A Valentine's Card dressed
With Steve Buscemi's face,
photoshopped onto a child,
disturbing and hilarious,
tattooed on the inside
with once-true truths.
Flammable.

A severed chunk of
35 mm film,
cut in a rhombus,
or trapeze or whatever,
highly flammable.

A piece of cloth
I brought with me,
And the part of
the belt I had to cut
off so it would fit
my skinny ***.
Flammable, slightly.

A dead and dried up leaf,
Impaled on the bulletin board,
From a tree I don't even know what,
That sometimes crinkles with the wind,
If she were alive still,
She would comment on the
Cold thumbtack spear
In her abdomen, and
Sniff regrets at the sweet,
Artificial Vanilla waves below.

I keep my wall of
flammable memories
Above a lit candle,
Every day, I wish the flames
Would reach a little higher, but
Every day, the wax sinks,
low, low, lower still.

through my microscope, I spend hours
looking at the interstices of a plant cell wall;
if the earth did not spin, I could endure the whole
frigid night staring through my telescope at one violently still
crater on the moon

but I eat only soggy cheerios for breakfast,
ramen--chicken flavor--for lunch, EVERY day,
and either Dinty Moore stew or cheese ravioli
for my evening repast

my toothbrush must be blue, the paste pure white
and I could never tolerate the plight, of socks slipping
down past my ankles

I love Vivaldi, Brahms, and the sound of soft rain,
but hail batters my brain like a billion ball bearings
on an defenseless tin ***

my alarm must face due north
and my bed sunset west, beyond those things
I have no peculiar request

except
that things remain EXACTLY the way they are/were
for eternity

I can't play a savant symphony
like some would expect, or do cataclysmic calculations
in my head

though I can recall,
two years and four months ago today, a gold thumbtack sitting alone
on my dead granddad’s wood work bench, and the gray smelling roll of duct tape I placed precisely three inches from it, to keep it company

and if I ever again travel 365.26 miles to visit Granny
in Milwaukee, Wisconsin USA, it better be there, not having dared
to move a nightmarish nanometer

Rainbows sit high
Imagination glides down their backs
and it scars hearts
after reaching a high, nothing matches that
Missing something now.
The paint, it trickles down and melts eyes
its canvas pain, it paints it gray.

To my fickle sea.
Poking holes in wishes you receive
The colors of the bay, they float away
Black and White is an infinite abyss
Lose yourself in the grace of it.
No in between,
just keep your eyes wide
you'll see nothing.
The sand at your feet
The glass and rocks that glaze the earth,
always find a way to cut their grace.
Don't pray too hard for me.

Search through your garden
the size of a thumbtack
the flowers rise over your head.
Trees of candy cane sprout before your eyes
You can't see what another sees,
no one to know what you know.

Taking a step inside an orchids stem
and tip-toeing down through the veins of its petals
the purple and gold
they all bleed through your mind.
Form and shape the world which you dance along,
thoughts of blowing breezes send your thoughts along their way
into this endless sea.

Watch the lines write themselves into darkened corners.
The bright and shining sun could change your world.
Swirling and spiraling staircases send you downwards without a thought,
no stopping the whirl-pool once your slipping under.
An octopus would take you in
and with every one of his eight arms he caresses your pain away
showing real effort in his cause

those who impress, settle at unrest

Watch as the berries erupt and bloom
crawl along the lines
mazes of blue
and red know there is no way to succeed.
Watch as the bumblebees sneeze with their noses covered in yellow dreams.
they pack it in with their toes in teams

A great glass lake, to skate along
the ripples
She falls along each crease,
stumbling and tumbling between each droplet.

The clouds fly high above her head,
they gaze upon her flowing gown.
They cry sad tears when they see her eyes
drowning her futures in their skies,
flowing and crashing and thrashing.

With an umbrella, float away
above the days when everything
turned out wrong.

The great glass lake serves true,
until you skip the rock of inferiority along its reflection.
The shatter will fly all about.
That is the point at which it ends
Everything you know is then contradicted and compromised
Your own description shattered

Stones drop from high heights
out of clouds with heavy hearts
waiting to smash this dream.

Great glass lake shines on.

