Wednesday, November 3, 2010

quiet cave

i want to fill these walls with smoke and suffocate this heart-
leave the mess for someone else with some strength-
it could even be me, on another day.
but today, this body is merely a cave.
hollow and uncertain
claiming no treasure or beauty.
just a place for echoes and other methods of repetition.
careless with sharp edges and tired eyes.
useless,
save for some torturous methods of love
or limp, cold embraces.
and so visitors grow listless,
pace the contained border,
and quickly depart.
no flashes of eager bulbs
or curiosity of its intricacies
and flawed character.
just a nod of the head at the exit,
as though to mentally cross off another
duty from a list of chores.
excitement seems to be kept for the polished,
the new,
the complacent.
so, it will encase this breath
and attempt to survive the lonely tremors.

intro

You can’t underestimate the intuition of a child. You just can’t. I mean, sure… you CAN. But you shouldn’t. Its one of the most crucial mistakes people can make. These children- these little freshly-exposed , emotionally uncensored creatures- are telling you how it is all the time. Whether your pompous ears are capable of receiving that message or not is entirely up to you. That’s is precisely why, when I stood in the bedroom of my eventual step-sisters (and destined ex-step-sisters) during our introductory playtime and stated ,

“you know, my dad’s going to cheat on your mother,“

the comment was quickly reported to their mother. She and my father, in turn, gathered all of us together in the living room to address the comment. They wanted to reassure her upset, na├»ve children; and to keep his children from spoiling the fresh affair. What they received in response was a few pair of rolling eyes, while the other sets of eyes twinkled with some foreign, dreamy hope of fairytale-endings. Needless to say, those twinkling eyes weren’t originating in any of the young girls with my father’s blood. I’m not sure if it was a lack of romantic comedies in my childhood, or if it was the fact that my mother and father had shared 6 divorces between themselves by the time this discussion occurred, but I had no interest in humoring another “uniting of hearts” or bullshit matrimony. While it would be grand and so precious if I was proven wrong, I was most definitely dead on. Hearts and families were swollen with emotion and broken. Foretold by a young girl not yet heartbroken or bitter from her own experiences, though I’d find my way there soon enough… with very little training needed.

Friday, September 17, 2010

foreign objects

I’ve considered
Gutting myself.
Replacing each and every
Pink, smooth, functional part
With tired gears,
Chicken wires
And rusted strainers.
Eliminating some of the pressure
Of my misguided intuition.
Because this world has become a difficult thing to read-
No longer bound with familiar materials
Or printed in texts I’ve been
Trained to understand.
It’s unfortunate that my arms are so tired,
Because I know if I laced my fingers around all of
Your necks,
Your calm, sleeping faces
Would soothe me.
Let me breath a little deeper
And walk with a little less caution.
Novembersixteenthtwothousandandeight

sinking stone

it was getting more and more difficult
to rest my eyes
as each minute hid...
my heart still pounding : :: : :: : ::
after countless attempts of
grabbing for you
and returning with hands
full of this quiet room's
stale air.

and so, i call my cat over,
patting my stomach-
imagining i'm floating in a river
and the weight of her soft body
could sink me,
leaving me appropriately in solitude
with pebbles and curious fish.

but when i open my eyes,
she reaches out
and rests her paw on my mouth,
shaking her head-
reminding me that i signed up for this.
junetwelfthtwothousandandnine

Sew these hands
Over this mouth.
I can’t say another word.
No I’m sorry’s or question marks.
Its been proven to weaken me.
Leaves me panting,
Sweating,
Gasping for air,
As though I need for someone to
Save me
When really I just need someone to leave.

