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
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.
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.)
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.
burning bridgesHe planted hope into her spine,
in the hope each hunch
would water it.
It grew crooked vertebrae
and aching knobs that bruised
beneath his calloused thumb;
eventually hunching was all
she could do to maintain herself.
Sometimes she’d curl herself
into a ball so small,
that even his voice
dare not reach her.
but she choked on his rain
and she grew his name
until her remains
were hunching soil.
exitsWe taped cut-out stars
to the blue ceilings of
and took off
in search of climates
ideal for dreaming.
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
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”
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.
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.
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
it smiledThe dirt smiles but I cannot
bring myself to smile back,
teeth buried in each other.
The grass is working,
and working, and I’m left holding
my head, looking down at marbled names,
toes curling rings of fire into my sole.
(I cannot help but to think
of the evils followed on her path.)
Knees nest homes in
working soil, and I can
do everything but weep
my heart just below
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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)
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,
WaitYou are a butterfly, flitting
from gardens to cocktail parties,
careless, dancing, keen
to the social cues crystallizing
into marriage proposals.
But do not forget –
you were once a caterpillar.
Pattacklike a sudden thunderstorm of spring
the calm before seems a myth
all the furies of your angst
now gone rampage in your chest
coming from the depths of an ocean
each gasp feels like your last one.
arms flail about as confused as your mind
vision narrows, blurred in fog
you're reduced to a startled throat
cutting through the esophagus,
it may be your bitterest gall
but only simple tears gush out and
though fast goes your breath
time stretches like slime
leaving a little window open
to wonder when will the shaking stop.
but thank the faintness in your lungs
for the sick waves soon subside
only a little tremor remains
and maybe some red lines
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.
A recent history of sadnessMy mother has become a black cloud, collecting in her room.
I shut her door when I read.
When I play music.
When I'm on the phone.
When she talks too much.
When I'm changing.
I shut her door without knowing why sometimes.
Since I moved in with my father, I've made it a habit to forget where I came from.
Who I came from.
Since I moved out on my own, I've taken up forgetting what I look like.
Who I look like.
Since my mother's news, and her surgery three months overdue, I try to remember everything.
How many steps lead up to her apartment.
The average number of gummis that come in the fruit snacks.
How low I can twist the light's dial before I see my demons peeking from corners.
The difference between choking on blood in your sleep and it's-only-a-loud-snore.
When my mom's work alarm will blast on different weekdays so I can migrate from the couch to her bed.
When she limps out of the front door, I'm curled in the crease where her frame has sagged on the mattress, and I can fit my
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
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
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. )