Another silent mid-Fall afternoon
Icy raindrops slash into my neck
The forecast calls for falling thumbtacks soon
One thin umbrella folding
Just 18 feet to the front step

With champagne acquainted
But forgot how to sip it
I slurp it down, eager,
'til I sit soaked and dripping

In time, fevered minds
will lower ears made for hearing
under waves of migraines
as mighty storm fronts are nearing

So I close down the bars and stumble home under awnings
Just to search for your name among newspaper cuttings
I've read the whole issue
and I've frowned over headlines
     put it down

Now, soaked or dry, I've got only time
I've wasted so much of it losing my mind
I'm blind in the rain that now sticks in my hide
     and they were right--
The forecast called for this squall to last all night

Another lonely mid-Fall morning walk
I follow gangs of specters in their steps
And, in the crunching gravel, ghosts will talk
November winds come howling
The second I leave my front step

The flavor's familiar
It comes back every morning,
when sunlight and sparrows
ignore tornado warnings

So the gales pick up strength
and a small bird's bones are hollow
The clouds lay oceans down
setting many sips to swallow

"So goodnight." I depart, but circle back in my wanderings
I'll always wind up here--shaky, ash-faced and yawning
I've read this before
it's printed on poor paper
     in red ink

I can't say why I'm still walking by
Those other front doorsteps that I never try
The thick thumbtack rain stopped but I can't stay dry
     the ghosts were right--
But if I find your name I might stop by.

Your thumbtack
This concept
This artwork
shakes paper
It’s absolutely beautiful
It’s sensational
It made me feel things I cannot describe
Can I keep it?
I’d like to hold onto it for a very long time

As I daydream about getting down to brass
My eyes gaze at the bare wall
I begin imagining that I am a thumbtack
Your thumbtack
Yes, I did just objectify myself, didn’t I?
But I have these feelings now
Whereas I didn’t before
Because you did not resist the other purposes I felt I had at the time
Leading up to this moment
You never tried to make me dull
And even now, I do not feel feeble
I feel sharper than ever
Sharp enough to be pushed into a wall
Pushed as hard as you’d like
Just to hold this concept tightly
In the same fashion that your arm is placed around my back
And in the way my ******* feel beneath your chest

I'm a lost sock
Longing to keep a foot from feeling cold
Even though I can't cover your entire body
Ill settle for an extremity
Because it's true that
Something really is better than nothing

I was dropped between the dryer and the washing machine
Forgotten about just like the paper clip and the thumbtack
My mirror matching partner
May have gone on to meet another
But either way I lie here in lint

I remember the comfort of being in a shoe
When the warmth flowed through me
I knew I was really getting somewhere
Always aware I was part of a pair
One of a two
Half of a couple that together made a team

Then again there was way back when
I was pressed and packaged and pristine and
Presented myself to people in a store
Who could care less to think twice or
Double take and have a second glance at me
I was as unique as all the rest
But I took my job very seriously

Now I crave to do anything
To help anyone and be of use anywhere
To maybe one day be rediscovered and
Perhaps reunite with my other or
Become a fine furniture duster or
A puppet upon the hand of a person Practicing how to be humble

It's a dream and a hope and
One of the few things left I'm free to have faith in
They can take my feet away but
They can't take everything

Somewhere out there is a bare paw
Chilled to the bone and shivering
Stinging exposed to the world
Wishing I was there

Come find me
Drop something worth picking up
So you notice that long lost missing sock
Reach and retrieve me and return me to reality

I've been waiting for this forever it seems
But through your eyes it's just a
Routine insignificant finding
Unknowing that it means the world to me and
My entire existence revolves around dependency

For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for sweet peas.
And whose skin could be misplaced for dogwood.
Tongue as innocent as the boy that cried wolf,
And eyes as golden as yore.

You knew of that girl, count every school day,
Where she walked through the door, head bowed and heart prayed.
'neath those bangs, whose color is as dark as our breaths, and as shiny as false tree,
Whose eyes--exotic--bluer--bluer than a thumbtack and bluebells set out by sea.

Whose eyes are mismatched by plentiful lips--small as the silver spec on my shoe,
And shimmered 'neath sterile light, as if she kissed the face of Mt. Rushmore, too.
With those high lips and V-line chin, which connected with her pencil neck to her petite body,
No ******* or bottom, with legs as thin as stilts and as blinding as our phones,
She holds the body of a cradle, and sings like a tongue-less canary.

Always kempt and proper--her hair tied back with a lovely noose.
And shoes worry not of dirt--for she never played outside.
Resting 'neath maple-wood trees like a bunny--face and knees tucked by arms, and that's where they reside.
Many boys had asked for her hand in play, but that bunny went deeper--deeper into the flesh hole she burrowed.
"Painfully shy, she was." They said.
And that pain was her devil.

