I’m a new season—
a new color, and I won’t
ever say what shade;
and every time ‘reality’
turns real, I crater easier
lessons in surrenderi.
She wished to be dressed in poetry
but she didn’t understand that
imagery fades and that metaphors
are too easily forgotten.
She asked why I didn’t utilize my
alliteration eyes—why I hid the tag
‘ hello my name is: writer ’
beneath San Francisco bays
and rotting ink grenades,
still in dead crusade.
I broke pencil shavings in
skybound veins, just to taste
and I bled like a sinner
for mere dreams of some redemption.
“I’m only a poet of capitulation”
Though I be oceansIf I push you away, do not leave, for I am probably in the chasm of a pain so wide, it swallows me in days. It’ll spit me out eventually, and dear I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I hope you’d be there to tie me down. I still do not know how to love without being broken and splintered in so many places, that I’d hope you’d be forgiving, despite the stakes I aim at us.
If I throw those broken ‘me’s at you, please lock them back inside of me… and know it was not you whom I was remembering. Know it was not the present I was lost in, but the past, and give me time to reinstall my gravity. I trust and love your prints, but my brain stumbles over fingers: They can be used as hooks, and I was a fish once before, but lord never again.
If I forget your touch within the memories of another, please sink your fingerprints into my lungs so I may breathe nothing but you and ‘now.’
If there comes a time when I forget the ‘now,’ plea
If you're ever at the bottom of the sea...You cut me like a landscape, the kind with cresting hills, which rise into tsunamis.
You disturbed me in a bump; something, about a boy, who sings his heart in damper peddles. But it was I who sustained this love, one melody, of life and pain rolled into mornings of stage lights and an incessant itch to crawl into the dark. I never knew I could find another person so shackled by the past. (I’m relieved and strangled.)
I miss you in those Everest waves, wishing your eyes would ghost over me just once in a ripple of remembrance. I wish I could bend these hills down to be like her plains, so you could walk in me, and hum, and touch the leaves of trees and not worry about where your soles step next. I can be better, but I cannot be her… though you grow tired, you say, and irritated, you say. I don’t think you even know what you want.
But... these valley-winds feel lovely, and the sight from jagged peaks just may be worth the heartache.
sheepskinYour love smells like snow
in the deep of August, sucking
me like mosquitoes and you.
damn, you always had a talented
tongue, knowing just what to say
to roll me between your teeth and
keep me there; and I was hoping—
no, trusting— I’d not be crushed.
I should have known when
you raised your bones against me,
when you clattered your molars
together but never bothered hiding
the truth below your belt.
And a part of me says
I was in love with you.
MotheatenIt's louder still
but you don't hear it
(and that has to be okay).
Darkness holds me close again -
so safe like warmth and
I am hypothermia
Then it gets louder.
My ribs overflow with moths
they devour all my light.
It is the fearful thunder
shooting down my arms,
too uncertain for one place.
It vibrates blood and scars
until my fingertips are earthquakes
cracking open famine soil, and
I curl them tightly -
control the fear.
Then it gets louder.
It starts small -
the little things -
stabbing away at the vitals
of what ifs and could bes...
it's always just the little things.
Pack-a-dayA diamond queen
smoking pack-a-day dreams
for 95 cents more than
zirconium-falls in slim nicotine
(but the cancer in ashtrays never
stops anyone from trying.)
There’s truth in gusts of sleep,
while I struggle in the
security of windbreaking
as heaven opens up to scream.
blujayHer spine is crumpling into origami cranes, left in jars beside a dreamer’s dresser (I childishly hope they stretch bone-wings to heights, little Icaruses, as they tempt the gods in flight).
I don’t wish to be nomads, wandering through the birdhouses of “if”s and “when she dies…” for I’ve been a gypsy of apology, ghosting through sterilized rooms and bed-feet, as much an apparition as Reapers; and because I could not see Them, I learned to say “goodbye.”
I do not wish to make my nests of broken bottles and her flattened dreams.
comets in my head againThere are bruises on my legs again.
Maybe I tried too hard for the stars - struck hemispheres of dreaming too big - while I count one, two, three, four, five shiners on my legs, ten lookers on each arm (your jointed peals of rage) and, probably, forty-four on my heart – though it’s not like I ever counted the number of times you beat me down, before.
It never did matter if I was enough for the 16 years - or for the Escitalopram - because I was never a star jumper that could trade in comets for the cratered, disfigured life of meteors.
