A roomful of virgins
Sat before me
Ready for an auction.
The bidding began.
Allies, and other less noticeables
Raised their paddles.
Tensions mounted
As the cannons were sold off,
The arsenals grew with each arm,
The bidders knew
The value of money
Decreases as anger rises.
Truckloads of boots
Emptied into
The streets and homes.
The auctioneer placed
His cap on his head
And left them counting
In the snow.

A bad mix of Shorty's Irish Whisky
and a whimper riding the wind,
has got me lying about my past.
A roomful of men in nooseties surround,
crowbar stares prying at my mindsafe of secrets--
I drink until the grimace gives way to birthday cake grin
and my watering eyes burst in confetti.

Martha emerges from the black suits
in her spiderweb burgundy dress.
Jack and Nathan drool in the corner.
Martha whispers, "Hey Harvey," and then a terribly long
something-or-other in my ear,
but I'm too far gone to comprehend
or to care about comprehending.
The crafted playlist for this party
hiccups and dies, creating a suffocating silence.
The beady eyes turn shifty, erratic strayfire gazes
fill the room.

I begin to laugh.

I notice Jack talking to a grey-haired man and pointing at me.
Martha looks at me and nods with a sense of urgency.
New music coughs across the room,
I slide into a small, desperate clan of dreamy-talkers,
hungry for a new pair of ears to beesting with *******.
I listen, while my aging wolf scours the room.
I make a swift break for the door,
the night lies naked in front of me--
light pollution pours fake beams on the contours of the evening.
A middle-aged woman snags my arm before I can reach my car.
I pull until my arm frees, but she delays me enough
for the grey-haired man to catch up.

He introduces himself with a lightning one-two punch.
One being a sharp left hook.
Two being a dusting right uppercut.

"You stay the hell away from my daughter!"

I begin to ***** a river of orange, red, dotted with black chunks.
More than a few drops land on his shiny black leather shoes,
so he proceeds to break my nose with a vicious kick.

Amidst my moans, I am able to ask, "Who is your daughter?"

"Karen, Karen Newman."

"I have no idea who that is!" I cry.

"Don't lie to me, Jack! She told us all about you."

"My name is Harvey."

I look out into the road.
A blue sedan stops momentarily.

"I owe you one, buddy!" Jack shouts.

The Newman parents disappear without
so much as an apology.
I lay listening to the low hum of the city's traffic.
A few minutes pass, sending me into a haze.
Delicate fingers lift my head from the concrete,
I look up.
Martha begins to clean the blood and ***** from
my face with a wash cloth.
I feel soft and pure in her hands.

On October 2nd a local high-school teacher invited me to her classroom to speak to her students about writing and poetry. More specifically, the lesson of the day was one in which the exploration of a subculture took place. Subsequently, the questions that were posed to the students in the beginning were: “What does a poet look like?”  What would a poet sound like, conversationally?” “What kind of clothes would they wear?” “What do you think makes someone want to be a poet?”   As we got set to go forward with what became an easy and enjoyable group conversation, it all seemed a bit esoteric to me and I began to wonder if I was indeed the right person for this particular gig.

I started to wonder if I was a poet, if I am a poet.  What does a poet dress like? How did I come to be a poet? I know my backstory, as it relates to the when and why I write what I write and way that I write it.
But, in the end, we talked about the subculture of poets and poetry, the need for more human interaction, the thrill of the live poetry reading and the fact that this particular subculture that I am a part of also tends to be sought out by those from other subcultures. I explained what The Thunderbird Sessions are and what they continue to mean to me. I explained that we have a regular attendee whom is very obviously wracked with anxiety, but that he comes to life under the lights and through the PA-system at Unplugged during a Thunderbird Sessions event.  Additionally, I explained that we have, often, subcultures within subcultures represented at a Thunderbird Sessions reading.

It seems that the fringes, the weirdos, the people who don’t quite fit in anyplace else, fit into the robes of the poet or the writer, because people that write have an escape hatch, they have a valve that releases the pressures that they feel every day and in almost every way.

I have done my best to make sure that my subculture is as accepting of any other subculture that might step through the doors of anywhere that I might be reading, writing, or otherwise existing. Because, really, the only culture that matters is the culture of kindness.  