For you knew not the cause of those florid, pink, cheeks.
Whose purpose means nothing but dead machines.
Whose eyes rung bright--struck the world alight,
Yet, they themselves could not see.

For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for vintage bust,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bile.
Whose eyes mistaken for lust,
And face mistaken for tile.

For you knew of the girl whose cheeks were so pink, they'd be mistaken for heat,
And whose skin could be misplaced for bleach.
For again and again and again, the belt beats.
And hello to endless ******.

For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Blue waters and purple veins clash--wash again and again 'gainst land--and befit the word: queer.
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Innocence knows no bounds and eyes no longer see flavor,
For if you drew closer and closer--and closer, you see,
Exotic eyes bled--rained--pink--and pink--and pink with grand fervor...!
For sometimes it may frighten you to know,
Not all persons are truly healthy,
even those who you hold truly dear.

as the sitting model
for a father

I am actual

sameness / groin

goes thumbtack

repetition is not doom
not to plant
not to animal
life

     whether gang sign or godspeak
it means my child

imagined

A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.

The man with a crooked smile and big hands


A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door.
She had it in the things
I had clear from her room.
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.

Crowded by the ceiling’s emptiness (the room sticky with whispers)
names carved into grimy tiles, final shadows
            of the footsteps now hugged in dust,
                        and the ashes dulled the slapping of
                        feet on the ladder’s last rung.

            Huddled in the sour dimness of his shadow
                        is where our parents hid the prayers
                        that went undelivered –
[cloistered, naïve faith off Jacob’s Ladder]

He asked me questions that pricked too deeply –
            that fingernail clipped too short --
            as the invading hand of ******* parted words and stammers
            to play shadow puppets with, what Plato called,
            “three times removed” from the Truth.
And when leaving the choir’s balcony,
one can find the thumbtack of feeling in which
the glass-saints sweat all the industrialized emotions onto one’s brow.
            Does it seem like suffering? Catholic’s suffering.
Giving room for error in your lapse in charity.

In elementary school, we left our classrooms --
            two-by-two like businessmen arguing on the sidewalk --
Every Tuesday at 2:10pm to the hidden alcove that the administration
            gave
            to us.
Mrs. Condon, a strictly fat woman, strictly speaking,
dressed in red vests
and constricting black slacks, with a white binder,
salted as the laughter left in her footprints, reproving us that
as the Gifted and Talented, we must exercise
those gifts and talents.

I wrote a 256-paged novel that bought me one year
of slacking off behind a wooden desk because I was
11 years old
and that fact bought a bulbous beet of conditioning into the
curriculum. Ms. Condon made me edit my peers’ essays, give them grades
when all I wanted to do was play four square.

As I perched on my stool in class, properly equipped with unforgiving,
admonishing, Catholic red pens to point out other
11 year old’s punctuation and proper word usage. Like a tie to a neck, I
fiddled in vernacular, phrases, and semantics
as I unconsciously stacked layers of social prejudice, thicker
than the walls between silent parents, between some students
and I.
Stacked as quaintly as words upon words – hand over hand.

Mrs. Condon, Mrs. CEO, Ms. Too-Good-For-This, Bourgeois vs. Proletariats, I am the Marquis.

Like hounds held by leashes, the others locked to rebel, then whimpered to trail back, tails in hand.

Gifted and groomed to stack one spurned cinder block on social mobility.

In a whirr of dandelions, dice, and tax breaks, I knew how it felt to remain aloft, aloof --
            Mrs. Condon rewarded me with the cherry Twizzler of my spine
            and patted my head like the lapdog that I had been.

His brass-plated nickel twists—
a tangled rope looping on itself
         looping around a thumbtack
looping around your throat.

Teardrop gems in brass saucers
fall in jangling rivulets, streams
of crystalline blues. Wrung
from shades of sky, cloudless
summer and midnight indigo,
they shape-shift in shadows
                                    drip—
                         drip—
          dripping from the s-curve
of a bronze body crusted
in blues, blacks, and greens.

A flower is carved under
each jewel, a map of a bird’s nest—
                  a map to a bird’s nest,
           like he might forget in the small,
                  dark hours of the morning where he belongs.

