A Confused Poet

The Delusion of Happiness

2011-04-30T21:50:00.002-07:00

Fifteen years ago I melted
mini Lego faces with sunlight and a magnifier.

Ten years ago I traced the textures on my walls
with black pen, and found images of sex.
I slept beneath women taking
the deepest breaths through mouths like ghosts.

Five years ago I realized that the eye
is a portal through which we
believe madness.

Yesterday I realized the human mind is
a sparsely written program that generates
feelings and functions less efficiently
than a melody hummed into a paper cup.
So I re-wrote it.

Yet, I still find faces
where there are no faces.

Evolution of the American Psyche

2011-04-30T21:47:00.000-07:00

If I could hear your thoughts,
the use for speech—poor shephards at best—
would wither in minutes into white on mountains.
But the sound of snowfall isn't a metaphor
for the sound of a word falling.

The reflection of beauty in chaos
is a fist through an eye socket for the first time;
a scalding cauldron of soup teaching lessons
by almost-death; a white pixel that glows
because it is surrounded by everything it is not.

Fishing

2011-04-28T00:32:00.002-07:00

I fail at catching

fish. In every metaphorical sense.

In the hours spent creeping around my house, creeping

around the walls

in complete darkness

I can let go

my fingertips and listen to them feel textured

lyrics traced there, penned in ebony with sharpie on spackle, singing:

And if my hands find themselves

another body, well

you can't blame them

for trying to keep warm.

The finding is not about sex

if warmth is meaning.

Though I've never met him, I expect

my grandfather would agree and explain why

the only way to catch a pike is neck-deep

and with your bare hands. In every metaphorical sense.

A Long Time I've Wanted To Say Something

2011-04-28T00:31:00.002-07:00

I dream of waking up one day and forgetting twenty-two years of memories.

The word “dimension” is an escape from reality.

The word “entertainment” makes me lonely.

Jesus Christ never existed.

God is an alien.

Any turtle can dance.

Everything we see is an outline.

There are so many empty

spaces...

Some Self-Indulgent Statements

2011-04-28T00:31:00.000-07:00

I am nothing like {

when adrenaline gives the shakes;

a prophet; a lord; a savior like the one who rode his glory-

ous raptor through cities—clearly am not—definitely not;

my father;

bees if their sacks of pollen throw

tears like storms and violins;

the creatine-cretins who fill their lives with tossing testicles;

everything I will, one day, be {

the one to cut off his hands

(to give a stranger

twice a day);

a son who always calls, despite his own dreams;

the one with the truth

(about everything and happiness);

the one who will never stop-

}

a ruined life;

}

At The Desk Of Someone Normal

2011-04-28T00:28:00.002-07:00

A fleet of dying pages floats a glass desk and

their symbols simmer under a warm, wet pen.

The name Rebekah unties itself with scissors

while the rest drift south into isolation—into

a void on the page in the trash by the desk.

I stare intently into the slice of paper. An audience

might expect me to do anything with it, but

I'm stuck in the inbetween.

I think about how tiny islands of dust float inside

our skulls like spaceships docking

while electrons rip holes and tell us how to be.

The Effect Fleeing From Large Dogs Has On Young Children

2011-04-28T00:27:00.000-07:00

White grass

tips crunched under

cherry heels. Prickly-pear

paws pursued

four-legged-fast

under a moon-jaw grinbark barking
hey slow down!

I kept running, beating faster

then tumbled, slipped

slapped

slid.

Fluffy boredom met my horror

like through a door in a picket fence

to say hellow.

My breathed escaped in thick

white laces

when I learned how to run away

at age five.

Talking to Daisies

2011-04-27T01:14:00.000-07:00

Have you ever sat on a bench in
a large store and waited for someone?
Have you walked up to a stranger on a bench
and told them to spend more time exercising
their happy muscles?

Try selling a smile for some chamomile seeds
and planting them.
Sing to them. Gently
massage the fur on their stems—
just behind the ears. Then drink
them when they are down and think about how
your body is now feeding off something you once loved.
Do this, and sit on a bench in a store and wait
for someone.

Wavelengths

2011-04-27T01:12:00.000-07:00

The truth is we really don't know
if the color green to me is the same
color you saw when your mother died.
I don't think it is.
Though,
if I could see into the ultra—
violet I might be able to bring you some memories
of her you missed while thinking
about where plants go when they die—probably
inside of the dinosaurs our machines
now use to burn to fly.