Before that roomful of high-school kids was done with me, I told them that despite the fact that I didn’t know them, I loved them unconditionally. I told them this, because no one told it to me outside of my own childhood home and family. I felt like I didn’t fit on the planet. So, I found music and books that made for good companions when I needed them. Records and books are often quite a bit more reliable and dependable than people. People will let you down at every turn.  It’s a pretty rough room out there right now, so I’m trying to be one of those people whom you know will absolutely not let you down. I hope I’m doing okay.

A few days later, I got a thank-you card in the mail. It seems that I failed to communicate thoroughly enough on the subject of subcultures. No one wrote: “Hooray! Now I know a real poet!” “Now I understand how a poet should dress!”  “Now I know how to talk like a poet!”   Instead, the teacher wrote something like this: “Those kids remembered how you told them that you loved them unconditionally despite the fact that they were strangers to you. That really meant a lot to them.”

I want to do more of this sort of thing. It’s the only way I feel like I’m doing the very most good that I am able to do.
*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications

Pain is nothing but a series of ever-growing rooms. We all start off in a small room, sometimes a broom closet or maybe even the crawl space. It’s in room one where we learn about scraped knees, broken bones, bruises, and illness. Once we've learned about the beginning of pain we move forward into the next room.
It’s a lot like the last room, only bigger and harsher. Again the process is repeated but with heartbreak, betrayal, depression, self-harm, and anxiety as the key wounds of room two.
Once those have been conquered room three becomes available. Theft, ****, attempted suicide, and addiction reside in its musty corners. And again we familiarize and learn about these mounting pains broadening our empathy.
Of course not everyone follows the same linear path. People end up jumping from room one to room three before even setting foot in room two. Others might find themselves having to double back to the same room over and over again.  
The furthest I've ventured is room three. Every day I find myself pacing within its four walls trying to make sense of my hurt so I can move onward to room four. I’m not even sure I want to though. One room leads to another larger room. The only difference is the severity of the pain.

A poet can feel your pain
And express his own
He has an opinion
And will stand alone
He will tell of things
He thinks in the night
He only cares
About what is right
He will make you think
About life and who you are
It may be painful
It may open a scar
You will know by his words
That his mind does burn
And even if you disagree
You will soon return
Because he will tell you
The truth as only he can
And in this world of rhyme
Only the strong will stand