                  Home is not dangling from a bookshelf.
           Through lamplight and sunlight
his stares due west.

i warned you about this
i told you, i told you
that loving a poet leads to nothing but heartache and regret
and ringing ears and fingernail scars scoring your chest
and you told me you could handle it just fine.
i warned you about this
i told you, i told you then
that a day would come when i would project everything on you
and you would feel the brunt of my emotional monsoon
and you told me you could handle some crying.
i warned you about this
i told you, i told you
that i hate you and your stupid ******* determination to keep standing even when the wind threatens to break your legs because the oaks that stand proud fall broken
and i hate you and your words that mean ****-all and actions that mean even less
and above all i hate you and your stupid ******* decision to love me because i hate me worst of all
and you told me nothing.
you asked me once before
why i listen to my music loud,
why i let strange men scream in my ears
and interrupt my rhythm with their own.
you asked me why i listen to incomprehensible words,
where’s the aesthetic appeal in
choked screams -
you asked why i let strange men scream in my ears:
it’s better than letting you whisper.
better than letting you murmur sweet nothings -
if the screams are loud enough maybe i won’t hear you anymore.
no lover can’t you understand:
“i love you” isn’t the right answer to “i want to be alone.”
no lover can’t you understand:
your love doesn’t prove anything,
except maybe that you’re dumber than i thought,
dumb enough to waste all your life on a straw girl,
dumb enough to breathe till death do us part into a ***** hurricane.
dumb enough to follow the ghost-lights into the swamp
even after they scream at you to turn back turn back before it’s all over,
but you choke on the swamp gas and the will-o-the-wisps
just scream themselves hoarse.
resolutions make you a better person and anything’s better than murderer -
this year i resolve to die like a sociopath
alone in my room with alcoholic  fumes,
fireworks like
twentyone guns.
this year i resolve not to **** you for being gullible enough
to love me.
i resolve not to **** you  for trusting me.
i resolve to choke on my own swamp-heart,
poison gas and roots.
yes i’m alive but i harbor death -
saprotrophs are my children,
scavengers are my brothers,
and i am just the moth too much like a maggot to be a
butterfly -
oh, but i’m an aurelian
you whisper soft because the screams aren’t loud enough.
pin me to the wall with your thumbtack thoughts
and wonder why i don’t come around anymore,
why i just sit with my back against the door so you can’t break in with your
butterfly net
and your light traps:
oh you know me so well,
a will-o-the-wisp seeks its own,
and my ugly moth wings seek self-immolation.
just leave me, just leave me
don’t spear my wings and preserve me forever.
just leave me, just leave me
don’t follow me into the ***** swamp.
just leave me, just leave me
i don’t want your help i don’t want your love i just want you to leave and save yourself cause i won’t ask you to save me
and that life raft can only hold so many words.
verses are heavy things and you don’t need an anchor where you’re going.
i warned you about this.
evacuate before you’re swept away
and the strange men scream in my ears.

a man has eaten a nail.  he must bed before it’s too late a woman with a breadboard back.  the man’s brother is married to such a woman, but does not know it.  the brother’s tongue is raw and wouldn’t know good eating were it a thumbtack in a lover’s heel.  the man decides to lounge hungrily in the slim wardrobe of his brother’s shadow.  the man will drink it like milk and let it slosh in his gut for three weekends.  the wife will shine more and more light on her husband; she will bend reading lamps around corners and forget she has things to do.  she will have well lit dreams of a man she can sense is behind her.  her husband will run from the light and she will jump on his back.  the man will come to this empty house and he will be angry and because of his stomach he will need to call someone.  until then, imagine we are in a box held by a thief.

A long long time ago
Before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the airbase in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.
When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship
and found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.
when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.
Follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.

A long long time ago way
before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the american airbase
in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
working alongside each other
in the dark.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.

When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship.
And found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.

when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note in his handwriting
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark.
But I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands.
And also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.

I cleared out grandmas house the other day.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she kept it in her souvenir box..
she had passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.

So follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.

