I search your cells with tiny fingers,
split hairs in a ravenous fashion.
Distinctive as a freckle or a mole,
I move with you—I drink of you.
When the time is right, pluck me away,
set me aflame, or drown me in alcohol.
There are no lady jackalopes.She dappled his neck with maraschino kisses,
gazed with chocolate cordials,
whispered in conversation hearts.
He was young, incessantly male—
as fine and upstanding as the picket fences
lining the back roads of consciousness
that ran parallel to her heartland.
Her body was vapid—a sweet nothing itself—
a diminishing hourglass and stilettos,
a rose beginning to wilt.
She had slogged far enough into the sands of time,
determined to get one last good fling before
resorting to slathering mud about like a pig days ahead of slaughter
or peeling away skin like birch bark.
blood waterdon’t worry, mama.
it’s not dead, see?
hold out your hand.
feel that, mama?
it’s still warm.
look how small it is.
but it’s not dead.
just sleeping, mama.
yes, dear, it’s sleeping.
now put it back where you found it.
just in case it wakes up.
but, mama, i don’t want to.
the pavement is too hard.
the window sill is dirty.
you have to, dear.
everything in its proper place.
how will it find its way?
i’ll hold it ‘til it wakes up, mama.
then i’ll put it in the tree.
next to the feeder.
i think there’s a nest there, mama.
i saw two others yesterday.
but not today, mama.
do you know why, dear?
we’re all hummingbirds--
beating wings and hearts
towards a future meridian.
that’s why it got left behind.
sometimes, dear, we just aren’t fast enough
we aren’t meant to find it.
so, what i want to tell you is
the same thing my mama told me:
Deep-sky ObjectsAcross the universe,
before you and I, he and she, us, them, we:
creviced constellations and thimble heavens,
daybreak waves upon empty shores,
Guilty candle flames and waxing promises
hovering precariously in our memories,
incensed dreams of breaking points,
jade, and horizon lines devoid of sun, moon, or cloud.
Keening present comes hell and high water.
Lamentations adrift on covenantal arcs in time
meld into a sea of magpie dreams--
Nine for a kiss;
one for sorrow.
Past is present, tomorrow's future, and yesterday's season.
Questions rise and fall as monotonous heartbeats, weekdays, and lunar tides.
Rings around Saturn seem closer in orbit than the kinetic
spontaneity of couples in tandem
The proximity of lips and palms.
Universally, there is a temporal forever,
virile in its continual strand of barren stars
wading into the black hope of a galaxy
xenophilic in love.
Yet nothing changes.
Zen moments begin at the end: an acceptance of inev
Cinnamon GhostNow is the season
of cold rooms
and stone wombs,
crumpled leaves upon the threshold.
Throw open the windows
to let the ghosts breathe
something other than dust and cider,
perfume of parties past.
Stir up the spiders
and wake the flies from
their cobweb deathbeds
above the mirror.
Stoke the fire
with the gnarled bones of an oak
and settle yourself by the hearth,
fading tableau vivant.
Remarks on October Festivities‘Twas the day before Halloween, when all through the school,
Not a student was present, not a seat was full.
The pumpkins and skeletons were taped to the walls with care
In preparation for the children that would soon be there.
The buses pulled up and the parking spots filled.
Students in costume straggled through the autumn chill.
And Sister with her pumpkin spice coffee, and I with my scarf
Had just stepped out of our car to see a classmate’s hair looking like candy corn barf.
I looked at my sister and she looked at me,
Her eyes gleaming with a festive glee.
“It’s the transfer student,” was all she could master.
I nodded. “Yes, his hair’s a disaster.”
The orange dye bled into the yellow—
Well, blonde—it didn’t look right on such a pale fellow.
And what with my wandering eyes did I see,
But the transfer student coming towards me.
He grinned and waved, dressed mostly in black,
While I took a surreptitious step back.
Confession of a Magpie (Haiku Form)Like you, I have no
sense of self in this endless
starlight, save for glimmering songs.
Inside Out.Inside Out.
Do you love my insides?
You know the parts you can’t see.
The parts that constructively divide,
All the places where you can’t be.
Do you love my internals?
You know all my unexploited crevices.
All the words I leave out of my journal.
The soft tissue areas that offer no benefits.
Do you love my fleshy, raw fillings?
You know the boring and bloody parts.
The features that are not made for kissing.
The invisible strokes that add to this body of art.