But you can’t.
My legs are wrapped around you like shackles
And my beauty deteriorates
With every attempt.

reception

i'm calling out your name
instead of dialing your number
hoping i'll receive a better response,
more recognition,
better reception.
because i'm feeling less and less
like something that's plausible
and more and more like something
that's been lost in the shuffle.
so i play the games
and take the risks.
hoping i'll be standing straight at the end of this.
but we both know this is just knocking me down
to where you are,
which is getting harder and harder
to sympathize with-
and fornicate with-
without
a conscious.

so, go lie beside her.
lie beside her.
don't remind her of me.
it'll make everything cleaner in your break..
i'll just be wandering around a bit...
picking up the broken pieces.
septembernineteenthtwothousandandeight

jf

my legs
squirm their way into your space-
and when they find solid ground,
we sigh-
as though it took
a century
rather than just a minute
trying.
but there are no clocks in our view...
time has been fatherly
and the minutes passed
have treated us kindly.
yet, i search for some measurement of speed-
something to calculate this time,
but the moon's been hiding outside-
far away from under the covers.
and we haven't left the bed long enough
for the heat to escape,
the mattress worn to our shapes.
i lift my lashes to see your face-
tricks me into thinking i could
live without the sun.

i kiss the lips that keep me smiling
and lie defenseless in the web you've spun.
falloftwothousandandfour

landfill in the sky

i want to stumble over the place where love goes...
it has to be hidden somewhere,
like a landfill in the sky-
potentials and promises
thickening together
to form little clouds
that rain down
on the lovely, naive
hand-holding pairs
sharing straws and saliva
without a care in the world.
clumsily putting their pieces together
over and over again
to see if its the right fit,
knowing that if they're meant to be,
they could form a majestic scene,
colorful and untainted-
floral scents and rabbit fur embraces.
don't let go.
don't blink.
freeze this frame.
augustthirteenthtwothousandandten

I won’t wait too long
Won’t keep pacing
To prove my patience.
Because I have a feeling
If I wait long enough to watch
Heartbreak,
You’ll witness a flood.
And we both know that
We’re too exhausted to
Flail our arms in order to keep our
Heads above water.
novembersixteenthtwothousandandeight

jeweled streets

Slither next to my warn body
I’ll ride the pavement home
Splinters of glass
Glitter the sidewalk
Spearing my tires
And leaving me here
To think think think
And wither away

death of a hero

trying to get lost
to give that map on your lap some purpose...
leave you to imagine a note of longing lost at sea,
give you the opportunity to be a hero-
the man with a rescue under his belt-
and dreams of urgent, plea-filled tears
chasing one another down the cheeks
of a pretty young girl.
its really all you need...
the only thing
that will stroke those parts of you
sinfully
when her hands aren't around.
you'll be grateful some day,
when you're mumbling to the barstool you're leaning on
about the days when you were a man,
so capable.
so needed.
so desired.
and you'll grasp at the necklace you wear
with the heads of all of your trophy wives-
dancing on stained strings
that reek of bourbon and solitude-
and you'll curse each of them,
staring straight into each set of their vacant eyes,
for not being there to help you stumble out the door.
octoberninthtwothousandandnine

confetti heart

You’ve been punching holes through my
Paper heart
Expecting me to stand up to your
Perforating fists.
But I’d rather just lie down now,
Patch up these holes
While you use the remnants of my pain
As confetti to celebrate your victory.

No, I don’t want to talk.
I feel more like running.
And crashing.
And orchestrating a funeral
For another attempt’s obvious misfortune.
I feel like I should still keep making
Dinners for two
And set your place at the table
To keep myself from losing hope.
But I’m growing so tired of trying to convince you
Of what I believe.
The love I hope for is as foolish as any other
Fairy tale figure
Or imaginary friend.
I have to kill it in your presence
So I don’t feel like a fool,
And then dream of it as my eyes close every night.
Julytwentyeighthtwothousandandnine

confessional

i'm trying to keep my chest from heaving too noticeably...
keeping my breath from scalding your back
and stirring you in your sleep.
because this may be the one time
i'm courageous enough to use this quiet space
between our bodies
for confessions,
and a safe place for these fears.

you'll be leaving me soon.
it's in the air-
heavier than spring but not nearly as sweet.

i'll continue to climb up and down your patience
like its something sculpted out of concrete-
strong enough to hold my weight,
my bullying,
the temper in my eyes.

i'm reminded every time someone walks away
that no one needs to sit through this.
there's no obligation-
no guarantee of my spirit rising with the new day's sun.
and i've been testing your generosity,
your kindness....
your hope of change.
but i told you i was no good at this.