The truth I hold,  took years to unfold, locked up and never told. Now I speak for I am done being weak.. A story I will tell, awaking the pits of hell. Pinned against the wall,  being 14 years a little small..  Tounge against my cheast you can imagine the rest.  Touching, feeling, my eyes rolling to the ceiling. I push away, forced down, I am here to stay and pray. Nights always full of fright..  Kissing, *******,  non stop *******.. Crying,  weeping, always happened while they were sleeping. Was I that bad of a girlfriend? Why couldn't I speak? Tricked into the arms of a pervert…  sitting in a chair he was. Smiling by the messyness of my hair and my eyes stained by the streaming tears.. Nobody cares about you he said, cutting my wrist wishing I was dead.  He's right you see, all these years no one ever gave a **** about me. A puppet I am to him, dangling limb to limb. The years pass on by, I have no tears left to cry.  I escaped this hate, no More videos to tape..  Visits became less and less, I am staring to grow up a mess. Drinking here, smoking there, my life is hard to share, making friends with the drunkies, partying around town like diseased monkeys… every day that goes by, I feel ashamed and left to die. I tried to share my story to those that I trust, but all they wanted was my lust.  Met a boy,  come to find out I was just his toy. I wanted to help his soul,  but instead paid his toll. Being punched in the face, always leaving without a trace.. Left in harm's way, wasted with no Place to stay. Wondering the streets, giving myself to him but never pleased. Crying while we ****, gasping for air the more it struck.. Pillow in my face, cant hear me screams. It was you who ashamed me..  No respect for myself,  no medal to place on the shelf. Falling down to the dirt, clothes stained, blood stained skirt. The cold making me shiver, drinking out of the flask and damaging my liver. Why should I care about my life, here I go to carve myself with a knife..  Blood dripping down my tummy, hatred fills me like a high. All numb cant feel at all. All numb can't feel a thing, the morning doves ready to sing. I am not dead, just hanging my a thread. The ambulance speeding so fast, all I can see is a movie of my past. All stiched up & ready to go, put on your clothes you stupid ***. Here I go to this life I lead to know,  take a seat and watch the show... Dancing for their eyes to see, please god set me free. He took me home that night, my green eyes sparkled full of fright.. He was addicted to me….  Leaving me in the streets, dreaming I was frolicking in the meadows. Touched and abused I was, just so he can get a little pleasing. Breaths filled the air, the *** smell is hard to bare. Watching him smile was a sight.. The nights so dark, its all black. His eyes so plain,  pinning me like a thumbtack. The years passed on by, still living my past as a lie..  I did survive this life, I have now retired my knife. Scars still their, people stare here & their.. I am sad at times, past full of crimes, smiling to all, putting my hands out, breaking my fall.
I would like to share my voice, but its up to me to make that choice. I understand I can write.. Its my passion, But for now I express through this text. I will speak out to those only willing to listen to my story. I don't need sympathy from anyone or petty from others…  I made it to where I am and thats all that matters. Yeah I'm pretty so I've been told, but thats all i have left.. I don't need acceptance from others..  Because beauty is also found within. I don't judge, but I do sin. Being with me comes with glory & paraise but for those who think that being me is perfect and all very glad to be… think once, twice, or three times because let me tell you.. Its not so great to be me. So before you judge or cringe at my presence, understand I don't care because I am stonecold. I'm no longer here to please anyone but to thrill, and speak for what I need to say…

The man with a crooked smile and big hands

A long long time ago way
before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was an airman in WW2.
He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..
He was a bit of a pacifist
live and let live was his way.
Instead he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
on his belly lay on the planes belly.

At the american airbase
in the UK he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing fixer and developer.
working alongside each other
in the dark.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.

When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a darkroom by hand
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship.
And found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him
and she accepted.

when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note in his handwriting
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark.
But I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands.
And also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.
After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.

I cleared out grandmas house the other day.
I found grandmas note that was
pinned on the darkroom door
she kept it in her souvenir box..
she had passed a way a few weeks ago.
And I was moved to tell this story.

So follow the light Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands hes waiting for you.


I miss you Darling
love
Jude

you're
crying
and as you walk
down the dimly
lit glass hallway
the faces on the walls
wave
in your breeze
of sadness and
iron oxide tears.

every surface in
your mind is
covered
in a thick layer of
concrete dust
and you wonder
how long before
your nose
takes a dive
sneezing
too often
to breathe.

there is clay
everywhere
and you can't see
the cracks
between your
knuckles
under the
thick layer of
thought.

as far as art
departments go
you're not feeling
so creative
painted or
charcoal
it doesn't matter
when there is more
brown paper offered
to you every
time you believe
you've failed.

would you believe me
if i told you that a
newspaper and a pair
of old blue eyes
reminded me
and maybe you too
that there is somebody
out there
who actually
cares.

press that
thumbtack
into the wall
slowly
pin down
everything
you've tried to
forget
and avoid
stabbing your
finger into
the perforated
abused and
continually
rotated
corkboard.

you're not
wirebound
anymore
i promise
only your
entwined metalic
thoughts.