A few months ago
I knew we would speak
As I thought about this
I imagined what I would say
To a roomful of children
That I’d never met before
It was 2:00 AM and I couldn't sleep
So I jumped up and wrote most of this on the spot
Just so you know
I’m not a professional speaker
But I am a person
Just like you
And I know how I feel about things
I started writing because I became tired of war
And because I want my children to know how I think
So I’m here to talk about poetry
I view poetry as a combination of art and opinion/experience
But in reality
I'm here to talk about life
Your teachers are helping you
They are giving you the tools you need
So you can take care of yourself as an adult
They teach you English and Spanish
And Math and Science
But these are just like a hammer
Or a saw or a drill
They are in your tool chest
You know…
In your mind
I like to call it the braided mind
Because it's a blend or a braid of three things
The Intellectual
The emotional
The spiritual
And as a child you are trying to develop these things
I think being a poet can help
In my opinion most failures are due to emotional immaturity
It seems that school typically concentrates on the intellectual
But the emotional side is very important
And you need to develop this too
So I have a question for you
And I find the answer to this question to be very important
It helps as you interact with people
It helps you be a true poet
Can you put yourself in another person's shoes?
Can you UNDERSTAND their problems?
What about this question?
Can you accept the truth even if it conflicts with everything you believe?
That’s a tough one
I have two other questions
Do you have a need to be cool?
Are you a trend-setter or are you trendy?
I used to worry about stuff like that
The answers to these questions involve lessons of maturity
That's why I ask
I know it is difficult to go against the grain
To stand alone in a mob
It is a huge personal challenge
So what is it about emotional maturity that involves poetry?
It can teach to think for yourself
To be unswayed by the wrong thing
Even if everyone else disagrees with you
The poet offers his true feelings without regard to criticism
You are the poet
You are not affected by mere opinion
You are affected by truth
Here is another question
How do you feel about life?
Because we want to know
Because you are the poet
We want you to make us see what you see
With words
We want you to make us feel what you feel
With words
If you can think like this
And open your mind to the things around you
Then you will always feel alive
This is the way I try to think
And because of this I am never bored
I didn’t say I wasn’t boring!
I said I am never bored
Because my mind is always feeling things
And then I communicate
The ability to effectively communicate is critical
That is why you study the rules of language
But what are you going to do
With what you have learned?
There are so many possibilities
But what you have to know
Is that nothing is impossible
Look at me
I’m 53 years old
That’s probably pretty old to you
And it sounds old to me too
Just the other day
I received an offer for senior citizens
Senior citizens!
Like my life was over or something
But look at me
I’m here talking to you
It's because I decided I wanted to speak out
I wanted to be a poet
And I started down that road four years ago
So I was already old when I started something new
But look at you
You are young
Is it too early for you?
Like some say it’s too late for me?
NO!
You can start now
You can start thinking
You can start being who you are
But will you dare
Or will you worry about what someone may think?
Understand what I am saying
I’m not talking about doing what you want
So you can hurt someone
Or cheat your way through life
Or disrupt your teacher
I’m talking about being who you are
And not being afraid
Being tough
But not stubborn
Being able to care
But not obsessing
Being able to forgive
But not being easy
Being wise
But not arrogant
So what about poetry?
Do you think that men write poetry?
Do you think that men have feelings?
Do you think that men can make rhymes?
You better believe it
Because men feel things like women do
We all do
We can be mad
But don’t stay mad
That’s the secret
We can feel sorrow
But don’t stay sorrowful
It’s a matter of understanding why
Why do you feel that way
Then deal with it
Because if you deal with it
Then you own it
Then you control it
So it doesn’t control you
When I am sad or mad
I don’t just fall apart
But I don’t deny the feelings either
Sometimes we carry these feelings with us
And they eat away at our insides
Why?
Because we don’t really confront them
We let them sit there
Ready to pounce
So how do you do control that?
For me that’s where writing comes in
I try to express what it is that I am feeling
Then I write about it
And it becomes easier and easier
Why?
Because it’s my true self
I know myself
I know how I feel
So I tell myself
Then I tell you
And when I am willing to tell somebody
That’s when the magic starts to happen
Now… I feel things
But it’s not always about me
Sometimes it’s about someone else
There is something philosophers call a priori
That means you can see something that is true
Without having to experience it for yourself
And when you can feel that pain
Without experiencing it yourself
Then that’s called empathy
That’s when you put their shoes on
That’s when you know about their life
Then you realize they are real
Just like you
And then that’s when you can speak
About others
About right and wrong
Because then you don’t have to wait
Until it happens to you
Because what kind of life is that
Just waiting for something bad to happen
To you
Before you care
Maybe you are already angry
Maybe you aren’t popular
Maybe you’ve been picked on
What should you do?
Pick a fight?
Steal something?
Do something wrong?
No!
Think about Martin Luther King
He was made to feel less than a man
He didn’t have the rights others had
Just because of the color of his skin
He was humiliated
Do you know what that word means?
Do you know how that feels?
To be intensely made fun of
Or ridiculed
But what did he do?
He stood up for what is right
He used his anger wisely
He didn’t strike back
But he was not meek
He stood up and said
That is wrong
And he knew he would be hated
He knew he would be in danger
But that anger became the fuel
For greatness
And change in mankind
And he did not strike a blow with his fists
He just walked and sat
Where he was told he could not
He turned the other cheek
But he held his ground
And he won
Because they knew he was right
And what is right never loses
It just takes someone to say
It’s time to be right
What about Gandhi?
He was a small man
He was one man
Like Martin Luther King
Gandhi was a lawyer
But you don’t have to go to law school to understand
But to instinctively know about right and wrong
Means to know in your heart
Nobody has to tell you
You don’t have to read it in a book
You just know
And he knew
But he didn’t strike a blow
He just walked and sat
Where he was not allowed
And he became a great man
So what does this all mean?
It means you can think now
It means you can know now
It means that you can stand up
For right and against what is wrong
Because when you do
You will become very powerful
People will respect you
Some will fear you
I’m not saying walk around pointing fingers
But I am saying stand up for yourself
Don’t be swayed
Don’t let someone convince you otherwise
You are ready to be a leader
For good
Why not today?
But you do not have to wait
For something to happen
You can write about it now
You have your mind open
Remember
I’m not too old to live
And you’re not too young to live
So we both will express our feelings
And become poets
Because there is a dignity to this
It teaches you to be human
And to be alive
In any situation
Regardless of where you are
Or who you are with
Because life suddenly has meaning
In every moment
And you can be a part of each moment
If you let yourself be
Will you?
There is another challenge
Accepting truth
Sounds easy
But it’s not
To be a truth-seeker
You must be willing to be open minded
You must be willing to change
No matter what
Because the truth is the truth
It doesn’t care what you believe
It lives in its own world
To be a poet
You must be free
You must be willing to speak
About truth
Not to make yourself look good
Or to justify yourself
But for the sake of truth only
There is nothing like it
They say it can set you free
And it is true
I know it to be true
Because in my life
When I was honest
Not in a hurtful way
But in a compassionate way
Then I was able to be free mentally
Free of worries
Free of burdens
Because there was nothing to hide
And I knew I was in control
Of my mind
And nobody can brainwash me
I will listen
And I will consider what you say
But I won’t automatically believe it
Just because it’s on TV
Or the internet
Or because somebody said it loudly
Loud doesn’t mean right
Loud just means loud
So to be a true poet
You have to tell us what you really think
That means tell us the truth about your feelings
No matter what it is
Because when we read truth
From someone’s heart
We are drawn in
Because that is a rare thing in this world
It’s not a matter of making rhymes
It’s a matter of life
And people crave honesty
And sincerity
And courage
Tell us about fear
About sadness
About joy
About sorrow
Are you ready?
Inspiration has its own clock
And when you feel these things
Your pen will know what to do
This is what we want
From you
Can you do it?