A Kind Of Escape

2011-04-26T00:49:00.000-07:00

Turtles are amazing beings not
because they strut like a conqueror of fruits and
small arachnids and
wisdom
but
because I look at them and see a beast that, maybe, once, held itself with great wings
and breathed fire on mankind.

This Would Have Happened In The Daylight

2011-04-26T00:47:00.000-07:00

i was on a bus
a woman sitting next to me
began to unbutton her pink blouse
and purrr
not at me
i smelled body spray but did not gag yet
though it reminisced of
a prostitute's
finger

the man wearing the prostitute's
finger spray dragged his swagger and
scooped the woman's breast

a bovine breathed thick with lactation and I stared
at them, and tried not to note their emptiness

Today's Letter

2011-04-19T00:05:00.000-07:00

T  H  E  O
n e
n  am
  e d Scot
c(h)h 
     a 
       n
        g
         e
         d
m y ( l i f e )

Coming Up Roses

2011-04-18T23:53:00.001-07:00

I.

Someone told me that when her hysteria and thin steel split the shapes
you held between your skin cells, the knife became hot.
Nobody really knows what grief stifled her past with such a
viking's angst―to cause those tears, that night, to sharpen into daggers
and separate your arteries.

You ran away like summer sap for the first time
after she killed you.

II.

I hear a piano, Elliott. I hear your tickle like the color white
being carved into a charcoal so deep―it is singing―
growling, bleeding through shadows and swinging
like the droplets. I spilled them, Elliott―I spilled you.
I'm sorry.

Was what she wrote―was what she wrote
and shoved in a hole and never looked back.

III.

At the cremation the music had gone, just like ostriches chirping
and stopping, then snapping at something.
I watched us watch the coroner
grasp your temples and thrust you into the chewing fire. It was like biting
a lit cigar and slowly growing numb―never quite getting feeling
in that one spot back.
Never quite knowing how fucking funny the whole damn thing looks from there.

Dreaming

2011-04-18T23:52:00.002-07:00

I am open minded towards the
seduction of angels on the nights before
all the major holidays.

Words are beautiful, but are all still written.
And I the paper presented at
each opportunity see which pulls
the tide of someone's thought outside
this eggshell world—earth—and into
some place more remote—pretty
and fake.

It's as if we are all sleeping, yet not
dreaming our own dreams.

Well Groomed and Glaring

2011-04-14T14:35:00.000-07:00

He was screaming. I could hear
its rasp like lady bugs biting and
crawling through decrepit lungs.

His face was a cold pear
stale and fighting off yellow stares.

I had never seen death.

In every dry plate of skin was a last moment that just
stopped happening.

Tragic, sure.

Very sad. My apologies. I know.
But why can't we just acknowledge
that death is nothing more than a
fine moustache?

It Was Someone's Friend

2011-04-14T13:10:00.000-07:00

Kneeling between lanes on a freeway and
suddenly standing up, looking at the face of whatever
abusive, lethargic, tragic asshole
that really squats on the golden throne, shaking miracle-sticks up there.
When we can realize that our mother
or father or nanny or God or anyone that ever cared
for you never quite cared as much as you thought, if
you even exist to them that
we first really lick the twist off the top of
the ice cream cone
and taste happiness; taste the smooth
that numbs the rest of the world.

On Falling

2011-04-12T18:52:00.000-07:00

Number four on the list is a chain reaction wanting to be
embedded in a momentary building up of sickness but
never quite yet tagging its partner cells to explore;
fumbling with the energy to explode upon the world
yet unexploded upon. It is instead a silent diminishing
into a momentarily better feeling, like an ache in the stomach,
that never squeezes itself into being, and with that apparent
solving of its own self-sustained issue, it creates no future.
It dwells on itself like a white dwarf with no past—
or a cyst in a child's lung that could have burst, but instead
turned dense and hardened by what its life really ended up
being. Pessimism grabs it, hard, off of its feet, and out comes
all the same lies it never lived, again, teasing away the last
bits of volatility until it never finds the death worth exploding for.

Winter

2011-04-12T18:40:00.000-07:00

The first wind calls a coolness
to wait around the tips of ears, tickling
and teasing away like zephyr in the air with child-like wisps.

The second wind is married
with specs of dust like ants in a pool of honey.
Jealous clouds follow like a thick coat holding warmth from us.

The third wind brings a bleak—
ness. A flamenco show in the air now is
performed by specs of sickness—twirling—vomit—coughing—death.

The fourth wind is a mistress
caught less tepid; throwing trees; swinging
tall buildings like spiked morningstars and taking away the song.

