War

to tread lightly upon new ground
to create history but not a sound
to marvel in the wonders yet stay silent

this is how I felt
when I was added to your belt
just another notch in a war without violence

So the drink is foamy
     and
I can’t sleep without the foam.
    Mind went paranoid.
Sleep became troubled.
Shut me down on pills and pills
And walk,
The empty dark streets.
Although, tonight,
There is an isolation.
A glittering before the steel,
A Market before marrakesh,
Pipsqueak pummel
Marker humdrum.
        Splash the mural in the breaks,
  Awake,
Lifetimes of morbid curiousity,
Focus in sharp contrast to a
Obfuscation from philandering eyes.
It is these Philanthropists,
that make me want to scurry
Like the small rat I am,
Under the car for safety.
The light has hurt my eyes
And I need to go lay down.

Friday, you say… When did that happen? I have no recollection of the last thirteen days breaking and nights falling; no memory of having slept through a single moment of darkness with my eyes fully closed; and no lingering taste of the last kiss you gave me. I run on autopilot, screening a life that I chose for myself, while living the parallel life that I wish I could give up everything I have chosen for.

Friday, you say… Does that mean that tomorrow is Saturday?

Not Breathing

You showed up in a flurry of color through the hole in my head
Didn’t you see the sign,”don’t knock, just come to bed?”
Because I’m a messed up lover boy with a tendency to punch my own mouth
And ruin a nursery rhyme wedding by fleeing to the sunset in the south

There is an applause in your eyes every time they are opened
Can’t wait for the feeling of dusk in my chest and years of hopin’
But I look like I just lost a fist fight with 10 men 10 times my size
And I look like I lost a fist fight every time I look into your eyes

Don’t give me a challenge, because I’m dumb enough to try without thinking
And don’t give me that look, because I always forget that I’m not breathing

Gardens of Stone

Nightfall 

Silence 

Daybreak 

Silence 

Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall

Through snow, wind, rain and all.

Silence

They wait 

remains beneath our feet

Forgotten a generation after their demise 

Left in silence the untended stones

Rotting above 

as the empty shells rot below

Once love and hate and joy and fear

Life living unbridled and free

Entombed 

beneath 

They repopulate 

The gardens of stone.

Women are not
flightless birds,
her curse is not
in clipped wings,
for she flies everyday.

A woman’s curse is in
the weight of her expectations
dragging her back to earth.

you don't know who you are anymore, but that's ok, i do.

you are the ocean and you are
bursting over yourself,
breaking dams,
dancing on the feet of children,
overflowing into the branches of the Missouri.

you are the graffiti on the boarded up windows
of New Orleans after the water washed away
everything we knew and left only
a sunrise.

you are the light in my father’s smile
when he got the call from my mom that grey September,
saying, i know it’s still the worst day ever,
but i’m on a train out of New York City
and there are no more airplanes crashing,
not today.

you are the sunrise on September 12th, 2001.
you are the sound of grief and rage mingling with
the whisper of hope
in the wind.

The Bride Thief And Me

So he knelt down in front of me and
spat his words out at my feet

“Strike me
like a dog.
I am bad and
bad is me

I stole a bride and
took her to a different type of steeple
while you sat in the kitchen
watching the flies
watch the fruit rot and
the grass felt wet beneath my feet but she
did not.”

And now he pleaded with me
“I need your forgiveness.
I do not want it gift wrapped,
in time for Christmas.
I want it in waves
in which to bathe my skin.
I want it to cleanse me.”

Finally, he cried
“I am bad and
bad is me and
my skin has become wrinkled with gin,
wine soaked, so
I am begging you to make me good.
Please,
purify me”

I put my lips to his ear,
placed my hand over the other
so I knew my words would be forever trapped,
festering in his thoughts
“I once lay in your arms,
knew nights where you were my all and
willed you to consume me.
I once loved you, so now
there is nothing,
nor will there ever be anything
pure
about this body,
or this heart,
that you robbed me of
the day you stole her.”

Today I thought of you,
of the way your lips would part
to allow the nicotine that
invaded your lungs
to escape but would never
open up enough
to allow the words I know
you held inside
to save me,
to save us.

(3 words. 8 letters. how hard
would they have been to say?)

I am a writer

I am a shaking hand from too much caffeine

I am the space between 3 and 6 am

When the world is cold and silent

I am slurred words and nonsense thoughts 

Half drunk on sleep deprivation

I am unshed tears

Hiding behind tired eyes

I am rough and inkstained fingertips

Smelling of handsoap and new paper

I am the dream you can’t remember

But still smile about

I am the voice of both self doubt and reason

I am the quiet coffee shop down the corner

That sells cappuccinos and homemade muffins

I am a writer

199

She burned and rendered her ash to the sky.
Only because it promised her freedom.
Realizing, as her legs crumbled to soot,
that the price she paid was perhaps too high

Obligatory Tupperware.

Was I supposed to be impressed
by how pleasantly
you never had emotional tendencies toward me.
Thank-you dearly for
burying me in a pit,
then remembering to water the soil afterwords.
It made it so much easier
for the bitterness to grow.
Eventually the grudge will vanish,
but the pain will not.
At least you were decent enough
to clean up all the metaphors
you made me write about
your lovely mess.

Kinship

You can’t get out of this life alive
My grandpa said
While raising his glass
Of gin and ice
To cracked lips, dry
Scratchy white whiskers
Always chaffed my cheek
His grip tight
On my small arms
Spinning yarns of the Depression
Bean sandwiches for two cents
And his special runs
For the speakeasy
He saved everything
Reused the styrofoam trays
From the butcher
His cast iron skillets
Seasoned from the fried goetta
Grandpa rumbled around
The old house on Erwin Terrace
While his vintage Mercury slept
In the garage
And grandma’s stilettos lived
In the closet
Then he decided it was time to go
I miss our Tuesday night suppers
Simple food, never fancy
Watching Wheel of Fortune
And Jeopardy
In my youthful ignorance
I was always eager to leave
Discomforted by his wisdom
Now, I feel a kinship with him
I remember his words
His explanation for the gallons of gin
That disappeared down his throat
And his slurred speech
Of late evening
Might as well enjoy your days
You can’t get out of this life alive

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