the *** to call a flutter.
 
Easy oars
​Hold her hard
Ship oars
​One foot up & out
Waist, ready, up
​Shoulders, ready, up
​Way enough!

buying tickets, rip the stubs, hang them on the wall, scrapbook form complete with small pink hearts punched out of the children's cardboard.
gun powder paint, dripped on white mugs, heat-dried, upside down in cupboards that belonged to your grandmother, pour black coffee in the morning and sip.
t-r-i-b-u-l-a-t-i-o-n-s spelled in sign language, on the wall, across photos of sky, clouds raining, lightning flash, blind some farmer, smash some wheat, rip barns into pieces and set one half on top of 18333 sw 32 st.
salt the caramel, lick the spoon and put it in the dishwasher, contemplate the meaning of life, curse god three times because that's a lucky number, write the ****** mary's name thirty-six times across the tile backsplash, latin roots swimming through your head, you only took one year of it.
take wool yarn, knit socks for the kindergarden teacher, put out your cigarettes systematically down the arches, dye them pink, wrap the box in last year's christmas paper, drive four point seven miles to a place that would be better with blankets and closed-tight eyes.
toes say it's a long walk back, so jump the cliff and pray loudly to the seagulls.

i sat in the back
and watched you crack yourself in two on a well-lit stage
like an egg in a skillet
          the sound was comforting

and there beneath the bell of cascading light
you writhed
and fried
and your secrets splattered on to the backsplash
like words upon a page
half-hearted lower-case fossilized in the tile grout

i gathered up the crumbs
with an anxious stomach
and a wet tounge

      oh
          how i lapped it up

let it soak in
and stew in my belly
until the steam swelled
and was forced to be expelled
     the feast i've with-held so long

it's the heart song of the kitchen timer
signaling my turn in the frying pan
     my time to climb up into the spotlight
          and squirm through my own confession

        i made every sound from scratch
               just for you

My heart pings at memories of you.
Memories like
Cuddling on the couch
Watching tv all day
Taking drives to old neighborhoods to look at old beautiful homes and wonder  
about the people inside and the lives they lived; or at least I did
Memories like
Hugging, kissing, talking, touching, loving, laughing, cursing, living
Memories like
The way you looked at me when we made love
The way you made me feel wanted, needed, and even loved
Memories like being up for days on end, working by day, dancing to the lights at night
We would dance for hours in matching phedoras with the backsplash of stobe lights and mystical laser light creations
We would dance to our shadows even though my heart was full of light then
My heart pains at the memory
of us  
of us being happy
of our laughter in the home we created
of a love eight years strong
of a love that made me feel on top of the world
of a love that grew as our ages climbed
of a love that brought us to mountain tops during every season
of a love that became burdened with the past that kept rearing its ugly head
of a love burdened by feelings that I couldn’t mask anymore
Why is love so hard?
Why can’t it all be sunshine and glimmering stars?
My heart aches over a love that is in my past.

She conceals herself in the faded corner booth of a C+ coffeeshop. Bobbed brown hair frames her face as if it were a Van Gogh original. Ruby red lips stand out against the ivory backsplash of her skin. She doesn’t feel beautiful. She draws pictures of strangers in her notebook, stares at them for far too long trying to figure them out. What they don’t realise, what she doesn’t realise, is that she’s only trying to figure herself out.

PART I
Sam had been eagerly awaiting this move. The new house was spectacular. An old, colonial home in rural Pennsylvania, with a wraparound veranda and a bay window in what appeared to be a castle spire on the far North side. The roof was made out of red clay, pieces of it broken, yet undisturbed. The front yard was turning brown in the July sun, and the front door had a crack in it the size of Texas. But with a little elbow grease, Sam and his family were going to make this ****-hole a home.