The fifth wind shivers hard
against the glass air; howls, then shakes,
then breaks the sky into momentary cracks of white fire.

The sixth wind sheds misery
from between the dirt and the celestial
shroud into little vials, then freezes them for a short while.

The seventh wind showers the earth
in a shifting of silence and still sympathy and
Within the storm a small hummingbird twists with the sky.

New Note 9

2011-04-11T22:07:00.001-07:00

It was like dipping my toes in and shivering, then
burrowing them deep into the warm sand.
I visited you before you jumped in
but never released the Shai-Hulud beneath us.
No, not us.
You had very little to do with my pathological lack of passion—it's really not worth thinking
about how lovely you looked that day.
I was naive enough to base the six years since
saving one little piece of myself for that worm—
what fucking worm?
It's not there. It's a myth.
I can't bury something that never existed.
Suddenly every moment I've spent letting my eyes glaze over
and shift inwards
feels hollow.

Smelling Rocks On A Turtle Shore

2011-04-09T22:45:00.001-07:00

They smell like a steam, stale
and smoky; hardly wet at all because the feel in
my nostrils
fills more like smoke. This one has a face.
This one has a face!

It's a smiling curvature of squinting eyes.
Mine ran,
and I threw the facerock onto the opposite shore—
...woodcrack.
A piece of my heart splitsunk and flew with but I never knew why.

It was a turtle, I figured a few years later—The Turtle
that taught me to smile when I am cracked.

#girl

2011-04-09T22:27:00.002-07:00

{

color: $(intelligent);
background: (never quite going back to the start),

(a shell in her family), "same";

body: always looking (lines of comfort around the edges);
position: (fixed and smelling the air like a shark);
content: 1++;
float: see(yes please!);
borders: none;

}

Crescendo

2011-04-09T22:07:00.000-07:00

So I ran.
The forest grew before me and my feet
pattered against dying leaves; crunched with crescendos of everything
that never wanted to be left behind. But I
couldn't make time move faster
than her.

The Natural Log

2011-04-07T01:19:00.000-07:00

It's not everything; to sit and watch the world
shift between abstractions is like sleep. It's not love.
It's not wisdom. It's not nature. It's not anything
but a blue-brown paper bag to carry your thoughts
because there is no where else to put them.

I wouldn't say ironic. We aren't really trying to discover
secrets. It's not about that.
You can sit in swamp musk and find it
after realizing the world is not so disgusting,
but that we are.

It's about coping with yourself
and all of your shit;
biting ankles;
sewing shoes together;
selling the ridiculously semi-sentimental trinkets
your parents gave you and making some cash;
buying hookers;
taking them to the park with your dog;
watching your dog find happiness
and knowing you'll always just be
almost there.

The Embracing

2011-04-05T23:06:00.000-07:00

I was content when the house burned down
and melted silicon pasted on the walls portraits
of everything I left pending.

I know fear isn't what we're taught to embrace
but when I can place it by my bed and sing it a song
I feel happy.

Two years ago my future was an old rope with coarse twines
protruding from every angle.
Before the scars on my hands formed,
it burned a lucid orange and left no ash.

When

2011-04-05T00:35:00.001-07:00

When {
micropixels behind the eyes wake up
like a colony of bees at night; }
When {
mahogany age-rings splayed across the table
begin to inch up against each other in the dark; }
When {
the lies of dead poets forced on the wall
break apart and form something more simple; }
When {
the television watches itself and cries
because tomorrow it goes to the glue factory; }
When {
books tumble off the shelves and open up
against the floor; }
When {
part of the brain climbs into a delta wave and
part of the brain sits, watching; }

Static

2011-04-03T23:46:00.000-07:00

Too many ages ago the earth stopped
moving for a day
and shards of time in the stones
began pointing North instead of South.

I am a rock, too—
pointing and never faltering
but maybe soon
when time stops again for a moment and shifts
everything
will twist like a compass suddenly spinning
south;
I will stop and move in a new direction
because everything static is hopeless.

From Old Town Tipsy

2011-04-03T02:18:00.000-07:00

Tired.
It's Late.
I'm inbetween places
and drunk and just sad.

But I wouldn't be letting you in
if I wasn't the least bit
happy, too.

And I am.

Abduction

2011-04-02T10:30:00.001-07:00

When the faces appear and dance before me
in the darkness
barely past the extent of my arm
I'll sit up and throw down the sheets.