I keep flipping these coins
Trying to decide whether I should try
And love you.
But I keep forgetting what stands for heads
And what stands for tails.
And I’m certain that I was cursed
With the inability to connect
The passions of my heart,
Mind
And hands.
Novembereleventhtwothousandandeight

Thursday, September 16, 2010

cement pillow

i'm claustrophobic, crawling in my own space.
trying to train myself to pick up my messes,
throw away the things that no longer apply
or pertain
to this life of mine anymore.

and i keep imagining that if i write down this clutter,
someone will be kind enough to throw it out to the curb
and let me rest peacefully.

but, it's here. and i'm exhausted.
it's as though too many boxes of your memory
can throw me off,
have me tripping over myself.

and i just want to be alone.
without you knocking on my skull...
promising-
threatening-
that you'll be back in the morning
just to remind me of what i deserve
without ever telling me why.

i can't make sense of these riddles.
i'm tired of suggestive glances,
or reliving the taunting of childhood-
brass knuckles and shackles vs sticks and stones.

i hate to wish you misery...
but i want to see your sadness in the sky.
i want it to turn your pillow into cement
the moment your head is sleepy.
this makes me feel cruel....
leaves everything tasting bitter.
and forcing myself to hate something
i've always loved
has me hiding in the dark, stone caves of my chest
to keep from being seen or tempted.
junetwentysixthtwothousandandseven

claimed territory

i'd love to be sentimental
and clean all of these hurtful words
with the libations that allowed me
to smile through the dawn,
but the sound of your voice
is breaking all that
is sweet and clever-
i'll just form another memory in my sleep.
something that will allow me to love you when i wake-
to start another day where you exist
breaking, begging, stammering
through your excuses
and sore efforts.
it's become quite a familiar fortress i've built around my mornings-
awaking to find you've risen,
forgetting thoughts of nights prior,
when i lied in your mind
as a carcass
a whore
something worth beating
and screaming at
without hesitating.
you'll grasp at my tired thighs
and swollen lips
as though they are yours...
the only thing you seem to be accountable for.
claiming territory you'll never understand
or sympathize with.
its nearly poison to
miss you...
wishing you were warm
instead of cold...
and soft and quiet
instead of hard and so loud...
januarythirdtwothousandandten

bound with lace

exposing teeth and tail-
and tragically waiting for a duel.
something to keep me from sleep.
i'm tired of hearing about the hope you give tomorrow.
let the sun rise in your mind...
lights are out here.
i want to fornicate with your memory.
take condensed versions of you in pill form
and lie comatose on the floor.

please leave me.
please let me sleep.

i want to remember what it felt like.
i want to lie in its warmth.
i want to lose control over my shaky knees
and collapse from that nightly killing.

but you're busy killing other parts of me now...
things that are nearly as easily replaced or repaired.

to keep people from focusing on the blood,
i'll bind my wounds with lace...
anything to maintain that suitable air
of innocence and beauty.
ah, the foolish efforts we make to save face.
and the efforts we dont...

angry winter

I’ve been trying to keep my eyes closed
through the majority of this.
hoping that if we take a quick turn
or need to stop in our tracks,
you'll have my hand
and keep me from running into the sun.
its obvious to me
that's where we're headed.
it's the only thing that explains
how the heat from your hand
seems to brand my skin
and keep my smile warm
through such an angry winter.

questioning corpses...


i'd like to let the dead lie... but there's always something intriguing about poking at things that are no longer a risk- no longer a threat. if people were smart, they'd cremate things after killing them. there isn't as much of a risk of foul play with ashes... they don't offer enough attachment to their original form and shape. they create a disconnect from what they once stood for. playing with ashes isn't nearly as satisfying. someday i'll take my own advice and put all that i've killed up in flames. for now, i harass.

*i have hurt no animals in the making of this post. i promise.