and open hands
point the way
waiting to happen,
but somethings are worse than death.
Yes. Somethings are worse than death.
Flowers For a GraveFlowers for a grave,
I'll lay them in a row,
What could have been,
What should have been,
And what will never be.
That promises of beauty
Have such fragility.
From dust to dust
The words we spoke.
I'll say them in a row,
I love you.
I'll stay with you.
You said you wouldn't go.
Flowers for a grave.
The dead in silence keep.
Weep for all the wishes
Life rarely lets us reap.
I'll bury you.
You'll bury me.
We'll fade and crumble so,
Like flowers picked before their time
That in the graveyard go.
SplashThere's blood in the water,
And sharks keep swimming circles in my head.
My tongue's like a plank,
And I'm just walking, walking.
Talking, talking in circles.
There's blood in the water...
AntimonyI heard a song. It went like this
Heartbeat set to serpent's hiss
Stricken by a deadly kiss
Poison spreading burning bliss
And then a crashing comet trail
Of smoke and ash strait down to hell
Down in the killing kiln
Burning things away
Burning things away
So I found you sitting there
Humming faintly your sad air
Your fists were clenched. Your feet were bare.
It's rare that music get's down here
But maybe we could forge some wings
And fly to where the air still sings
Away from the killing kiln
Takes some breaking and reshaping
Changing blood and bone
Changing blood and bone
So shall we face our fates together
We fallen ones, we birds of feather
Will you stay with me a measure
Till we can fly to something better
Till we can forge ourselves some wings
Wings for wicked, sparkly things
Pulled from the killing kiln
Turning lead to gold
Turning lead to gold
So shall we claim our wings
We wicked, sparkly things
Van GoghI saw the eyes of a madman
In a New York gallery
That made me think of your eyes
When they looked at me,
And I stood there and remembered
What it meant to be
The light that faded from them
In that dark insanity,
And how I still remember
What it was to see
What the dying look like
In that New York gallery.
In My CupsIt's amazing when you're drunk enough
How everything seems fine,
A certain sort of clarity
Born from the sodden mind,
And though the page before me seems
It really isn't there,
The hands I hold before me might
Belong to someone else,
How strange that I must love you
So I can give you up,
A sacrifice before me
The blood within the cup.
CrushCrushing you - it all bleeds through,
These vague potentialities.
I find that in the drifts of time
I'm drawn to doomed realities.
Crushing you - what I must do,
From sublimation to sublime
To save eventualities.
String em up from floor to ceiling.
The walls are peeling
Like yesterdays oranges
Prepared for the squeeeze
And the repast
we've been waiting for.
The Grinch of Christmas PresentGone with the deadline
Magic turned to bitten nails
Hopes for bigger shoes
Yes, I Have a PenisYes, I Have A Penis
Do not assume (if I hold the door for you),
that I am making a statement
about your inabilities
to open the door for yourself.
If you hold it for me,
I'll say 'thankyou'.
Do not assume (if I pay for the meal),
that I am underestimating
your earning capacity
as a woman.
If you invite me out for a meal,
Do not assume (if I defend your rights),
that I am belittling
the attempts that you have made
to defend your rights yourself.
If you defend my rights,
I'll consider you human.
GrowingThe friends I had,
the memories we shared,
the lessons we learned,
the persons who cared.
Words gone unsaid,
the lives drifting apart,
my school life ending,
my true life given start.
Regret growing inside,
of the words left unspoken,
the lives I wished to touch,
my heart torn and broken.
Those friends so far away,
distant and grown mature,
my memories beginning to fade,
the life of my childhood a blur.
A familiar smile,
comes in to view,
my eyes begin to open,
thank God, it's you.
How to love a girl who can't love herself.one.
When she cries herself to sleep
six out of seven nights a week you must
say nothing. You must simply take
her in your arms and kiss her gaunt,
pale cheeks and wait for her to
slumber at the sound of your heart.
On the days where she wishes she
were part of the stars, tell her
no. Tell her that there are too many
lights in the sky and that just one
would be forgotten the moment you looked
away from it. Tell her that she is perfect
the way she is: completely human.
Don't let her think about the scars
that no one but her can see. If she
says "I think I'm broken" smile like you
know a secret and say, "No, you're mending."
But do not be the one to fix her - no, she
How to Pocket a Man's HumanityFirst, convince him to adopt
a rescue cat, fat, days away
from slaughter. Find one mis-
sing half his tail. The pair
will purr in tune; this step
is important. Next, rush him,
him and his rescue, to their
home, and then keep them dry
and healthy. Move deliberate-
ly, with articulation. Shape
the sound. Watch cat and man
sup together, sleep together.