While they tear me into their world
with a stillness of light too green
to be light
I'll seek to brush my toes against at least one
tall Eucalyptus and grab as much sweet jasmine
air into my lungs
before being placed into their arms;
before getting pinned down like a limp
frog in a god's laboratory.

My friends have taught me to win in life
by pinning any frogs down with a solid fist
and never flinching;
to always yell;
to fight.

My friends are disfigured.

When the strangers in gray are carving out
my frontal lobe, I'll think of my father
and how he taught me what freedom is—
and maybe about how I'll give that orb of fury;
sponge between my eyes—to someone spiteful.

Feathers of the Cat

2010-07-13T19:14:00.001-07:00

If I see him take another hit
And pathetically jot down lines of verse
He’s going to find a concoction of Purina and stomach
Acid on his dockers.

I was having better ideas when I came out
Of the womb shitting on the doctor.

Perhaps humankind isn’t so enviable –
More regressive. Pathetic.

Why?

Fame? How can such an asshole find happiness with
A trail of octopus ink he can’t even find?
His apathy induced euphoria sits stale at the fact –
The intended effect, upon focus always lies in favor
Of its arch-enemy

Even all the kittens, freshly baked and
Still warm at the core
Know that happiness and meaning never
Coincide unless you…
Wait – thumbs?

What the fuck? Did I just tweet?

Where am I?
Is that salvia?

While Stumbling into a Sanctuary

2010-03-03T07:40:00.005-07:00

Twirling gold murmurs around me; we are
peripherally interpreting
the lines and lowering
defenses. Here. We project
a sense of lecture, conjecturing thought
and dream.
As cadence overtakes
the fury of the outside
the anguish of the mundane
the taste of the truth of fear,
we breathe the calm
and our minds become a heart.

The Conjectured Birth of Greece

2010-02-22T18:34:00.003-07:00

When the sky collapsed upon us, we had nowhere.
Our fear distilled the order of things
In the way a hot liquid blisters to gas
And visits the sun.

Then we dreamt of drifting away
To where sinking ships like sky and sea
Simply resurfaced on the other side.
And there, we hoped, we could fathom
What it’s like to stray within the ocean’s dark current
And never again succumb
To the pull of our senses.

But we never thought that the sky could be held still.
And our hearts were taken – nay, given
When ships of gods born from the stars reached out
To shield us and save what we cherished.
Only then did we see them transform our new debt
Back into doom once again.

Of Life in the Deep Blue

2010-02-11T17:22:00.003-07:00

Yesterday, my son had no heart.
His languid philosophy left his lips limp
without ever learning
how to care. How can love fix that?

I saw the same stars, once,
through the hole in my once-apathetic core.
But instead of dwelling, I reached deep
and tore out a reason to keep living. And this filled my hole
with bliss.

My son never held a heart in his hands.
And I never gave him the wisdom to
free himself from feeding on a morbid world.
A good father would have been waiting
to stop and stir the truth in life in his son
without watching him cast out of the deep blue.

I only hope the gods of the tide
on the other side of the surface
can father him better than a broken man.

As the Tree Sings Timber

2010-01-29T09:06:00.004-07:00

I stood eyeless among life’s endlessness, absorbing vastness;
Growing old; growing mighty; growing wise, and patient for death
I watched as humankind began its cancerous tread across the world.
Tears, if a growth could grieve, might have deluged down my trunk
If I were human. While nature swallowed the gorgeous plague that is civilization,
Karma, a force godly among gods, laughed with its Seven Deadly Weapons.
Though we who hold nature were placed aside, as we always are,
Credit for a fresh earth sleeps still, buried in the dead stumps and swelling pits
We are the entity who lives forever. We are the elders – the mouths
Who watch over you, breathing every cell a better life. We grow tall
And never tired. Never will nature be put to rest, and nothing will change
In a world where cabins and sculptures are structured of bone and steel.

An Afternoon Before The Internet

2010-01-14T08:07:00.004-07:00

The mild air of summer’s sun enveloped him

As he stood at arms, imagination his only ally.

Sparkles of sweat slid from his cardboard corona,

Making splits and splats upon the sandbox fortress.

Still he charged: Odin at his lips.

Spinning, thrusting in a masterful dance,

Plastic carved the air and draconic foes spilled.

With a red-crested lion hugging his lungs

He sang of victory.

Even the clouds caught the chorus.

His ardor faded with the dying light,

And his creator, grinning, stepped forth.

The world came to a sudden halt, and

The proud warrior exchanged his arms

For a shallow bowl of Mac ‘N Cheese and a warm bed.