Copyright 2011. All Rights Reserved. Mark Lecuona

It was the winter my mother discovered her identical twin sister was dying. It was a season of falling into knowledge of another's body failing; the body you were born with. All that had been sculpted in a body was slowly being chipped away at day by day by day. It was a season of maybes. Maybe she tasted Ohio snow instead of morphine. Maybe behind her eyes lies another world no one has access to. Maybe she is already gone and what remains is pantomime of living. Maybe she will die before Christmas.

It was the winter I saw my mother touch someone on a regular basis. She smoothes and strokes her sister's arms as if they were soft sheets. Through sunset in the eyes to moonlight in her hands, she does this. Maybe she even whispers "taste the snow". How literal we take our lives when they are taking us on our final journey. Where do we receive direction on what to do. We don't. We go on nerve endings and will power and love we contain in the corner waiting for moments like these.

These are contained, constrained paragraphs - no combustibles here. Precise and to the point. What snakes beyond the lines that are laid out? That is the real saga. It is winter and there are a city of birds outside the window. They flock when my sister-in-law arrives with her bread crumbs. This is a parenthetical detail to the main narrative. But surrounded by family and hospice workers. Women brush their hair, people buy tickets to movies, fill their cars with gas. She does nothing but walk towards herself. Sometimes slower than before. This is her task. The dark wing she flies under and the walking, walking, walking, walking. No cold ash in the mouth here. Yes, Ohio snow and the scent of flowers in the room.

It is morning and she lies in her bed. It is afternoon and she lies in her bed. It is evening and she lies in her bed. Some say "resting" but I prefer ruminating in a roomful of memories. You are thinking that death is delicate, soft and slow and nothing dangerous about it at all once you have decided it is the road you will meet yourself on. This is no abstraction for you nor art one must be taught. Instinctual, the I in you meets it full faced. The moon glows from the bulb in the ceiling, silver speckled stucco are the stars you peer at. You do not question it. A thousand windows ago were birds water rock sand desert wind. Now there is your own pale reflection where once there was the world forever, I shall not entirely be emptied of beauties, the gift of your small breath, the drenched grass, smell of your sleep, lilies, lilies ...planetary wanderings through the black amnesia of Heaven. You touch still remember still feel still. Ambivalence rests in your red needle slammed arms. But there is beauty in blood too. The pulsing, veins and rivers of it. The deep underground river you sleep in. You there on your back eyes to the moon lit room, not a relic but a woman avoiding death's lip to her ear, the shadows on a face, the abyss of absences. The moon mingles with the image of a woman warm and flushed with life and history and future.