I. I say your flesh won't
Be enough for me. You say
I can have your bones.

II. Don't let yourself think
For one second I don't know
Your whole, cursed structure.

III. The angle of your
Pinky finger is, frankly,
Not too promising.

IV. You fall and fall and
Fall and fall and fall and fall
And fall and then snap.

V. We say we're fragile.
The flesh, maybe. But the bone
Is god's own thumbtack.

VI. I wanna kiss your
Skull. Leap past all the dying
Stuff and touch the sea.

VII. Cartilage is a
Nasty, cowardly *****. But
Somehow I need it.

IIX. Break a bone for me.

1.
When seeking a lost thumbtack it is best to walk barefoot in the dark.
2.
If the **** is up to your neck don't make waves.
3.
To live in mind and groupmind is like trying to dig a well with a needle.
4.
Your face is inscribed with unhappiness---wash it off.
5.
Sooner or later we all sit down to a banquet of  consequences.
6.
Youre so full of **** if I gave you an enema youd  fit in a  matchbox afterwards.
7.
If you want to commit suicide but cant quite  find the courage then spend two days in any  Muslim country--that will do the trick.
8.
If its a **** don't polish it.
9.
You can always tell a Yorkshire man but you can never tell him much.
10.
if your IQ is so low that you must be watered twice a day--then pay your water bill.

Sometimes
I wonder what you’d say
Would you walk away
and let me follow in your wake
laughing about the feeling of your
rain that kisses the curves of your tan softened face the way I wish I could,
the very rain that seeps into the laugh lines of your eyes, the rain pools that cut outs of your smile
would you let me linger in the decadence of your sarcasm
would you let me sit next to you while you laugh
In that way you lazy way you do
when you
lay back against the wooden
bench
Or would you hold me close,
close enough to smell your aftershave
and let me see your broken nails
and torn calluses
close enough to feel your stubble on my cheek and feel your breath on my jaw
close enough to put my hands around your back and feel the scars that reside just out of my reach
Would you let me avoid telling
the truth to myself and shut me
up like a gull at night, so peaceful until it reaches the peak where night is no longer dark, and suddenly a cacophony of  screeching worse than the alarms on the traditional alarm clock
or would you let me fall
onto an open-ended, double edged
question
sharper than a thumbtack and twice as rusty
Do I even have the courage to tell
you?
Or am I a molotav cocktail
and waiting until smashed to
crash and burn
Would you even let me open my
metal mouth and let my tongue
carve waves into your soul and tear you up
so you feel half as bad as i do
alone.
Would you let me read your
texts?
and ask me why she was upset?
or would you even come near me
I open my mouth to tell you
“Hey! I need to say something!”
“Yeah?”
“Gimmie a hand?”
You said okay.
that wasnt what I wanted to ask
but
You said okay
and smiled
like an empty glass of expired wine.

I wanted to show the secretarial assistant
the mashup, parody skit of the grumpy cat snoring under a
lampshade
but resisted for the fear she might think me strange
I am very lonely
Yesterday the girl in my team replied my email
with gnawing, jagged words that tapped on my skull
about how my prep materials belong to the basement
shelves of a blank, barren attic
and how the world would be a useful place
only without me
in barbed, lofty italics
that slickly slices open my skin
Perhaps she is correct
for my social life is the bluntest thumbtack in a drawer
like a black hole ******* me into the hollowness at the pit of
my stomach
I sometimes say
"I want to change the world"
but really, if words could ****,
all I want is to write poems all day
with my face a moving canvas for animated poems
like razors, stabbing into her black-widow lips
or a hero slamming his fist
handsomely into the villain's chest
as she mouths "you're no good",
once again.

I am a deformed pudding cup
I am the lid that never opens
I am the spoon that bends when you try to get ice cream
I am the piece of tape that never sticks
I am a thumbtack that never goes into the wall
when you try to put me in I just break and fall somewhere on the floor youre afraid youll step on me
I am the rock underneath your slip-n-slide
I am the grass floating in your pool
I am a burnt dry burger with no salt
I am a water gun that doesn't shoot as far as you thought

