We meet again
The crimson spider webs of bloodshot eyes
Crying for help
To avoid one’s own gaze
Becomes harder when the eyes in the mirror
Are those of a stranger
I don’t know you
Why do you keep coming back?
Confessions of a bookbinderI never cared for the smell of ink
Black acid tears on white silky skin
Letters, branded without consent
The pages scream, but only I can hear them
If the birches and oaks only knew
How writers, poets, critics and fools
Would tarnish their flesh in self-importance
I reckon they would have remained seeds
They enter with their abominations
Gleefully proclaiming their excellence
And I am left to dress them up
To make them pleasing to the eye and touch
And I dress them to perfection
The smell of leather pleases me
But no one seems to notice
No one seems to care
They look beyond my seams of careful devotion,
And the fine golden jewelry around their necks
And see only the filthy smudges
Upon their white silky skin
Soon but a whisperLife is a scream
And an echo will follow
A ferverous stream
For the ocean to swallow
Life is a breath
Fast inhaled by the young
Soon, fear of death
Will fill up their lungs
Life is a beat
So rhythmic at first
A meter complete,
The treehouseI built myself a treehouse
High up above the ground
Extended open invitations
But people never come around
It is made from solid metaphors
I picked them out myself
It took some time to find them all
Among the dusty shelves
I thought I’d be a dying shame
If they stayed hidden out of sight
So I cut and shaved and varnished them
And thought it turned out quite all right
For nails I used those little words
That critiques so despise
But when building using metaphors
You have to compromise
When I stood back to behold it all
I felt a tiny sting
This simple sloppy craftsmanship
Could never house a king
I thought about just burning it
All, down to the ground
Why even build a treehouse
If they will never come around?
It wasn’t ‘till I entered it
That I had a change of heart
I was ashamed for even thinking
About tearing it apart
I felt so safe within those walls
As safe as I could be
And if queens and kings won’t feel the same
What matters that to me?
I built a treehouse o
On the moveFifty miles from home
Twenty miles from condemnation
And so many miles I cannot count
On the road of contemplation
A million miles from love
Means a million miles from heartache
And would you risk that lengthy walk
Just to see a lonely heart break?
A hundred miles of tip-toe
As not to wake what's in the shade
And a lifetime then of running
In the dark through which you stray
Not a single mile of respite
Not a moment yet to pause
And to look back through the blackness
The road behind - forever lost
The destructive powers of imaginationWe shackle ourselves
In a cage of limitation
Every bar in our cell
Is our own creation
It’s not the lacking, but abundance
Of sly imagination
Turning minds against themselves
It’s a self-mutilation
Whatever enters a mind
That hungers after creation
Will be created all the same
There’s no room for hesitation
Even if you let loose
They will fight you tooth and nail
For their own preservation
Because a mind that is free
Is also free to rebel
And a rebellious mind
Can be a living hell
Human natureDusk and thoughts that do not sleep
The snowcovered treetops
Bears a golden lining
In remembrance of the sun
There was never enough pain to consume me
And the drizzle doesn't scream of fury
It only whispers
Of past and future
The now was always lost
The grass doesn't stab at my feet
Green shivs licking my skin with tongues of dew
Only taunting, tantalizing
And the venomous snakes slithering in its midst
Only crircle my persona
Perhaps not bothering with someone intent on
Endurance is not the opposite of defeat
The cool spring breeze and the furious winter wind
Could spend years in feeble attempts to move mountains
And deeds undone will forever go unsung
Why do you even write?
To answer the who, the what, the when, the how
Before the question above all others cloud your mind
That reversed echo that is the bane of your existance
Why? Scream it, tear the sky open
Let the floodgates unbolt and drown in it
Why can't you lose yourself in your words
Like raindrops in oceans
The travelersShe is the traveler
In nothern lights
The rusty traintracks croon
The steel did write
It will have her sleeping soon
She is a stranger
In a world of homes
Raindrop on the pane
She stops, but never long enough
For them to learn her name
She cannot sleep
Unless she hears
The thumping traintracks down below
She is forever on the run
But to where?
She does not know
Some say that she is searching
For a place she'll never find
Others say escaping
Leaving sorrows far behind
But I remember when I saw her
She smelled of lillies then
So I packed my bags and left my home
To find her scent again
A two person operaThe overture starts
With beating hearts
Percussion is essential
In this work of art
At the pluck of a string
Every hair on your body –
Hear the arias rise
The libretto written
In wordless cries
The finale draws near
This is the masterpiece
That will make our career…
ElenaElena followed me home
from work one night
and stayed for tea and eggs,
and all that minimum wage
and wars between the sheets
She said she was a goddess,
daughter of a carpenter
with her long red, red hair
and eyes as warm as hazel nuts
on Christmas morning.
Her hands spoke braille
across my back
and made the silence
of Sunday into a prophecy.
She left one October
just like she said she would
when the fireflies
had turned their wings to ash.