My aunt remembers names lucidly. The keeping of names is sacred. Before naming things and people was wind stone snow.

How to explain there are the perpetually open graves. One need not give oneself over to death. Fluid in the brain circling like liquid around a planet need not destroy you. Your bones might turn to tin but it still does not claim you. Creaking when you breathe means you still breathe. Yours is not the stone face of the woman who does not feel. The mirrors may seem to fail you, but you face them anyway. You live now in a ponderous house, with strangers, family, friends, co-workers flooding in. "Where am I"? you ask. In the citadel of love.

Poets with whom I learned my trade.
Companions of the Cheshire Cheese,
Here's an old story I've remade,
Imagining 'twould better please
Your cars than stories now in fashion,
Though you may think I waste my breath
Pretending that there can be passion
That has more life in it than death,
And though at bottling of your wine
Old wholesome Goban had no say;
The moral's yours because it's mine.
When cups went round at close of day --
Is not that how good stories run? --
The gods were sitting at the board
In their great house at Slievenamon.
They sang a drowsy song, Or snored,
For all were full of wine and meat.
The smoky torches made a glare
On metal Goban 'd hammered at,
On old deep silver rolling there
Or on somc still unemptied cup
That he, when frenzy stirred his thews,
Had hammered out on mountain top
To hold the sacred stuff he brews
That only gods may buy of him.
Now from that juice that made them wise
All those had lifted up the dim
Imaginations of their eyes,
For one that was like woman made
Before their sleepy eyelids ran
And trembling with her passion said,
"Come out and dig for a dead man,
Who's burrowing Somewhere in the ground
And mock him to his face and then
Hollo him on with horse and hound,
For he is the worst of all dead men.'
We should be dazed and terror-struck,
If we but saw in dreams that room,
Those wine-drenched eyes, and curse our luck
That empticd all our days to come.
I knew a woman none could please,
Because she dreamed when but a child
Of men and women made like these;
And after, when her blood ran wild,
Had ravelled her own story out,
And said, "In two or in three years
I needs must marry some poor lout,'
And having said it, burst in tears.
Since, tavern comrades, you have died,
Maybe your images have stood,
Mere bone and muscle thrown aside,
Before that roomful or as good.
You had to face your ends when young --
'Twas wine or women, or some curse --
But never made a poorer song
That you might have a heavier purse,
Nor gave loud service to a cause
That you might have a troop of friends,
You kept the Muses' sterner laws,
And unrepenting faced your ends,
And therefore earned the right -- and yet
Dowson and Johnson most I praise --
To troop with those the world's forgot,
And copy their proud steady gaze.
"The Danish troop was driven out
Between the dawn and dusk,' she said;
"Although the event was long in doubt.
Although the King of Ireland's dead
And half the kings, before sundown
All was accomplished.
"When this day
Murrough, the King of Ireland's son,
Foot after foot was giving way,
He and his best troops back to back
Had perished there, but the Danes ran,
Stricken with panic from the attack,
The shouting of an unseen man;
And being thankful Murrough found,
Led by a footsole dipped in blood
That had made prints upon the ground,
Where by old thorn-trees that man stood;
And though when he gazed here and there,
He had but gazed on thorn-trees, spoke,
"Who is the friend that seems but air
And yet could give so fine a stroke?"
Thereon a young man met his eye,
Who said, "Because she held me in
Her love, and would not have me die,
Rock-nurtured Aoife took a pin,
And pushing it into my shirt,
Promised that for a pin's sake
No man should see to do me hurt;
But there it's gone; I will not take
The fortune that had been my shame
Seeing, King's son, what wounds you have.  --
'Twas roundly spoke, but when night came
He had betrayed me to his grave,
For he and the King's son were dead.
I'd promised him two hundred years,
And when for all I'd done or said --
And these immortal eyes shed tears --
He claimed his country's need was most,
I'd saved his life, yet for the sake
Of a new friend he has turned a ghost.
What does he cate if my heart break?
I call for ***** and horse and hound
That we may harry him.' Thereon
She cast herself upon the ground
And rent her clothes and made her moan:
"Why are they faithless when their might
Is from the holy shades that rove
The grey rock and the windy light?
Why should the faithfullest heart most love
The bitter sweetness of false faces?
Why must the lasting love what passes,
Why are the gods by men betrayed?'
But thereon every god stood up
With a slow smile and without sound,
And Stretching forth his arm and cup
To where she moaned upon the ground,
Suddenly drenched her to the skin;
And she with Goban's wine adrip,
No more remembering what had been.
Stared at the gods with laughing lip.
I have kept my faith, though faith was tried,
To that rock-born, rock-wandering foot,
And thc world's altered since you died,
And I am in no good repute
With the loud host before the sea,
That think sword-strokes were better meant
Than lover's music -- let that be,
So that the wandering foot's content.