Sam walked inside the front door and was greeted with one of those large staircases that splits into two directions at the top. There was a portrait of someone at the top of the stairs, but his face had been ripped out of the painting. Peculiar. He then walked across the squeaky floor into the kitchen where he decided to run the sink for a drink of water. Rust. The water ran brown and he was wondering what he would drink since the fridge was still in the back of the U-Haul. While the rest of his family was still unloading, curious Sam decided to tour the house, since this was the first time he’d actually been in it.
He went upstairs and hung a left. The wallpaper here was hideous. A mix of Posies and Lavender painted the walls with a yellow smoke-stained backsplash. Upstairs smelled weird. Ammonia and cigars. Classy cigars. Not a 75 cent Black & Mild you buy at the drive thru when you can’t afford a real pack of smokes. I follow the smell back to a bedroom. This bedroom was the master room. Sam opened the door that was slightly ajar, only to find the room was completely barren, short of an old timey rocking chair. Maybe the old occupants left it?
Walking about this room Sam feels a cool chill on the air. Like a September breeze gently brushing the back of your neck. Looking around he felt nothing but the empty space. No weird vibe, but not a comfortable one either. He felt like an iceberg standing in the ocean all alone, waiting for the Titanic to come along. The Titanic in this case, being something of any interest or excitement. Time to move on.
He moved out of the room, past the stairs and into another, smaller room, past the strange portrait. Once again, there was an empty, barren space where his feet hit the floor. This room had carpet. Old carpet, maybe **** from the seventies. But he really didn’t care. It just appeared as a fire hazard to him. Hardwood has always been Sams’ favorite. He wandered about this room the same as the last, feeling nothing but the coolness and how awfully the room was decorated. Obviously a childs room. The walls were covered in Zebras, leapords, tigers, and lions. There was coloring on the walls. He didn’t notice what it said until he really looked. “YOU’RE GOING TO DIE HERE” was inscribed on the wall in red Crayola marker. He binked, and rubbed his eyes. Looking up again, it was gone. How strange. I’m not imagining this, he thought to himself. I have 20/20 vision, I don’t mistake anything. Oh well. His inner monologue had ended.
After a minute of contemplation, he decided to go help the rest of his family. On his way out the door to grab a box, he was greeted by his eccentric mother. “Aren’t you excited, Sammy?!” She exclaimed as he came outside. “This house is so old. I love the history.” She said enthusiastically. She was a young mother, having Sam at the age of 19. She was a nurse. Taking care of people was her specialty, and another was not giving any regard to herself. Being 31 now, she’s having a sort of mid-life I-Need-To-Feel-Youthful-again crisis. That’s why she bought this house. She figured a new house could mean a new her, and she could live how she’d always wanted too. She was a small framed woman, about 5’3 with a petite figure and a bright red pixie cut. As she was carrying boxes of China into the kitchen to place on the counter, she had to stop and breathe in the places aroma. Inhaling deeply, she sighed “Wow, sam. This is spectacular. Don’t you think so?”

“Kinda weird.” Sam replied, making his way up the veranda steps with another box. Placing it down, he commented about the hideous wallpaper. “This place is pretty **** ugly to me.” Sam said distastefully. “Samuel Smith, watch your mouth!” Mother said. Being a single mom and not having a father figure to help raise Sam, she’d done the best she could. Always teaching him to use his manners, watch his language and chew with his mouth closed. She’s the picture perfect mom, only missing the mini-van that comes with mom-hood. “I think we’ll make it work just fine, baby.” She added as she came up to him, wrapped her hands around his cheeks and kissed his forhead. “I love you, pumpkin.” She whispered. Sam replied, wiping her hands from his face. “Mom, come on. I’m to old for that stuff now.”

She pulled away, minding her boundaries. “You’re never too old to be my baby, Sammy.” Now go wash up, I called in for take-out earlier since we don’t have a stove yet, and you know you’re not allowed to be ***** at dinner time.” Sam sighed deeply. “Ugh, fine.” He stomped his way to the bathroom to see the new shower. Everything in the bathroom was very nice, except for a crack across the mirror. He took in his surroundings as he ran the water. To his surprise, the water in the shower wasn’t burnt orange and filled with rust. It ran clear, as it should. Sam stripped down and showered, singing Motely Crue to himself while washing.

