"fistfulls" poems
Fistfulls of dark hair in darker water
the expression is not beautiful
or ugly
just pure survival.
When hands do what they're meant to do
and you wanna tell him
"I just want to drown"
and you wanna tell him
"I just want to burn out" but
he manages to throw your cigarettes away
hide every sharp insrument in a drawer
flush the xanax down the toilet
he says blue is such a lonely color,
so he repaints your walls and you scream at him to stop
as the sun shines through mirrored curtains.
When you are broken you expect everything around you to be broken.
White sheets replace black ones and he traces your footsteps back to the bathroom tiles,
smiles says;
"let the light in babe"
mistakes the fear in your eyes for sadness
you have no more room left for sadness
and he has no room left for empathy
running on caffeine and sympathy.
youll take what you can get so the nighttime doesnt have to be darker without him
hope he finds your notebook you place strategically ontop of a kitchen counter
because surely if he could read that he could understand
there are days darker than the ones when you chose to let the light in
it will shine on all your rotting parts
on your cracked canvases and too-full-dams
it will bring sight to the stink that is inside you
he will see
and if he cannot understand the terrror of that then he is not human
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 4:26 PM UTC
fistfulls of tsampa, butter lamps,
kneeling till my legs are cramped
and feeling less than human here,
where I am but a sightseer--
the things I know of bhodi trees
are what was writ in books for me--
of this fourth summer lunar month:
frayed prayer flags’ silk like amianth
with them do my thoughts most align
at a festival that is not mine.
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 10:46 AM UTC
She said
When you're done slaying dragons
and fighting for thrones
will you come back and stay for a while?
But there are not enough puddles
Not enough dirt
He is the king of the living room
when the carpet is lava
Don't come out of the kitchen
The carpet is lava mommy
She says okay
and watches as he jumps from couch cushion to chair to tile
to save her
There will never be a man in her life who can save her like he can
No man who knows the exact distance from doorframe to bedframe
so the hands underneath will not get them
if they jump right
No one's ever thought to save her
From the things she cannot see
I wish I were old enough to use a saw
He is stomping a tin trashcan lid flat
Cuts kite string with his teeth
Discovery says its duck season
If I have armored wings
and get hit by a shotgun
I'll still be able to fly home
I wish I were a shark
I wish I were the wind
I wish I was a lost boy but didn't have to be lost
Can I be a boy forever
and still get homesick?
If peter pan came and offered to whisk him away to neverland
The hardest thing would be for her to let him go
Maybe he can be a boy like ten more years
she thinks
With fistfulls of crayons
and constant pleads for one more of everything
Just one more night as a boy
Just one more day as a dragon
Just one more day as a bird with steel wings
One more day as the wind
But she knows he'll be a man
And he'll visit
and call
talk about
The damsel in distress he met in college
When he saved her at a party
How she spent the whole night laying on his chest
While sleeping on the grass
And for some reason
The cold biting air smelled like home
She knows mothers raise the best men
Because they know what they want in a man
It's not always okay to be your father's son
She says,
When you're done with dragons
and steel winged flights
and being emperor of the living room
Be honest
Women love men who are honest
Smile about everything
Smiling is attractive
and sometimes it's all you need to make yourself feel good
Call me now and then
Or I'll call you every five minutes
Now go
The wind is calling you home
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 3:17 PM UTC
He woke on the ground
and felt the Earth laying paths
in her full revolution.
Pass the sweetened memories yet had.
And in the final moment before lucidity,
an expansive breath found him
basking in the manic love of a thousand sultry muses.
"Fistfulls of locks, and the tangled driven."
Princesses and beggarmaids,
all offer their charities.
Sep 1, 2010
Sep 1, 2010 at 11:10 PM UTC
a slithering urge rips up my appetite by grass-like fistfulls,
an urge to condense
falter every thought that has the audacity to contaminate my psyche.
the gentle thrumming under-skin is knotted firmly
to the drum of words tapping.
a shell, its contents,
tearing, perforated and utterly whole.
wring the rag
gulp the freshly stolen, assimilated goods
and spread the contents of your stomach for special exhibition.
she leaves pauses,
pregnant and lingering,
until the route to the next unmists.
a familiar pang gasping,
urging now shout and dare and spill
spill invent a new word for the pulsing
of yourself rising within yourself,
like so much bile,
**** as you please and leave careful notes
until the entirety of your vocabulary is spent,
burnt to a nub.
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 6:54 PM UTC
at night the insomniacs come out to play
they grab fistfulls of their hair and howl at the moon.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
I want you
To grab
Fistfulls
and
Fistfulls
Of me
In your
Strong hands
To
Explore
To
Dive
Deep
Inside
Of
Me
Like a
Mountain Spring
That
Will
Never
Stop
Gushing
An endless
Supply
You and I
Are
The
Same
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC
Eyelashes
Bubbles
Sunglasses
Puddles
A glass of wine
A drop of sunshine
A shower
A flower
A sprinkle
A twinkle
Crystals
And fistfulls of crayons
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 1:00 AM UTC
spilled burning hot chamomile tea
on my shaking hand
which proves, i suppose
that the ones you love hurt you the most
would like to think that falling sick
is the work of some Trickster God
fashioning shackles out of wool
fistfulls of hair wrapped around a bedpost
was asleep for forty-eight hours
most of them i dreamt
various iterations of
an unattainable light
left by abstract imagery
the words adorning
an album i know
making sense of the nonsensical:
"*there was a tiny cactus on my desk. i was angry and i smashed it down. the poor ******* cactus didn't do anything. i kept the needles in my fist all afternoon. i left the pieces of the *** and the dirt on the floor for weeks. until my mom finally picked it up.* 1/21"
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 2:53 AM UTC
Fingers laced together, I am a basket.
Take parts to build a heart: you will need
wild things, beautiful things.
Mostly you will need
things that no one asked for,
that no one expected.
Things that have no reason to exist,
but do.
Netted spiderwebs and nettle fistfulls.
Fish scales and cotton cattails.
Dragonflies skimming across the water in the early morning
and fireflies imitating stars in the somber dusk.
The eddies behind rocks that jut brashly from the river
and the ribbons woven wreath-like through wrens’ nests.
Hauled up by handles, dump everything somewhere
you wouldn’t mind living.
Apply heat, settle in somewhere
you wouldn’t mind leaving.
Let sit two to twenty four hours, stirring occasionally.
Listen:
rhythm
one-two
one-two
it lives.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 6:24 AM UTC