There are bruises on my legs again, and I think I should stop dreaming.
paints with firethe painter
paints with fire & drinks teacups full of galaxy
letting light shows pirouette on her fingertips.
she spoke to the darkness with a smoldering breath
and a calming candlelight.
and black fingernails traipsed across burnt piano keys,
hoping to grasp something without the familiar singeing
of flames and black smoke down her throat.
on these innocent bonesi.
i am spineless. a silent symphony of agony on ribcaged ivored orchids. (hear the greensleeves of) gathering birches, songbirds sodden with periwinkled love forgetting the many ways to say i love you (too) on these waterlogged nights soused in elephant rain;
leaves me always breathless
such efflorescence: honey trees freckled in dandelion leaves bring tenderness to numb lips as i dance beneath pastel diamond skies as he'll put so many gingered lillies in isabelle white all to make me smile. so i'll never let these "love yous" slip through the emptying cracks into me
In October.She is chameleons,
beside once-remembered friends
of once-remembered pasts,
falling fragmented in kitchen sinks
and cleaning bottles,
breaking hearts for puzzles,
bandaging wounds on tables
of answers without questions;
and she is still unknown
come next October.
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,
within her eyes,
to pottery skin;
she would mold herself
into moonlight butterflies
and glist'ning calla lilies,
pure and white and
and when night cast
itself upon her in
heated, hard'ning flames,
she’d smash herself
upon the rocks
and in morning start
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,
the half cup of
peppermint ice cream
sitting in your freezer
for weeks, and cat litter.
He won’t eat anymore,
but there are
piles and piles
of dirty dishes
sitting in the sink.
before your eyes.
You can wrap
your whole self
around his tiny bones
You can hold him
like he used to hold you
all those years ago.
And you are angry.
You try to find
You hate doctors,
and you hate
You have to force yourself
to stop crying,
This is the one person
who’s always had faith
He’s read every poem
and hoarded every award
you ever won.
You ignore statistics,
lucidityyou were all dead ends and flypaper,
so when she had her tenth
that week, and woke up
sweat-drenched and howling
like a dying creature, you cursed down thoughts
of thirty-day notices,
and you packed up
and you left the front door wide open
and you started driving.
a state and a half
later, the sun rose,
and she was loose and soft in the backseat
and you could rest easy, making
tiny movements of the steering wheel
to compensate for that little
behind your ribs,
anchoring you north.
the first time you stopped for gas,
you had this impractical fantasy of
ditching the little blue Ford
but you looked at her
and you smiled,
and there would be time enough for that
are such feeble constructs.
one night she leaned close into your side,
her hand tracing patterns across the ridges
of your shoulder blades,
and she whispered,
"let’s go home,"
but she held the wheel still when you tried to
when the oc
red giantI will be brave while the birds scavenge,
while the storms devastate, because no one
else will hold me together like moonlight
and apparitions in a rear-view city’s landscape.
I will be brave when I don’t fit together
in all the
right places—when making spine bridges
ceases to have meaning for any other purpose
than for granting you passage,
because my boat is only big enough
for pasts and for ghosts, and you will not stop pretending
to be nests, and lighthouses, that call me
home to port when I’ve spent too many days in the depths
in the tsunamis of myself.
I will be brave when the wave crests
and leaves me nothing more than swallowed
(footprints in forgotten sand, another particle to furnish
the world and to hold your feet, because no one else will hold me
in a way of tangibility but you, and I grow weary of being my best
in the pretenses of the sun.)
W.J. LaneThe world looks so different in a coffee cup. Things are not beginnings and ends—but a mirror and an eye. I prefer this fisheye world; things never come to, or want to come to, and end. But a beginning… they must have a beginning.
I rise before the sun to see the world ignite in river beds and eyes, all staring ‘till they close, and I set before the end, for who wants to wonder? Things shouldn’t have to end… they should just keep beginning and beginning. And beginning. Just as Winter eats the West Coast and bares the hollow in its womb, come April I am still sorrow. And They seem to flower beneath showers, but life did speak in thunder; and perhaps this is why rain did find a home in me.
World-walkers, the lot of them, between pupil-clouds, and lord knows what they see—their thoughts all snakes and cunning, waiting. Just waiting. And their fingers. Oh God, their fingers! all fishing hooks and smiles, until the ocean song did lure and swallo
Mankind likes it brokenMadness slipped inside of me like a hand beneath my blouse—thieving and too truthful—while i find myself in fetals, wondering where Autumn went… crushed beneath someone’s shoes, as i feel crushed beneath these memories?
i’m nobody’s treasure (just a no one in a body), and though this mouth is paralyzed, i scream these words ten fingers, to grasp at everything i’ve lost. But what’s the point? i rise from moondust graves when the sun peaks my head in halos; and i hope, and i pray, that this day is one of life… but every time, i am sent to death in stars and in the shadows of the dark. And i fear i’ll only be disasters, thrown down the stairs ahead of life, while i try to learn to fall in ways that will not break my neck, my arm—my spirit…
but every ‘wild’ needs a ‘broken,’ and i’m afraid He’s beat you to it; mankind just likes it broken.