After stepping out of the shower, he went and ate dinner with his mother. He’d gotten his usual order of General Taos chicken on a bed of white rice, extra sauce. Mother ate the egg rolls and dipped them in soy sauce. She wasn’t a big fan of meat, anymore.
After a few more hours of moving and assistance from hired help, sam went to his room and laid down on his brand new mattress. Covered in plastic, he struggled to find a comfortable spot where he wouldn’t slide off. He found it in the middle, and slept.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“What the hell?!” Sam jumped out of his bed and almost out of his ****** Doo themed pajamas. BANG! BANG! BANG! “Mom?!” he yelled. He ran down the stairs and into the kitchen, and flipped the light. He found his mother in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors shut with all of her might. “What are you doing, mom?” Sam yelled. She turned to face him. There was something different about her, but he couldn’t quite point it out. She curled her lips into a smile and said “Go back to bed, Sammy. Mommies just having fun.”
“Um… okay. Goodnight then, I guess.” “Goodnight, Samuel” she muttered. That was NOT mothers voice. “Are you okay? You seem weird.” “Mommies fine, Samuel. Go back to bed.” He went without questioning It anymore. This had frightened Sam out of his wits. His mother doesn’t bang cabinet doors shut at 3:35 A.M, or ever, for that matter. He tried to disregard it and went to sleep again, using his pillow to drown out the banging.

the first cut is the deepest,
I’ve made two rotations around the sun,
since I buried your bones in the graveyard
next to the tree,
where the name of every person I have lost is carved,
except that tree is my heart,
and there are so many slits,
I’m surprised it’s rhythm still echoes across this earth,
I wish I knew a love that did not involve
my body throwing itself off the deep end,
in the presence of souls who do not know how to swim,
hoping love would be enough to magnetize their soul to follow mine,
maybe he just didn’t want to drown,
my love has that effect on people,
it is suffocating,
It is a strain of oxygen that will intoxicate your lungs,
It will get you so high,
you’ll start to see the future,
it’ll start to look more and more like my bones,
until my palms tell you my life line is fading faster
than the moon blurring into the horizon line come morning.
The future is someone I put to rest years ago,
only to realize that it’s ghost has been coming back to haunt me for years,
In search of the person who could finally resurrect her,
and I think she thought he was the one,
he made me forget her initials were even carved into that tree,
that she wasn’t still breathing,
he made me feel like she was within my reach,
that I could pull her by threads from the earth and bring her back to life,
but depression infected my body,
and I have been changing in shape every day,
like clay in the hands of a sculptor,
my silhouette has been transformed into so many alternate forms,
that over time,
he forgot who he fell in love with,
convinced himself that person was never coming back.
he reached that point in his intoxication where he craved sobriety,
like he was seconds away from being pulled by his veins to the depths of hell,
could feel the flames against his skin.
he got too high and maybe I did too,
but the difference is my instinct is always to jump from mountains,
and to sink in oceans,
I do not know how to consistently stay in one place,
my pain is like gravity,
it always pulls me back down,
his love was like watching the sun reflect on it’s light,
after days of rain,
except I was the sun,
hidden behind the rain which my clouded head brought upon his earth,
when all the serotonin evaporated into the sky,
i stared at the mess I made after the storm,
I felt guilty about my light,
didn’t feel worthy of it,
I saw my reflection,
In puddles,
riverbanks,
I didn’t recognize the person staring back at me,
he told me that he didn’t either,
I don’t blame him for jumping,
to escape the storm,
but the difference between him and I,
is if I jump,
I only become more deeply immersed in myself,
I jump into oceans of my own depression’s precipitation,
baptize myself in the backsplash.
my best skill has always been breaking my own heart,
taking an axe to it’s trunk,
every time I feel the ground shake,
everything always has to be on my own terms,
I won’t let the storm rip it’s roots from the earth,
I’ll do it myself,
I am an artist,
an artist in sculpting my own demise,
I can’t differentiate my palms from the storm anymore,
can’t separate the clouds from the sun,
the past from the present,
love from the sensation of dying,
with every name comes more blood,
I fall but don’t know it until my bones have already hit the pavement,
maybe I never really stood up after the first time,
I put you to rest,
and your ghost still haunts me from afar,
as I watch someone else inject you with helium,
pull you back up,
from where I left you to die.

It is a beautiful day.

The heavens are crying like they haven’t in months. The sky is grey, but not the gloomy, thunderstorm grey we normally see this time of year. No, it’s the kind of grey that has a backsplash of light, like the sun was shining and a shallow mist rolled through. It’s all just one shade, like a normal blue sky that has simply been greyscaled, like a filter on your phone. But this is not the kind of grey that you could take a photo of. No, it’s not. Go ahead and try.

It is a beautiful day.