moving forward from A to B
to eternity
from milliseconds to eons
from a tick of the clock
to a heartbeat
to a lifetime
each measure, a length of string
determined by Fates
or a burning wick
in a roomful of candles
where nothing can be earned

time spent
time left
with universes in between
life's images captured in a puddle
harmonic resonance ripples through the calm
radiating outward
energy rebounding and returning to stillness

reflections of a harvest moon
on white rushing waters
blue electricity crackling on crest tops
as waves unfurl on shores
and return to oceans
a vision viewed since antiquity
moments of time shared with ancients
and generations
tallied by stars and grains of sand

I want to be susceptible to the world's most anguishing heartbreak.

I want to know torture outside prisons
and inside the hidden doors in the soul-
the ones where you stash the secrets
the truth
the unadmittable.

Looking across a roomful of people
and only seeing one
only Ever seeing one
and wouldn't it be a fairytale
if he was looking right back.

Because before heartache comes heart great.

No more "do my eyes deceive me?"
No more fantasizing what happens when hands
accidentally graze

There's no mistaking his meaning.

Like Love poems in foreign languages-
you still understand every word
every sentiment
every intention.

And while the world keeps spinning
and the noise gets louder and louder

We will retreat into our own quietness.

Where we will stay for
a long
long

time.

She wears a mask,
To hide within herself.
There is no need to ask,
For everyone ignores her cry for help.

All the hatred inside,
Locked in bond with the loss.
Only singing emotion can abide.
No one can see her tears gloss.

The mask says “Hello!”
Here eyes say goodbye,
Nothing is what the mask shows.
Because deep inside, she cries.

“Is there anyone out there,
That is anything like me?”
But thru the mask, no one could hear.
She was all she could ever be.

The mask won't come off,
No matter how hard she tries.
Surveyors will laugh and scoff.
But the true story is in her eyes.

Sooner or later, you will see,
The loneliness hidden behind the mask,
Everyone seems so happy,
And my dear, this is no easy task.

“Why can’t I be like that?”
She tries to call for help,
But to them she is only a number stat.
Or a worthless, depressed whelp.

She sees no one who looks like her,
On her knees she asks,
Why she is this way forever.
But her only reply was a roomful of masks.

I share my bed with demons.
Goblins, and Rakshasa,
And Japanese Oni
stain my sheets,
already crimson,
with red hot unrest.
They do not speak in whispers.
They do not close their eyes.
Together we lie and toss,
And think and sleep
Not a wink, not a wink!
Just listen to the
Crickets and wind and,
below us,
Hear slow, steady,
Heartbeats of
the hell they call home.

Follow sulfur incense strings,
My mercy, down to the
ninth circle of my bed.  
**** the swelter of
this under-the-covers underworld,
Drown touch-starved fires
with holy water sweat.
Suffocate a roomful of shadows,
with a fistful of light.
Guide my way to dreams.

Save me, save me, save me.

When you are not with me
I share my bed with demons.