metaphysicali. open mouth
i trace the outline of my mouth and
dream prisms of prisons and
i fit myself into a box
muscles cramp spasm tear
but it's safer this way.
the bricks of my house are made of chequebooks
i want carnations
on my coffin.
i want carnations
burned at my cremation.
i am a fiery prometheus
a dying devil's desperate daughter
i am alive! alive! alive!
refocus the telescope, refocus the wreck into
a little more
(breath comes easy here, it's everything else that's hard)
ii. closed mouth
i'm saying, are you there?
i'm saying, are you listening?
i'm saying, look at the house we built, look at my ragged fingernails, look at the sky.
you're saying, look at the carnations.
you're saying, look at the roses, look at the [small talk]
i'm saying, let's have a conversation
you're saying, yes, let's talk about the weather.
i'm saying, i think i might be dying.
(oxygen is a luxury i can't afford)
My chest bumps like a drier with shoes in itlately i've come to feel
like a leap of days that didn't happen
nor had the right to exist,
in the first place.
i can’t help the diffraction of my
veins straining against
the sticky membrane of my skin;
as though they are trying
to reach the sky,
they splinter and groan
under the graceless movements
of my limbs.
i search for cracks beneath
prodding and poking
trying to dissect myself with the
precision of shaky hands numbed
by alcohol and one too many painkillers;
i am the surgeon of my own disaster
attempting to reassemble
those caved in xylems.
i tried desperately to
resurrect those broken stems
i gave them a transfusion with my
and offered up my own
trachea to try and let them breathe;
but i suppose some things,
much like people,
refuse to be
perhaps the dead should
To Wildflower TombstonesForgive; that of who bore us and
made our branches
equipped for burning
back into bones.
Forgive that of who let us decompose.
Graveyards give way to roots give way to
wombs and dandelions bloom.
every night my hair is falling outI have heard that in 7 years
every cell in your body
& isn't it beautiful that it will be
a body you have never touched
but I know that when your brain cells
fall like ashes through your skull
they stay dead
& I can never scrap the memories out of their corpses
Lotus extractshe is small, huddled between
scraps of sky: the vulnerable;
a horizon-born thing.
patient through the laboring womb
when night ensues, tapping stars awake
one by one. a dawn-swimmer. a sleepless bud
unfurling in the birth of morning.
somewhere in-between an apparatus,
melting frost from pitiful bones; opening
marrows to pollinators and spring
small talk Iwe adorn ourselves with
"velvet" and "silk" (polyester).
try to catch the eyes of onlookers
as we stand, stranded at our
street corner islands.
we think—how much more appealing
we must be, sculpting our eyebrows into
perpetually curious glances, and
dispelling unique theories copied from
entry-level philosophy text books.
snowfall in a paperweighti bought a crystal ball today
and it’s like looking through
stained glass windows for lessons
in weather forecasts.
i think that i could start to
smoke and make my insides
look the same as they feel when
it is overcast.
or let the embers slowly
burn between my fingers
until i have left behind
and maybe it doesn't matter
and i will
crystal ball and make fragments
Sleep Well My AngelI didn’t become a mother when I saw the two pink lines,
But something changed.
What I had suspected for weeks was true,
& in a moment of fear, I realized my life was forever changed.
I didn’t become a mother when I saw you on the ultrasound for the first time,
But something changed.
I saw you wiggling around, only about the size of a peanut,
& I fell in love.
That was the first time I realized how much I wanted you,
You were mine, and that was never going to change.
I didn’t become a mother when I felt your first kick,
But something changed.
You wiggled and kicked me at least a dozen times that first night,
I was completely enchanted & I fell a little deeper in love.
I didn’t become a mother when the doctor showed me that you were a boy,
But something changed.
I was so surprised; I had sworn you were a girl,
But I was wrong,
But then again, everything about you was unexpected.
I didn’t become a mother when I started getting stretch marks,
But something cha
considerthat you are the rain
that falls before dawn
and clears the
dark morning air
that you are a thousand
bright milky stars
that punch through
the blanket of night
you are the sharp smell
of hot winter fire
finding the nose
of the old sleepy hunter
you are the wild frenzy
of the cold brown trout
that is caught
by the fishermans net
that you are the hard touch
of the grey sparrows beak
feeding her young
in the nest
you are the mad rumble
of the high waterfall
as it drops to the rocks
at its base
that you are the soft soil
lying deep in the orchard
bringing the sweet apples
that you are the wisdom
that begins in the silver
that the grandfather combs
that you are the dark shade
of silky brown liquid
that lives in the eye
of the deer
that you are the child
that sits at the circus
with the smile of a clown
and the heart of a lion
I feel like I can't write anymore. Found this... felt like if I didn't try, I would lose my words.
and I feel like I can't help Them without changing my identity. But I won't ever tell.
(I can't keep track of myself).
(it's not any one of you, rest assured. )