Days like these are my favourite days. I woke up this morning, took a shower, washed my hair, shaved my legs, washed my face, brushed my teeth. I curled up in bed for a while to reminisce in the warmth of the previous night. I put on a sweater two sizes too big, fleece-lined leggings, and Irish cottage socks. I felt as though I was made for one of those artsy, hipster pictures you see on your Tumblr dash every once in a while. I even had a coffee, two creams, one sugar.

It is a beautiful day.

I planned to go for a walk in the fields today, let myself become drenched so that I could curl up in fuzzy blankets upon return to my home. I longed to feel the squish of mud in the tracks of my boots, to hear the sheep bleating in the distance. I wanted to stumble through the little path in the woods that only I know is there. This daydream was interrupted by the sound of chainsaws.

It was a beautiful day.

Orange everywhere, from the workers’ vests and hats to the road signs to the truck itself. Some man, some poor, sad man was sixty feet in the air, hacking at the branches of the tree in my front yard. My tree. “It’s to clear room for the telephone wires, miss,” he assured, but it didn’t seem very assuring. Orange, so much orange, that it made the grey seem…wrong.

It was a beautiful day.

Cutting off the branches of my hundred-year-old tree so that it wouldn’t impose upon the telephone wires. To hell with the telephone wires. Put them somewhere else. “My tree was here first,” I say. “Sorry miss, take it up with the telephone company.” Of course it’s too late now; the branches hit the ground. A few men come and pick them up and throw them in the wood chipper.

It was a beautiful day.

I am everything you desire
Am I not?
I've passed all the tests and we've played all the games imaginable
But I still win every time
and you wonder why
But don't protest as I claim my prize.
I hunger all the time now
More so then I feel you can even satisfy
I worry all of my effort will be worth nothing, because someone else has already ****** you dry before me
That's why I'm always present in the backsplash
Always watching.
Playing puppet
even though I'm the perpetrator
surrender your skin to me
you indiscriminate fool
fall
asleep beside me
like only an ignorant child can do
let me watch
your heaving chest in sincronitzed snapshots
try to understand what it all means
in a blink of an eye
A glimmer
A refracted star, mere mirrored light in a sky kissed with abundance  
Let me trek my sharp nails over the monotonous journey of your frail fore arm
Draw some blood
But just enough to get by

Full disclosure,
My deepest fear is
Losing you.
Seemingly petty, but
The memories you’d
Leave me would be
A phantom limb,
Forever haunting me.

Kaleidoscope eyes,
They see the world in
Color, but they
Don’t see me.
Grey backsplash in
A city of rainbow;
The windows
Betray me.

A white witch
Stares at me in
The mirror, vile
And feeling loveless.
These lying eyes
Find bad intention
Everywhere I
Go.

This tricky brain
Plants seeds of
Doubt and jealousy,
Oh how they grow.
Hazel eyes green
With envy make
A generous
Green thumb.

For the record,
Playing victim got
Easier as my heart
Allowed itself to feel
All I’ve repressed.
It’s more convenient
To do the hurting
When I’m hurting, too.

Though I swear I
Never meant to enjoy
It so much,
Nor did I want to use it
On you. I
Am shameful of this
Power, and you are
Undeserving of the wrath.

Metamorphosis,
I will mold myself
Into a new being;
Eyes green with nurture
And lacking envy.
Full disclosure, I
Have you to thank for this;
Your arms, the catharsis.

christ alive, so am i.
i am otherwise dry compost
like becoming sand far from water
just sand resonating sand.
still the signals of consciousness are there
but far from complex growth or
helpfulness.

a stain, a mold, a t-shirt in a palace.
all things ductile, all things closely resembling hyper athletic celery.

we mirror amplifiers. constant alchemical gain undeniably transmitting unstable, uncertain, postmodern programming.

the devil is real.
existing in things like air conditioning and silicon. moving subtle through maple syrup and backsplash.
the devil is mycelial and plastic;
a beach of wet, burning relief;
a root system of universal, cosmo(logical/politan), terran and mythological cinema.
the devil is a pisces that smells like lemon rinds and rusty door hinges.

we live in a bottle
where we create our own weather.

its been a long day coming...


ok. that's enough backsplash
for the day
can't believe I've handled that
its been a long, long day
far too much for the price we pay


all along'
but were hooked on drugs
all ****** up
can you believe
what they've done to me
it's so real

the price we pay
until the death
it declares our face
that we hand off to the world
let em' know I'm not your girl
depend on me
for your every need
like in the one who
planted this seed
of disappointment