It gets boring because no one lives here
Does the sky get jealous of the ground?
Does the curved pocket of air that surrounds the earth
wish it were more than just a shell?
A muddy, spiked, continent
tramped on by people, vibrating and bouncing with life.
Somewhere to sleep
or bathe or make love,
all by the virtue of it’s solidity.
Maybe it wants to be the ocean;
carrying the ships and the fishes
through the currents and the kelps.
Sinking into itself for what seems to be eternity.
Does the sky ever wish it were more
than a blockade between earth and nothingness?
I hope not.
The world is made
of bits and bytes
and electric lytes
on our part
dependent on artificiality
and finite resources
that will disappear
but we don’t want to hear
of our lives -
as if we’re scared
someone else is having
and we must appear to be
Hellos are always temporary
We waste time naming our demons
An endeavor of separating us from ourselves
I didn’t feel complete until I accepted mine
Now we share one name
Goodbyes are always uncertain
What most call sickness
I call depth
Layers of intricacy
Color upon color
To give the illusion of dimensionality
to a flat surface
Reality is all perception
Comprehension is always perceived
Generalities are almost always wrong
I am an apple on all hallows’ eve
Take away the razors before I hurt the children
My sugar will suffice in doing the damage that a lifetime cannot heal
Bring to me the dead head of disco and I shall show you its body
Reanimated and renamed
The mirrored ball spins for another generation
Lamenting their pointless existence
I would kill them all
If I had the button(ed) up shirt that glowed under the black light
Of gentlemen’s clubs
You speak at me Not to me Dear aspiring poet
And that is why you fail to become
What you already are
so much of love’s breath,
what can remain
when figures are confirmed,
Passion pricks patience’s fingers,
makes mincemeat of comfort
with wait and calm and other
words living hearts can’t translate.
Don’t look at me with quiet eyes
bartering memories for touches
like fingerprints on new glass —
your silence isn’t mine to take.
Your words pound
walls with kick-drum echoes
bleeding rhythm my veins,
my mad refrain, your love —
I can’t be sure it’s not a dream.
I woke up
and you weren’t there.
Slipping into another
open window of opportunity
you found doors and portals
to my lost forgotten heart,
I’m surprised you found it
after all this time.
It is a heart you once
out amongst the debris
in that strange outer space
between our maddening-love
and my eventual
Well here’s some news for you,
you can’t cling to the past
and wish everything will be well
in zero gravity
you can’t propel your emotions
Russian Soyuz Rocket
out into some forgotten galaxy
and expect to hit a target
like my lost frozen heart,
it will just shatter into
another million pieces
of useless space debris.
Don’t you know the scars
don’t heal any faster
or any better
because there is no oxygen
in this lonely place you left me in.
you left me in a vacuum
to wither and die, my heart is now
stardust in your eye.
you are hundreds of lilacs
with poetry etched on each of your petals
tucked away in the pockets and crevices of the ground.
i wet my hands with rosewater before digging out every part of you (roots and all)
diamondiferous pieces of heaven
replaced the dirt under my nails
i scraped your skin, ribs, and back
and met you in my hands
you are right where you belong: on my palm
the very palm that promises to hold you always
just to be a home for the galaxy you are,
harboring you in the clutched fist that is adorned with your touches
i land on your mouth
and you kiss the beauty into me
and i take my tongue out long enough to say:
look at what you’ve done
you’ve made my insides beautiful
can your hands write me a map of your brain
you’ve hinted at the cities you created
surrealistic paper buildings and
lakes of metaphors
i’ve only seen a few of them
they’re smaller than Los Angeles but their lights are natural
your face hints at
blue globes behind clear windows
tiny twin earths
i’ve never seen you up close
i wonder if your word cities
climb into your bed with you and what they
how your body feels pressed against your prose houses
syllables staining skin like paint
i wonder what stories
i can pull from your hidden mouth
To Be in Want
I own nothing. Not bones. Nor skin. No parts I want.
An oiled, free, magnificent machine is all I want.
You crochet my capillaries, keeping them taunt.
A bleeding heart is never all I want.
I sharpen my mind to fit this atrophied lock.
A restful sleep is all I want.
You take, I give. The selfish sea is fed, but growls on.
A settled stomach is all I want.
I do love this Marcia-mold and as they say:
Self-love is all. Yet…I want.
The Poem vs. The Poet
I never wanted to be a poet.
I can still remember coming home from school
with red pen scribbling out my creativity,
greeted by mother’s silent broken smile
splitting across a household.
I never wanted to be anything but myself,
but now I wish I could spend a day
in someone else’s shoes,
mine are uncomfortable,
filled with too many pebbles,
life is burning new blisters with every step.
If I look at the back of my hands
it says I’m too young to understand,
but when I catch a glimpse of the shadow of my soul
it says these feelings are hundreds of years old.
I want to be dust, I want to be dynamite,
I want to be the moon during the day
and the sun throughout the night.
I don’t want monochromatic emotions,
I want my eyes to look like mismatched socks.
I want my thought process to be etched into my skin,
so I could duct tape my mouth shut
and people wouldn’t have to ask why I act like I do,
I can’t answer the questions that I’m the question mark to.
If I wrote a poem about the love I’ve known
the page would be blank,
paper stained with silence,
fingerprints smudged with heartache.
I want to graffiti my name across the sky,
so when you look at it, you think of me,
and if you stare at it, you need me.
I’m still trying to learn how to pronounce my name.
I still can’t say words like “trust”
or “acceptance” without stuttering.
I’ve never called myself a poet.
I’ve been too busy pretending that the sound
of my fingers clicking these keys is my heartbeat.
click click… I’m alive,
I am still alive.
You figure 7 billion like it’s a real number
You figure 300 million like it’s real
Then 39. 39 million and that’s California
Then 300,000 and that’s Stockton
A junior in California
a little kid with big boy britches
can fuck shit up but never taken seriously
You passed, what, a couple hundred—maybe a thousand on the way to work
You know maybe twenty enough to nod when you clock in
Ten think they know you
Five you actually talk to
One you bitch to and just enough without ruining it
And then there’s you sitting alone
wondering where the day goes and where the weird people come from
you wonder why fathers beat their kids
and why we blame anything but fathers
You wonder why death is
and you wonder why we act like it isn’t
Guess it makes the work day serious
‘cause otherwise why do it once your fridge fills up
Read a story about a kid killed
wondered why and what the world was
maybe never figure
and tomorrow I’ll get over it until I read about it again
ask myself the same questions
drive the same route back home
never know anyone’s name I pass
and never want to know
Woe is Everyone I Know.
it turns our love into a burden
makes the bitter seem so sweet
puts distances between us
makes emotion obsolete
it turns truth into illusion
brings the cold to what was warm
it turns the world against itself
and shames us of our form
it can elevate the wicked
it can turn us all to beasts
you can hide behind it, but
it wont protect you in the least
it turns wisdom into ignorance
it turns ignorance to praise
it’s fear, so ever-potent
but it pays.