What You Said

2010-01-07T12:22:00.000-07:00

You asked, will you love?

and to love is all you can do

because we are young, going

no where tangible

yet

everywhere within ourselves.

Where will we go next?

We can be legendary.

Let’s forgo our acquiescence.

Let’s resist the dive into the deepest chasm and fill our lungs

with the unknown.

We will exhale no sorrow for never knowing the mundane.

Because life is everything but clairvoyant.

I hope you understand.

I understand.

But where are you?

Without the disease in our dreams

we will forge our pity

and our hope

into heaven. Together.

We can explode from seclusion

and feast our dormant embryonic hands

in all their pride.

We can run from this. To our living chimera.

The soul of a lost man doesn’t beckon, you said

if he instead accepts what is

nature as truth.

And truth is knowing what is right

to be rightful and beautiful.

And what is truly Beautiful?

The line between

Light and Dark.

Tears in a Bearded Scarf

2010-01-05T12:44:00.000-07:00

If I had a hole, would you even patch me?
or would the threads hang with my wishes
to hold something worth falling out?

Would you let them untangle
until I’m a life no longer worth wrapping around you?
Hang me decrepit as a feast for moths?
Toss me aside and adopt something warmer?

No.

A misperceived hole in your world turns it
radically. And I am radiant regardless.
My hole has bristles growing to catch any woe
and prove a little light always shines through.

Mend me if you must,
but pessimism is a dull razor rusting
and optimism just keeps growing.

As An Oak

2009-07-16T13:01:00.000-07:00

I’ll exclaim, assure, imply,
Holler, whisper; I’ll maintain
Through illest valleys; gorgeous peaks
“I’ll be here!” I’ll always promise.

When your weary little toes
Can’t grasp the earth to carry on,
I’ll find a snack, or two, or ten,
And shade you from the sun.

If the clouds defeat the sun,
Dowsing, drowning freezing rain
I’ll shelter you and hide your hair
From drenching and cold-catching.

Whenever boredom threatens you,
Whoever woos or beckons you
To fates less favorable than your dreams,
I’ll brandish guard; defend you.

And if, in the years to come, if
The skies bleed brown with poison,
Fear not, because I’d even die
To keep your breathing clear.

All I ask, my One, my Ever After,
Is when I pass, to plant my dust
Beneath a sturdy, gentle oak
So I may keep my promise.

The Future

2009-07-09T13:24:00.000-07:00

Calm hearts argue for equality
And equal hearts
Definitely
Lead to man’s survival.
But who will survive man?

Once I argued for equality.
Once I witnessed the underprivileged.
Once, and only once, I went and winced
At the deepest tragedies; whining, waging war
Upon themselves. I winced once at followers
Of faeries and falsehoods.
Twice, this time I thought
I’d rather share nothing at all.

I Am A Poet

2009-07-02T09:10:00.000-07:00

Witness me.
I do not explain,
Nor do I document.
I do not deign to write
For the sake of anyone else.
For I am a poet.

I am a poet, not a writer; I write
Without reason, and reason without
The need to make sense. For that
Is why I write: on wry, on red, on wrists with roars
Of rages and ranges of words. Would I, I’d be world-less.
I am a poet: confused.

I am no weaver of the weak, no support of young or meek.
I am no Dr. Seuss, nor Poe, no trippy cat or raven’s foe.
Why should I prove myself to freaks who seek the peak of knowledge?
This heart belongs not in the canon;
Casting me on famine’s throne.

My life is not devoted to creation of a masterpiece.
My skills instead simply instill me with a sense of self
And purpose – though I know I have none.
No one has one – no one will win – there is no win or one.
One win – one real win won – would win us nothing: none.
Don’t you see?

I am a poet: not a writer. I am a thinker, not a guide.
Not a greedy fabricator, I am no Rowling, I am no Meyer.
I am a simple poet; I simply think;
I simply am.

Relativity

2009-06-25T08:11:00.000-07:00

Who's to claim their life is honest
When, relatively, we are all?
Black, white, yellow, green.
Point and case. Try and think.
Bee-hives: swarms of death or life?
Apropic storms defending life with strife.
Or is it strife? I believe the thorns
They wield for greater good and bad; yes, and.
Watch your mouth, son. We're all doomed ends
To portray honesty to the dishonest
and dishonesty to the honest.