You see it’s my exterior that attracts you
But it’s my interior that made this possible.
So when my insecurities inadvertently attack you,
Don’t be so swift to class me as distrusting and illogical.
I need to know and to understand.
That you truly love me for who I am.
Even the parts of me you cannot see
Because those are the places where I want you to be.
organized chaosHis brain's like
reflecting muted light.
His brain is architecturally sound,
with perfect corners
organized into neat sections,
metal cutting the spectrum
into cautious pieces.
He tells me he's nothing.
He tells me that he's grown up
from the cracks in the sidewalk
like a dandelion,
and he's been waiting his whole life
for someone to come along
and blow his fucking head off.
He tells me he comes from a bad place,
and I nod
when all I want to do is shake him
and remind him
that everything beautiful
must grow up out of the dirt.
Lady of 1876Ironically, it was my stubbornness which caused me to change my convictions. Though Nathaniel was undoubtedly a kind-hearted young man, he was incurably delusional. He entertained the strangest ideas, and then in his spare time vehemently tried to convince me they were true. People, sentient people, could be built from simple mechanical parts, he insisted.
“All you’d need is a boiler and some clockwork. Just as you’ve got, Adelaide. Just as your inventor must’ve done,” he’d say. I usually ignored these benign ramblings and proceeded with what I was best at, namely repairing clocks and pocket watches. Nathaniel was a talented watchmaker and I was his assistant, soon to become his apprentice.
Sometimes his theories were so absurd that I simply couldn’t ignore them. One such instance occurred when he decided to fixate on my hands. Apparently the fact that they were made of metal was proof that I wasn’t human.
“No humans have metal hand
Ready To IgniteMy chest feels like a furnace,
And my lungs are on fire.
Death is my mind's only desire;
But I will carry on with bitter grace,
Knowing my ashes may leave no trace.
My chest feels like a grenade,
And my heart is about to explode.
Shall I continue down this road?
But now I stop because I am afraid,
That the life I lead may never be saved.
My chest feels like an anvil,
And my ribs feel like lead.
In my palms is black blood that bled,
But I am scared so much my stare is still,
With bleak eyes I accept misery for good or ill.
InspirationSo many nights of dreaming,
Of wishing for magic and song,
And when I awaken,
My dreams continue,
Leaving me longing
For a world of my own making.
Characters beg for a chance to shine,
And a chance for love.
How can I deny them?
They live a life so different from mine,
They are a part of me.
I wonder who is more real?
An Ode to The PhantomThere is a boat on a lake,
Burning candles on a cold black mirror.
And this journey I will take,
To find the man that I’ve been looking for.
I’ll find him I swear,
Chase him into the blackest night,
I’ll find his lonely lair.
And dry the tears from behind his mask.
What will lurk behind?
Some haunted face or tender spirit.
I shall say words truly kind,
And try to put his broken soul together.
Across the keys his fingers dance,
Enchanting beauty and bewitching senses.
I am lost within a trance,
And I know I’ll be forever his.
Away from judgement and from light,
We will spend the years together.
And I’ll live in this blackest night,
And stay with him forever more.
RuinTo the blade and its way,
I cast it to the side,
because of the marks in it's pride,
I leave it to dull near the bay,
I have thought it would be soon,
That I rid myself of it's stain,
but the hold of anger and disdain,
tried with rage to cause a typhoon,
Man cannot govern his own hand,
without knowing the fence,
Of the possibility and consequence,
toward time and its stream like sand,
Each little act of violence,
brings more of its fruitage,
Just like seeds of hatred and incense,
Produces resentment and outrage,
Man Crushes Man to their own turmoil,
Moaning and groaning of something new,
But never think till harboring water seeps through the soil,
And tell themselves what to do,
Vanity, Vanity, It was always vain,
Blades come and go like the river of war,
across and through time to its door.
Stick and Stones, LoveSticks and stones,
May break my bones.
But words can do much more.
I find them scribbled on notes strewn about,
And I hear your voice when I read them to myself.
They come in soft whispers,
Or thunderous shouts of anger.
They can inspire a masterpiece
Fueled by joy or pain.
They're sung sweetly in sunshine
Or bitterly in rain.
They can serve to begin or end
Something wonderful or terrible.
They are how I know you.
The bridges between our minds.
They are the art of the commoner.
You're lips, a brush, you're words, the strokes
The air is your canvas.
You paint your perception with your voice,
Giving me a portrait of what my eyes could never see.