Iiiii am everything unfortunate
I am the little thing that has to annoy you

I am the pebble in your shoe
I am a forgotten password
I am physics

I am a low quality image

cracks in
the surface
spiderweb crisscross
across the frozen eyelid
of the lake

cracks in
the surface
split dendritically
across the ragged planes
of my arctic fingers

capped with
weather-worn callouses

swimming through
my thick hair frosted
with sun drop water crystals
and dry winter dandruff

snowflake scalp fluff
finger fly skin flurries
and I'm a coldfront

I'm a thunderhead
icicle snowdrift
I'm a rolling cloud
ice gale moonmist

trekkin through the
frosted forest with

fairy dusted
smiles and
snow filled
mittens

I'm a
fickleberry
tick tack
pick pack
**** it like a
smoke stack and
poke it with a
thumbtack
through the front
and out the back
and swan dive
into the cork board

leave it for another day
move on forward but
don't forget to stop
and pray

tongue tied
in a knot today
like a cherry stem
tongue tried
quite a lot, I say

to carry them
ever-powerful silly
magic mouth sounds

I went for a walk today.

when an unrequited love suddenly steps into your life,
do not panic.
do not try and win him over.
do not create scenarios in your head of a pixel perfect dreamland
where you two can live happily ever after together.
do not waste your time looking at pictures of him and his girlfriend
on Facebook just to fuel your lack of confidence and confusion.
do not tell him you write poems about him.
realize that even if you do tell him, he will not ask to read them.
do not hang out with him and have ulterior motives.
do not stare at his arms, at his hands, do not look
at the strand of hair that falls ever so delicately over his chiseled face.
do not think about pushing it back.
do not make eye contact for too long, even if he’s the one
who started it.
realize that there is an entire language when it comes to two
people looking at each other straight in the eyes,
but it doesn’t always mean they are speaking the same one.
do not bring him up in conversations.
this is not a topic for small talk.
this is a topic for writing sappy poems and sad songs.
this is a love that no amount of discussion or advice will
be able to comfort or protect you from.
when you go to his apartment to hang out and play music,
pretend not to notice his girlfriend’s things.
her bobby pins on the bathroom counter.
her underwear hanging out to dry.
her tampons underneath the sink.
photo-booth pictures of the two of them up on
the refrigerator. you don’t see it. you don’t.
do not wonder what he’s told her about you.
keep your questions about her limited.
when he compliments you on the dress you are wearing,
say “thank you” and walk away. do not let that be
the reason why you are suddenly smiling and speechless.
know that there is no cure for this.
know that this is an open wound that will probably never heal
unless you cut him out altogether.
do not confuse bravery with selfishness.
see the simplicity of loving without being loved in return,
feel the pain of how hard this is to accept.
do not use this as an excuse to be empty again.
and when you feel like screaming into a pillow and tearing out
strands of your hair in an unequivocal rage wondering
“What do I do with all of this love then??”
Create a thumbtack out of your frustration, poke a hole in your vein
and feed all of that love to yourself until you no longer
feel the need to think about him
anymore.
that, is bravery.

We are all strings held together by a thumbtack
Placed there by a man just trying to get his hope in humanity back
We all connect to somewhere else that we don't want to be
Held in place by more tacks in the backs
Of greasy men and stepped on women and children
In this world tossed  and forgotten in a rucksack
Thrown around amongst a gun, huncuffs, and a gum pack,
Extra...

to me you are just a photograph
a five-by-seven rectangle
of glossy paper
pinned on my white wall
with a thumbtack.
all of you is crammed into that space,
a box that contains your smile,
two-dimensional and impersonal,
false.
there's a rip on one corner
where part of your forehead dangles
ready to be completely perforated,
because you have no control
over where i store you
whether it's in my arms
or just on my walls.

*(a.m.c.)

You don't want to be in my photos.
That’s fine, a thumbtack will stay in your place
You don't want to be in my videos.
That’s fine, I can trim, cut, edit
Until your shadow is completely erased
You don't want to be in my life.
Click
Drag
Delete
That’s fine with me.

The big man with a crooked smile and big hands
By
jude kyrie

A long long time ago
Way before digital took over the planet.
My grandfather was  an airman in WW2.

He never dropped a single bomb
or even fired a weapon in that war..or any war.
In fact he was a bit of a pacifist.
live and let live was his way.

The only trigger he ever pulled
Was on his beloved camera.
Instead  he aimed camera lenses
at the Germans snapping their country
From the air
Lay upon his belly and on the planes belly.

Back at the American airbase
Deep in the quaint  UK country village.
he printed his photographs.
enough to cover an airfield.
He always had a faint odor
of fixer and developer chemicals.

He met an English lady in the darkroom.
They printed their photographs together
mixing the fixer and developer.
She got used to his crooked smile and big hands
He got used to her being there.

When the war ended he returned to the states
and opened a camera and photography shop.
He built a big darkroom by his own hands.
when it was finished he went back to England
on a cargo ship to save money.