The kid with the beard and the ***** apron,
he's just trying to make it.
His shoes have small tears on the sides,
from the way water saturates and weakens the material.
He’s got this way of gliding from table to table,
the same way a dancer owns a stage.
He slides plates of salt-ridden tacos currently in vogue
to a roomful of overfed, undersexed office drones

A woman in a skirt and flip-flops rolls her eyes at a salad.
A ******* in a blazer flicks a ****** under the table.
Still, there's a twinkle in the kid’s eyes,
like he's on the make.
If the right circumstances unfold
he’d snag a loose twenty
from a wallet or a purse.

This is the server's life,
always under the thumb,
hated and stressed,
but always laughing
at the end
of each shift.

it was her eyes
bright beautiful brown eyes
the kind that draw you in
and lock you down
they called me from across the room
to my surprise my heart did swoon
I wasn't looking for anything
but her eyes found me
I can never forget the moment
though things didn't work out
her eyes captivated me
and held me prisoner
though we weren't meant to be
those eyes
kind, inviting and lonely
in a roomful of people
her eyes
passionate and compelling
embracing
a moment I will never forget
it was her eyes

Sometimes I just stare at
the person talking in front
of me and a roomful of
adolescents and ignorant grownups
and I want to step towards that person
get their attention and then gravely ask

are you happy with how your life
turned out to be content with what
you accomplished and was given in
return aspired by challenging
figures who as lifelong perfections
construct metal walls around hearts

Do you know who you are; can you
remember or live throughout each
day without questioning whether you'll
make it through or not because I can't
and it's frustrating but strangely
refreshing at the same time because
change is more likely to occur when you
think too much about such simple dead things

but some things in life were never
meant for some people no matter
how much they try or how much
they wish and why don't the people
in their lives understand that why
couldn't they feel compassion and
show support for the person as
how he or she already is and not
who they want that person to become

I hate people like that
people who can live day by day
beside a person throughout their lives
and never ever be able to know or see
who that person really is and never
ever be able to understand or care for them
because they're too ignorant and expectant
and selfish and they just can't see.

I stare at the person that's talking
in front of a roomful of strangers
and whiny adolescents and politicians
and attentive Gods and jittery parents
I stare at myself and ask
Are you really happy?

Infrequent is my heart...
is the rain...
the sullen part
of every beating fist
against my windowpane,
renouncing all my dreams, my claims,
as if the drops' joyless sound
could split ambition halfway down,
make one part stray like stray balloons,
the other mocking (mere buffoons).
The clown of hope, lost in a crowd,
paints his face orange (loud),
so garish that the image stuns
that part of me devoted to fun,
for the moppet is tossed from here to there,
raggedy moppet who fears flame's glare,
who moves silhouetted across the walls
and sneaks under doors, along dark halls
and whispers to the dead in a far-off place
and sings them to sleep with: "It's no disgrace
to fall like you fell with your hands so bony,
your eyes shut tight and your heartbeat stony!"
Little prophet with buttons for eyes:
snip out your tongue and a roomful of lies
flit in the air like flighty ghosts,
land in the butter, spread on toast.
Infrequent little cups of truth
pass by my mouth, sweeten my tooth,
infrequent as the beating part
of every man's still thirsty heart.

The thoughts circle in my head.
Darkness
Pain
Anxiety
Desperation
I am gonna go to jail.

I am gonna miss family court.

I'm gonna lose my only reason for living.

The one, who loves me.
Doesn't respect me.
Sees no issue in me feeling degraded.
I'm losing.
I'm drowning.

Why go forward?
Why fight?
      For what? Myself?
I don't even know who I am anymore.
And even less do I know if I'm worth anything?
I do know I just constantly hurt.
Why don't my tears mean anything?

I feel as if I can't move.

I feel u human.

Hated
Disgusting
Repulsive

Why would I try to move forward?
Why fight?
         To feel even lower?
Less even more?

What am I after I lose the one last hope I cling to?
What happens when that last piece of my soul breaks?
Why? In a roomful of people, do I just feel awkward? Unwanted?
Pathetic?
So different?
I give up
I don't know what to fight for anymore

Fight
      And
           Lose
                Fight
                      And
                            Lose
I just show my girls how to lose.

