The birds preach:
"empathy, all things
beneath the arms of oaks;
all the wingless toilers of the earth.
Turn a kind eye on your lot
and we will gaze down upon you,
And the men beneath,
so busy carving arrows
do not reply.
StonesTake your time, intravenously;
like patient stones that never try
but polish over
as other shapes pass.
Give Up, SomeOur intentions slipped quiet
beneath the door
to let love run free
in the dusky streets
like some wild killer
just out of jail.
like the taste of iron, suddenly
and soft, unprovoked laughter
[ c o l d ye llo w c ur ls ]
with love between pressed pages
like a gun in the top drawer;
there was a lioness nipping at my collar bone
but she never comes home anymore.
Per Alius NominaFingerpainted
twisted little comets
sad young things
One LessT i cks
are a consistent bed partner
not to be confused with the humming of ceiling fans
or the thrumming of cardiologist fascination
not to be mistaken for
the soft exhalation
in tangled threads or pallid flesh;
certainly they are similar
and quiet audible reactions
can drown within each other
if you listen
Arthouse FearIt struck softly; as though epiphany itself were unprepared and thus not committed to the impact - which did nothing to reduce the shock.
I was living in a studio with windows that were really mirrors that faced inward only all of the reflective surfaces were melting so that one was shown a bent, macabre version of the world within, which seemed a fitting commentary until the surfaces began to splinter and like a cannon or a child's baseball words came tumbling in with the sour air, the hollering streets and the scrambling masses; words like so many well-mannered gents into the grand opening of an art gallery in which every piece portrayed a terrified child cowering from wolves of a clearly phallic nature.
All at once with the air and the streets and the masses I could see and understood - as though the punchline of "us" had been reached and I were frozen there, in the moment just before laughter, living the lives of every bleeding heart with raised hands nearly compressing in applause
Of Poets and CosmonautsThe astronauts we abandoned
on the finite expanses of blasted white
riddled the empty with
stark black lines and sharp curves
letters built from letters and mailed home
shipped by ship to our rock
"we will not mine your pages
drinking deep of sadness,
with only these fleshy suits to tether us
to a universe of terror."
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.
Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.
Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.
Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.
The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.
Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.
When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.
Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.
Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
LesbianMy thoughts wandered back into my fourth grade mind frame.
She had beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes,
And a perfectly white smile that reflected the sunlight like a mirror.
She was a good teacher, mmmhmmm, good to look at,
And I even knew it back then,
Before I knew I was a lesbian.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Ranbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,
And so am I!
My thoughts wandered back into memories of Sam, my first girlfriend.
She was shorter than I was, with wavy black curls,
And with hazel eyes that seemed so enchanting,
And she had beautiful pale white skin, mmmhmmm, lovely girl,
And I knew it then,
I was a pre-teen lesbian.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
Rainbows are red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple,
And so am I!
My thoughts wandered back into memories of "coming out".
She came out on accident, and 'she' was me,
Brave enough to accept the fact that people were noticing,
But smart enough not to get myself into trouble, mmmhmmm, that's me,
sunday morning girlI'd rather be the girl
waking you up
on a Sunday morning,
than keeping you up
on a Saturday night
This is IronyI count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers,
and stillness in the words of dead poets.
We write our secrets on the inside of our lungs
and hide truths on the inside of our stanzas,
because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms,
but vulnerability is a mark of weakness.
I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility,
to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry.
A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivion
we press back, back
because death isn’t as romantic as we hoped,
and poison is quieter than a gunshot.
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A Penis
Do not assume (if I hold the door for you),
that I am making a statement
about your inabilities
to open the door for yourself.
If you hold it for me,
I'll say 'thankyou'.
Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),
that I am underestimating
your earning capacity
as a woman.
If you invite me out for a meal,
Do not assume (if I defend your rights),
that I am belittling
the attempts that you have made
to defend your rights yourself.
If you defend my rights,
I'll consider you human.
maybe god is in peoplehe closes his eyes during church when they pray.
it's a tiny white place of worship
behind a gas station in the rougher part of town
he sways his hips whenever they sing
(which is the majority of the time)
and he gets full of this inner light that
i've never experienced--though of course
if i had experienced it, i'd have no idea.
his eyes flutter back and his neck bends like
he's howling at the heavens
while his foot steadily taps away
an energetic partner to his illuminated soul.
but then it stops.
a shy glance towards me and a sudden
cease of spirituality makes me realize that
he is uncomfortable with me there
(i was sitting hunched in the pew
trying not to look anyone in the eye).
i wasn't raised on faith
i've never been granted with
an instruction manual on how to get it
i think it'd be nice, but
my curious nature that required me to question everything
couldn't make logic out it.
when i was little, all i noticed were the
odd looks and heinous whispers we'd get when we'd tell
blue.her eyes are like the sky,
her hair is like the clouds.
no one laughs at her when she makes a joke.
no one smiles when her bare feet
hit the blacktop
and the sidewalk cracks.
and all the world's her grayscale, the only color
a musty shade of blue
strung in her hair.
and she thinks of her first memory
as she lets go of the balloons in her hands
and they rise as she falls and screams at the world that everything will become a picture
in a history book one day.
her lips are melting ice
and her cheeks are dead and pale.
her hair is wet
her eyes are lost
her hand, once clasped
around a wispy lifeline,
is now limp.
she floats like an ethereal
spread across a dream
that drags her to the deepest ocean
Still LifeAs a child I planted a single
seed where the sidewalk ends,
near the place of your remains.
It grew into an oak; strong and rigid.
Every autumn, I would watch
the leaves as they wither
away; as if to tell me that the
darkest times are coming
And that I should brace myself
For your death
Winters, I spend looking out
Into dusk, and admiring
the beauty of still life.
Through your slumber
I patiently wait for
The ferryman to carry
You home, but I've yet
To feel your warmth set free.
Springs, I see the branches
Rekindle their light,
I see the sunshine
For the first time
In forever ago.
I feel at ease.
I feel at home.
Amnesia Why labor with such diligence, in silent desperation
Struggle under time's insistent pace
Bowed beneath the metronomic weight and pointing hands, accusing face
Catching, unsustained, at evanescent dust motes fired by winter sun
Lost within my tale's unlighted hollows
Unraveling behind me, skeins of memory ghost like smoke threading thin and wan
Acrid in the fire's empty aftermath, bereft by dawn
Stir the ashes as I will, no spark now follows
Fingerprints and footsteps silted in, landmarks once familiar, now obscured
So too the ridges of identity wear away
Smooth and voiceless in the echoing vaults of unrecognizant new day
Where once resounded crashing waves of self, and continuity unyielding was assured
But if I am denied the light of my own history
I leave behind the vigil at the grave of what I could not keep
Sojourner still, the unknown fairway beckons from the Lethe of sleep
My last bequest to you: a lifetime's mystery