Will you show me who you are or who you want to be?
With your words, you
Can tell the truth or fool me.
You create or destroy.
With your words,
You love or hate,
You give or you take.
Your words are your choice.
There is life and death.
In the power of your voice.
can you tell me, dearest?can you tell me, friend
why my hand reaches for yours?
at the most inappropriate of moments, i might mention
can you tell me why you make me hurt inside?
i actually think you might have taken up residence there
pressing up against my ribcage,
travelling through my veins
and plucking at my heartstrings
(it's a sad melody, but a little bit cheeky;
then again, you do like to tease me)
can you tell me why i'm scared of you?
even though you're the goddamn sweetest thing?
i think i'm scared of your smile
and maybe your eyes too
they're poems that i just can't grasp
because darling, there's no words for you.
can you tell me why we move towards each other
a quiet touch that's oh so platonic
just knees and fingertips and sometimes the brush of your hair
on my cheek
i don't know if you notice it like i do
but hell, my heart bursts every time
i think it's killing me
(but don't move away)
can you tell me, dearest, why my hand reaches for yours?
don't fall in love with a poetHello, all you gentlefellows and ladies;
I have a piece of advice for you.
Nothing harsh, nothing meant to hurt.
But here it is:
Don't fall in love with a poet.
I'm not saying it won't be brilliant.
Because it most likely will be.
(While it's happening.)
It will be lovely, to fall into the iambic pentameter
of her heartbeat.
And you will adore the collision
of her mouth, and the obscure verse it whispers
against your skin.
She will love you;
or not love you
in whatever way suits her at that present time.
It might be like fireworks.
Or it might be like gentle moving honey.
Either way, it will end.
With a bang!
and loud words (So passionate, these young ones.)
Or then again it might just tail off.
And then you're in real trouble, mate;
She'll pick you apart.
She'll pull you into words, she'll arrange you on a computer screen
perfectly, just how she wants.
She'll wrap you up in metaphors, encircle you in similes.
She'll stab you with razor-sha
Significant HumansImagine we were important...
Logos in the stars,
Galaxies shattered for jihad,
Sunsets in commercials,
The Moon kicked in Superbowl,
The Solar System played as pool,
Oceans in a soda,
Mountains to bras,
Glaciers sucked as popsicles,
The Big Bang branded with copyright,
Constellations critiqued in art journals.
Futility is fun.
Look at the Girl...Look at the girl who's happy; who's laughing
Look at the girl who's never snapping
Look at the girl who's strong; who's proud
Look at the girl who's always so loud...
Now look at her when she's out of the crowd.
Look at the girl who's sad; who's weak
Look at the girl who's always so meek
Look at the girl who's broken; who's dead
Look at the girl whose arms have bled...
Now look at her and what do you see?
A girl whose mask is worthy of reverie?
A girl who's broken, sad and alone?
The girl who never wants to leave her home?
You look at the girl and tell me who you see
A girl who's confident; courageous or a girl like me?
i miss you...I sit here in this rain,
Thinking of you.
But no matter how long I wait on this bench,
You will never meet me here.
I’ve got on my best dress, my cane,
Even that old bowler hat you always liked,
And I wait at the bench where we first met.
But you will never meet me here again.
I lean on my cane in front of me,
Thinking of you,
Angel TearsImagine a raindrop is an angel's tear
Falling from heaven on Gaia's mortal fear
Weeping in unity their children's lost soul
Heaven's pure spirit evil now doth control
Eden of rapture consumed by time's flow
A lost utopia where gluttony doth grow.
Alluring serpent's lair humans covet the bait
Devourer of truth so poisoned with hate
Innocence now lost in maelstrom of desire
Purity long blackened by greed's hungry fire
The spirit debased evil darkens the heart
The nefarious abductor tears the soul apart
The moment approaches the farmer shall reap
Love now eternal for faithful lost sheep
Gnashing of teeth those left in despair
Time now elapsed for repentance and prayer
Renounce the darkness and take gentle heed
Embrace the truth be the Lamb's seed
Never SurrenderIt's all unjust. It's all unfair,
Why does anyone give a care?
Whether life is cruel or kind,
I reserve the right to laugh than die,
But I'll never surrender to these tears I cry.
It's all untrue. It's all unbearable,
Why are these thoughts in me so horrible?
Whether death is clairvoyant or blind,
I deserve the dignity to question my time,
But I'll never surrender to these words I rhyme.