I let you in my life for a dance and you stepped on my toes like it was the end
Threw pieces at me that hurt like gravel sand
Guess I now have an excuse to say why I feel like this
I let down my guard for you and you destroyed me
Gave you my time, my money and my efforts
Showed you a whole new world of meaning
I gave you the keys to my dark soul
I sit here while I suffocate in this darkness
Surrounded by it, its depth, its contrast is overwhelming
Truth be told, I am tired of being used
Satan threw me into the dustbin, did not even turn back
After I shed so much blood for him
God then lent me two minute redemption
Split seconds gasp of pure air, a ray of light
He then took it away together with his disciples
I am tired of being alone inside, alone in a crowd
Trying so hard to fit in, why do people use me?
Even a ****** is better since people use it for their own definition of what love is
But what am i?
**** love, friendship and relationships because I am tired of trying
My heart is big but it beats quiet
Dear chance…. I am tired of the world
So please lend me a dying wish
A dying wish to leave this earth
In God and Satan I found no answer
I feel alone in a roomful of people
I look at the sky and see how far heaven is from me
How far redemption is from me!

The world used me! Dear chance…….
Please I beg you! Lend me a dying wish

am an
youth
he less
frothed in
sits
by
not farly
chair away

his eye
a twinkling
his Gabriel
name
he wears
his chest
a sticker
on

him
he grins
he talks
trying to

(a roomful )
of sitting other
people
to convince

he's trying
and they
I suppose they
maybe they

will?

Ever wished for a getaway?
Silent, solo, one-way vacay?
Happy, humanity holiday?
No-folk, lone-boat hideaway?

Do you drown in a roomful?
Or sag from a spoonful?
Is a mutter a mouthful?
Or a minute a moonful?

Or possibly next door
Is too near to hope for
Just presence impending
Is chthonic, light-ending

When speaking is deafening
Conversing, head-hefting
Add talkers together,
More sound than a blender

Shrill shouting and yelling
All brain and ear-bending
Wailing and waterworks
More blasting than fireworks

Even when voice-mute
Their feelings still noise-shoot
They sing and scream
Or **** and steam

Leave you battered
Dry-tattered
All flaking and scattered
Slight sheets float dust-shattered

Disintegrating on contact
Obliterating the contract
All social rules are in retract
Safety exits are abstract

Unbeatable, unkillable  
Invincible, divisible
Not fast or irresistible,
I choose to be invisible

I want you to smile,
Like you have never felt pain.

I want you to sing,
Like no one is listening.

I want you to play,
Like you are in a roomful of people,
But your the only one with an imagination.

I want you to scream to the stars,
Like they are about to fall on you.

I want you to be in control,
Because this is your life.

this isn’t my first rodeo
and by that i mean this
isn’t my first poetry slam
but my hands still shake
and sweat breaks out on my
upper lip and slides
down my spine
like cold fingers

the judge
the white
cisgender
heterosexual
old man judge
looks at me like
he’s trying to figure out
what i am and i want to
tell him that he’s not
the first person to ****
their head to the side at me

and my shoulders hurt
under the tight fabric
of my black chest binder
and i wonder if it
is showing through the
fabric of my white and pink
striped button up

i run a hand through my hair
bright and blond
and in your face
and wonder why all the poems
i read and write
fall under a category
that is not strictly
“family friendly”

maybe it’s because i
am a deeply angry person
from living in fear
since i was seven years old

or it’s because i
decided i was going to
be as loud as i could be
about being transgender
and queer
and mentally ill
because being quiet
felt like giving up

but this judge does not care
about how it felt to
kiss a girl for the first time
to fall in love with a girl
and then to fall in love with
that person again
outside the constrictions of gender

this judge does not care
because he cannot understand
and he does not want to
and this is a poetry slam that
i am not going to win
because the cards of the majority
are stacked against me

but i don’t care about
not winning
because my voice doesn’t shake
when i out myself to a roomful
of people in a town that
i am afraid to use the men's room in

and in that moment
i am not afraid
my voice is strong and loud
and these people are listening
and that judge
can’t hold a candle to the
bright light that burns within me

and just as i know this
he knows it too