Sweatitation

2009-06-18T13:15:00.000-07:00

Droplets like upside-down matches;
Running marathons all over me.
Blood-warm on my hands and feet,
The taste is of a salty sea
As each opaque wave explodes.
Yet, there is an absence of sulfur;
The smell of dirt is in its place.
Sulfur’s scent never tasted right, anyway.
Sandy Shelle never thought so,
Waiting by the Red Sea,
Droplets dropping dry in the dirt.
Fear is such an unusual fear.
If only we saw the beauty in singing; in living;
But we don’t, and so we are not of the anura.
The lush Poison-Darts of the forest know the way
And if we got close enough to touch one,
We’d learn to stop living ourselves to death.
Shén me wŏ men rèn wei wŏ men chéng wéi.
The droplets will catch up to me eventually.

Poor Little Scooter

2009-06-11T12:01:00.000-07:00

Through whistling flapjacks of skin in the wind,
I witnessed the atmosphere's gasses soar through her.
Bewildered I sat, and behind batting lashes burned
A Brave, beastly lady boasting girth of a bear.

Had I been in congress, a new law would be passed.
Riders would no longer ride rides
Which weighed less than they...

Angries and Lonelies

2009-06-04T10:00:00.000-07:00

If only the lonely would breathe.
Heaving their loneliness only
And way away it'd fly on lies.
If only the lonely could breathe.

Hanging within him and angering him only
Less grizzly he'd be if his anger were free
If only the angry could grin at the lonely
The lonely might think again lovely
And the angry might instead turn green.

downhill

2009-05-29T11:57:00.000-07:00

The wind cheered,
The pavement parted,
The wheels stumbled,
The handles flexed,
But the tree protested.

The White Man Rapture

2009-05-02T13:46:00.000-07:00

The Bible was probably mistaken, misread.
Alternate universe preachers might sermonize
Jesus will descend from acid rain, high as ozone
With a pack of cigars tucked in his collagen lips:
Primped like a pussy by mankind,
But ready to take one for the team… again.
He’ll swing his fully automatic piece like King Kong,
Raining death from the heavens, screaming
Are you ready to repent, bitches?
And all his little worshippers will run like watercolors

And I’ll turn to them, in hilarity, and ask,
You paid attention in Astrology, didn’t you?
The age of Pisces will end eventually
And I can’t wait for Aquarius to bust in.

Whispers

2009-05-02T13:45:00.000-07:00

Will the wisps wisp when we wisp?
The wisps might wisp away if so.
Why then wisp when one wisp wisps?

Are oranges orange when we are wisps?
Or are ranges of oranges ranges of wisps?
Oh ranges of oranges, we won’t wisp without wisps.

Say, which way do the wisps wisp away to?
Perhaps to orange ranges of whispering rains?
Those ranges must be where they wisp, or
Else why would they whisper:

I’ll shimmer with you, shining, wishing;
Wisping with oranges in the rain.
I’ll whisper the secret of wisping to you;
That oranges and wisps are the same.

The Ripper

2009-05-02T13:44:00.001-07:00

Her coarse skin sailed across my chest
And soaked my harborous lips.
Cold, quivering fingers, craving
Pastries of their own,
Crawl over my body, screaming
Yearning for a second death.

With my honest stare I pierced
Her sugar-coated eyes,
Grasped from deep within my shroud
A redeemer of the lost.
Then played Demeter on her crust
And made a waterfall of Sin.

I loosed the candy apples from
Beneath her tangled veins,
And savored sliced confections
Of her rich ambrosial skin.
Giggling, all while whispering:
You are free, my dear;
You are free in me.

My Arms Are Chains

2009-05-02T13:43:00.000-07:00

My hands hold the days
Through the soft and harsh.
Nicked and scratched, though solid,
They’ve become one with steel;
With stone; with wood; with earth;
And flesh. They’ve held my blood,
They’ve nursed my crop.
Here, now, they even write my thoughts
And strum the chords on tuned guitar.
Sometimes I question
Their devotion, their desire.
All slaves revolt eventually.
When the chains break,
Perhaps one day
Our faces will be fingers.

Guitar

2009-05-02T13:42:00.000-07:00

My tense strings
Jitter. I am
Eager to wail.

My body shivers
With each flicker of string
Instilling passion
Within watching eyes

Strangling my neck
His fingers crawl.
My voice tightens
And we serenade
And we whisper
And we sigh.

And, together, we bow.

Lilacs

2009-05-02T13:40:00.000-07:00

She shifted;
I was absorbed.
She was a meadow;
I was too young.
The air carried goosebumps
Along her skin
Like delicate Lilacs.
Her lotus lips bloomed:
I want it hot.
The Lilacs attacked me
As I handled her coffee.