Spring happens upon them, as
it does, and the man and his
rescue walk along the bridge-
less route to the forest and
grove without wind. Convince
him to let rescue race aloft,
to the distant hill-top. And
he will, and he does, and he
is gone. The man screams out-
ward into the meadow, scream
after scream weaving through
stalks of wheat, but nothing.
No clicks or mews. A nothing
against the rust of night on
the horizon. Help the man to-
ward his doorstep. Help keep
him apprised of the treeline
and its shadows. Finally, he,
rescue, appears, and the man
grabs your collar and shouts
and walks and runs and stops.
Rescue has brought home life
Graffiti Dreams in Black and White The strokes are dreamt permanent,
the only lasting demarcations of claiming existence,
and the collective artists who painted them majored in Biology,
or Accounting, or English and Professional Writing, or dropped out
as so many do when they wake up.
The poet paints them into existence with her words:
“ideas are illusions, and all words are untrue.”
And we nod our heads and sip our coffees, indeed,
put a price to labors and words and even to thoughts
because we no longer want freedom if it costs us the freedom
of saving face and keeping pace with the ebb and flow
Brown Eyes Compliments, and AnalogiesBecause I'm sick of people saying there aren't any.
Your brown eyes are like the deep intoxication of campaign wine, bubbling with hazing richness and expensive taste.
Your brown eyes are like the color of mahogany wood- comforting and home-steady toughness that lets me know you will be the beams of supporting me.
Your eyes remind me of Dove chocolate, smooth, creamy, delectable, and melting.
The color of brown eyes remind me of mountain terrain and nature, something subtle, but beautiful in every form and season.
Brown eyes make me think of Devil's cake, taunting and tempting, curtained by black lashes, the symbol of rich seduction.
When brown eyes delve in love, they become the color of a leather book, promising a story of loyalty, long-life, and devotion.
Your brown eyes remind me of mysterious secrets, dark to cover the pain of ignorance, opaque to cover to want of another.
Brown eyes are like the stable ground, steadier and prepared to embrace you when you fall, into a nurturing a
One, two, threeMy boyfriend watched, open mouthed
as I unscrewed the lid of your urn,
and ran my fingers through your ashes.
Your depression, your soul dust.
I felt an ocean rolling under my ribs
and an urge to cradle your urn,
rock you back and forth
like you did for me when I was young.
At the funeral, my uncle announced
that you hated religion.
But he left out the part
where you did believe in a God,
just that he was always punishing you.
“There was nothing you could have done”
said the other uncle.
I think of all those spent wishes,
the birthday candles extinguished for gifts,
the meteor showers I wasted on love,
the prayers offered from family friends
that are now given a little too late.
This year, I turn 22 years old.
But when I blow out the candles,
my wish won’t matter.
None of them did.
unthey call me tide-breaker.
my name frequents
and they speak of me
between the sailors' maps.
I am salt and brine
the oncoming threat
of dark clouds that hang
their gallows above the ocean.
I'm the enigma,
flash of light
on the sea's cusp;
they only ever think
they see me,
but I am always there.
I've seen their
their weathered faces,
that lustful thirst
in the eyes of men surrounded by water.
it is only natural, I suppose,
for those bound in chains
to grow fond of the metallic clacking.
it becomes all they have.
and I, well,
I am only here
to watch and play my part.
their wives at home
will look seaward
but it is I
who will have someone to hold.
they say mermaids
drown unworthy sailors,
but they never acknowledge
that most men simply
throw themselves overboard
at the temptation of something beautiful.
paper cranes and picket fencesi am folding you one thousand paper cranes because it is all we have left.
legend says that if i fold one thousand paper cranes, i will get a wish. i could wish for a pair of iridescent wings or an ocean in a teacup or just to finally be happy again, but i don't want any of that--with every crane i fold i am imagining you. one crane for the circles under your eyes, one crane for your jutting ribs, one crane for every seizure.
i love you and you're dying and i will run out of paper trying to fold your broken pieces into birds.
you drew me a picture of us in the future.
our houses were next door to each other and a white picket fence separated our property and oh god, it made me curl into a ball and ache for hours. see, in a perfect world, the clouds would always be fluffy and our mailboxes would always be full of hand-drawn pictures and our smiles would be lopsided but permanent.
i hung it on my refrigerator as a reminder that there is still hope, but paper is so fragile and i am afra