He found the lady from in the darkroom.
he asked her to marry him.
Kneeling on one knee at her cottage doorway.
Holding a small bunch of flowers
that looked even tinier in his huge hand.
and she accepted his proposal and married him.
At the old stone church in her village.

when they returned to New York
he showed her the darkroom he built for them.
On the door was a note
held by a thumbtack
It said I fell in love with you
in the dark.
but I want you to follow the light
with me for the rest of our lives.

A year later my dad was born
with a crooked smile and big hands
and also his love of photography.
He had the eye for
color and shadow and light.

After I was born I did not follow the
love of photography.
But would get into trouble at school
for writing poems in the margins
of my work books.

I received a late phone call the other day
Grandma  passed away peacefully in her sleep.
She left her small apartment to me.

As I sorted through her belongings
I found the  note that grandpa
pinned on the darkroom door
When she married him.
And I was moved to tell this story.

Follow the light once more Grandma love.
look for a big man with a crooked smile
and big hands he's waiting for you.

the theme of this person-to-be is footprint.  for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected.  I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots.  for a fee one told me I was fleeting.  the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama.  we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember.  the theme of this person-as-is

is mouthpiece.  her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming.

our deaths are usually
a collection of hours
and mundane decisions
uprooting our pushpin
from the place marked
You Are Here
We Are
until that fateful morning
or unexpected night
or plane ride
or gunshot
We Are Here
sharp as a thumbtack
holding together
the very fabric of the earth
we are writing this in stone
carving our paths
with each yes and each no
in glorious stride
inescapable end
we choose to push our pins
just a little bit deeper
each step heavy
exercising our freedoms
and with each the refrain
I Am Here

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014)

(available on Lulu)

duologue

we’ll start here, turtle.

this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to.

the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement
is life
during wartime.

I conceive of a dropper
but hold it empty
above my eye.

because it is the one word without a beginning

suffering
because it is the one word without a beginning
is not limited
by its
vocabulary.

we wanted a sophisticated god
but in immediate
unison
called it
god.

this is the grey cream
that gives her privacy.

I am drawn to a sort of journalism
by association, a campestral formlessness
attached
for example
to the term

carpet bombing.

how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn

she is not ahead of?

she has to stop, turtle.

to declaw an electrocuted kitten
she didn’t
electrocute.



isochronal character

the theme of this person-to-be is footprint.  for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected.  I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots.  for a fee one told me I was fleeting.  the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama.  we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember.  the theme of this person-as-is

is mouthpiece.  her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming.


impossible beast

the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.

There was a wart-face ******
no bigger than a thumbtack
that sat behind a lemonade stand
outside the mouth of my mothers ******
waiting for me to crawl out
as I did he said
"Welcome to the world, do yourself a favor, crawl back up and die."
I didn't listen to him then
and he doesn't care
there's only one of him
so the message doesn't get around.

Can you picture it ?
This little black fuzzy warm coat on this teenager in 103 degree weather
"My goodness she must be warm"
"Take the jacket off its too hot for it"
"I'm FINE, but thank you for your worry"
I was FINE.
I liked hiding behind this black jacket
It was apart of me and it kept me comfortable
Even if it was 103 degree's outside
Cover the tummy
Cover the arms
Cover the wrists
Cover the bruises
Cover the scars
Cover the scratches
Cover the back
Cover the chest
Cover the finger
Pull it over your hands
Like a shield
If someone forced me to take it off
It was just end of the world
I had to go somewhere else so that I could wear it.
The freezing computer room was my favorite
At least I was comfortable
Somewhat
I wasn't exposed in just a T-shirt
even though I wasn't exposed
"Your a beautiful young lady."
"Why do you hide behind that jacket"
I was just so scared to answer
But I can answer now
I didn't want the janitor that followed the girls around the school to notice me and make his new path into mine
I didn't want the feeling of being watched all the time
I didn't want that shadow laying on my back
Didn't want all eyes on me.
So this little black coat became my security blanket
In bed it made me feel like the wondering eyes were no longer there.
Even if they didn't exist
Like the cameras hidden in the the little thumbtack holes were gone
Or if they weren't they couldn't see anything
Like the man under my bed went away because there was nothing interesting to see
Nothing to see here
All I have to do is wear this coat
Going into the bathroom pulling it down towards my knees
Covering up everything that exists about my body that can be used for someone else's sick pleasures
The 2 sided mirror wasn't going to capture anything
Except my little black coat