And I found revelation
in red, red wine
and cheap red, red fabric
that came off in my hands
WineHead on a patisserie table
with a wine-scented napkin
that I scrawled your name all over
in the hopes it might necromance
or just romance you
to this place, at this time,
so we could be together again
and although the guitarist knows
that I'm broken beyond blue
I keep reaching for the bottle
in the hopes it might recreate
or just replicate
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,
but it doesn’t stop me from nibbling
the cheese danish I bought at Kroger
this morning, warmed by thirty
seconds in the microwave. My mug
of hot chocolate is too big, and I
drink it all. The washer is on its last
cycle; the cat is purring at my feet.
Netflix is background noise
to clacking keys, typing a transcript
of middle class morning that I’ll later
call a poem or a turning point,
wondering when I became such an adult.
Finding HappinessShe's burning up like a suicide note
And upon it's legacy lines
Scribed in crimson ink
Is all her little curios of happiness.
Before misery waddled up,
Knocked over her correction fluid;
Erasing all her joy in a blink.
There's a tape recorder by her side
Skipping a death tone melody;
The silence she hides inside.
Should she stop.
Wipe her days of self-pity and hate
Until she can record a new song
Upbeat to a happy tune of fate.
By her crumpled flat dress,
Glares wild, her knife and her pills,
Though the sight macabre
Only sets her heart ablaze to chills.
Serrated metal to barcode in
A reminder of all her undying pain
And the dark she kisses within.
Numb, she knocks back medicine,
Her bus stop on the highway of life.
Faltering she drops lipstick blade and
To an honest mirror she turns...
What ever happened to
The smiling girl?
What ever happened to
Her innocent future?
Tears fade to a calm stare
Which unravels a soulful grin;
A u-shape of acceptance
To new challenges she mus
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echo
of a cloudburst,
the earth curls invisible fingers
about my achilles' tendon
she cries that i am not
intended for the clouds,
that my mind must not wander
between their susurrous concaves
furious with her insistence,
untether myself from the soft,
diaphonous comfort of the heavens
down into the weight of gravity.
listless green blades welcome my soles,
stimulating a tickle,
a sneeze; i never have done well
she is calling for me,
soft-tongued and crisp in her
& i am sorely tempted
i am not for the soil.
she becomes my inhale;
my alveoli shudder
beneath her force--
i am not for the air, either.
i stand beneath her onslaught
until she tires,
her molten heart beating beneath my toes;
unable to woo me with her facets,
cloaking me in one last attempt,
a final shadow.
my pores bloom
& i r
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,
or to have myself cradled
in the curve of a throat,
but to be broken,
to be diminished
by your lack of affection
& over indulgence of sexualization.
uneducated in your intent,
found myself left entirely whole
& incapable of the fury
i had sought to sow between the
ridges of my aching ribs.
Thy Fallen AdamO father, thou hast forsaken me.
Thou hast breathed essence
Into these corpse lungs, and yet
Thou had cast me out
Into this cold black with no regret.
Why dost thou shudder so father?
Thine eyes were the first I
Bore witness to in mine blossom.
'Ere did that grace of life ebb within;
Yet thou did but blench and look
No more upon thy creation no farther.
Dost thou have stomach to embrace?
O father, I ought to have been an angel,
But alas thou hast sewn a villain's face
To hide mine internal beauty.
O father, why thou elude me of love?
Thou elude my diabolic presence
With thy Prometheus hands, and still
Thy plague am I to thou
In pestilence dire I maketh thou ill.
Where dost thou go to weep father?
Look! Even stars insult my frame
Ne'er did the celestial offer me comfort,
Yet thou would dare mock too.
Only shallow rain cries tears ever blue.
Dost thou have conscience to behold?
O father, did thou not dream me as mortal,
But I am a patchwork of nightmares old
As a mirror of thy own cruelt
she suffers melancholy like the plagueshe cannot raise her voice to reach
the notes that she adores
without the ocean escaping from her eyes,
and she cannot kneel in prayer
to the god that she tries to love
without copper staining the pavement,
but she can scream into a room and not be heard,
and she can deprive her stomach and not be seen--
these are not the type of talents to be appreciated,
to be loved without condition,
and so nobody does.
i. one way to wake to dawnhalf the time i never
wake - i lie half-sleeping under
stars made of the flash of headlights on oil spills
and smell the gasoline-stench of
dreams as they try to breach the breakwater
of my eyes.
insomniac, they say, and i just
listen, half-alive -
scientists wonder why we need sleep and i can only say,
we don't. sleeping leads to dreaming
and not a single soul needs that
kind of disappointment, anymore.
but sometimes i find myself
into sleep, disjointed, falling through the rabbit
holes found in zeroes of one o'clock, two -
and as i wake to
shimmering sunlight shining through the
blinds, across the walls, i find it's worth it (just
this once) to watch and learn