every time I reach my hand in,
I find a piece that is stuck inside its own wrapper,
a bit of chocolate that refuses to melt in my mouth
or my hands.
I spend months
trying to pry the shrink-wrapped foil off the sweet veneer,
but in the end, I surrender
to the availability of apples, figs
already in my own pockets.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Friday, November 21, 2014
heat
skin against skin, like for like
your acetone breath
feeds the sugar craving
in the depths of my lungs
hands wander, without a home
the dermal burn is like a fever,
contagious and unbound.
we share the air,
maneuvering inspiration
in the direction of sight
drawing the blood to the surface
with each ragged exhalation
seeking escape from containment
so ravaged, so drenched in the
humidity of their own heat
that they squeal like steam
billowing forth
until the boiling point is reached,
surpassed,
and there is nothing left in the kettle.
Monday, August 18, 2014
consummation
If the eating is to be done,
best to make it slow,
savoring each morsel,
letting each bite revel
in subtle intercourse
with the regions of the tongue,
individually
then in collaboration,
a melding of sensation that synapses
in a tumultuous spread of reaction.
Sweet,
salty,
bitter,
pungent
passion
spilling from my mouth as
the pressure of
your light-hued perception
sparks the buried flame
as a match to a wick,
raising the blood to the dermal surface
in a flush to stir
even the weakest of vampiric impulse.
That upward glance
pierces through all pretense of veneer,
stripping away all implication of
blockade,
barrier,
catapulting electric arcs
in continuous battery.
But this is no mere look,
no. With every
remaining sensation
you proceed to conquer the
collapse of empty division,
devour your captive in entirety,
appease your burning thirst
in a leisurely slaking,
and relish in the paper-thin threshold,
that duality of painful pleasure,
that sensation of fluid existence
dripping from the humid night air,
staining the cotton sheets in complicity.
i became weaponized
I tied words around my biceps and abdomen
so that i might pull them from the sheath and
toss them like daggers.
The curve of my pen
sliced the skin,
removing chunks of viscera,
cardiac mishappenings;
the ink flowed in a steady arsenic movement
from constructed context
to
ambivalent inevitability.
Syllable after syllable,
thought after thought,
I used my mental weaponry in
constant battle against
any hint of foe
until I realized there was
no winning this war.
My opponents were armed with
indestructible walls
closing them in,
protecting them,
bending my knives
until they bounced off and came back to sting me.
As the poison begins to seep through my veins,
I realize I have become my own downfall.
amongst words
Words as weapons are a crude sort of stake
that rip and tear at the strongest of skin;
poisonous tips devour the heart within
leaving hungry wounds that no salve can slake.
But when touch is given of which you take,
blood ceases to boil, softens thick to thin.
Brain contracts muscles, the body full in;
eyes deduce intent, genuine from fake.
Now add water to sand, maintain your hold
on a whispered promise not overheard,
a song being sung in the dead of night.
Stoke the fire in the kiln, heat up the mold.
Collect silent letters, press into word.
Charcoal on paper your weakness, your light.
Friday, August 8, 2014
buttons
Do you
suffer from an excess of consciousness?
Why
no,
I
celebrate its vibrations,
its
folds,
its
refusal to dwell
in your
monochromatic dogma
of white on white and black on black.
I can
almost hear my cacophony of color
echo
with vivacity upon your sight.
This
collage,
this
me,
this
being of beings,
all
and one,
universal
and solitary.
A rose
is
a rose
is
a
rose,
even
beholden by Napoleon
or
Picasso,
though
one might imagine it different,
imagine
the telling of another soul
having
breathed with ever-gouged eyes
how to
draw their own likeness.
Would
you like it if I told him
where
the hand goes,
how
the tongue clicks,
what
the ear hears;
if I
told him, would you like it?
Now?
Not
Now?
Now?
Pull
curtains closed, shut shutters, and f e
e l .
There.
There.
There.
and
There.
Like
so.
and
so.
and
so.
Reach
through the pitch,
mold
the air into everywhere.
and
everything.
and
nothing.
Not a thing
comes
forward,
or
backward,
or
sideways,
just a
way of looking,
thinking,
standing still,
still
standing,
moving
with movement,
wavering
on wave after wave of light
devoured
slowly,
slower,
slowest
as it
sinks
into
the dank dark dirty nether.
Thursday, August 7, 2014
amiss
I know when I smile,
people are seeing you,
that reflection of embedded memory always with me;
your mischievous eyes,
your toothy grin,
your open and generous heart.
I kept the best parts of you with me,
and I give them away every single day,
the energy ebbing back and forth like a
perpetual tide.
Lately, I’ve tried talking to you.
I don’t dwell on whether or not you can hear me;
I simply imagine it to be true.
I still can’t look at your picture for very long, though.
It stings,
slowly,
reaching into that ink-dark pool within me that is,
even now,
untouched by sunlight.
The waters are choked with nitrified muck,
the stains of continuous
consuming,
living,
defecating in the same place,
every single day since
that wine-soaked night;
every single day since
the last words exchanged
in haste,
impatience,
perturbance at your expansion of self,
my turn of the other cheek,
the other way.
I wonder,
do you see me trip,
fall,
get back up,
this heavy burden across my shoulders?
Do you see me wishing I could see you
one more time?
As I get closer and closer to your age
I think I should forgive them all
for taking you away from me,
us.
I should forgive you
for wanting more
than you were able to receive.
I should,
I could,
I may.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
adrift
A dream somewhere
now long forgotten
a nightmare
swallowing days
in a consecutive hunger
a passion lost
to the scattered seas
a whisper of failure
like a feather in the wind
a hollowed shell
vacated in a hurry
a slow, muddy, meandering existence
drifting directionless towards the inevitable
end
now long forgotten
a nightmare
swallowing days
in a consecutive hunger
a passion lost
to the scattered seas
a whisper of failure
like a feather in the wind
a hollowed shell
vacated in a hurry
a slow, muddy, meandering existence
drifting directionless towards the inevitable
end
What was the war about, again?
We fought day in and out
against what we thought was an oppressive force
trying to embed itself
into our daily routines,
into our bedrooms and internal organs. We resisted
against the onslaught of neon messages
telling us how to dress,
how to eat,
how to think,
but in the end
the electric movement was too powerful
for our hand-made ideas.
Our organic thoughts shriveled
and browned
before implementation was ever conceived.
against what we thought was an oppressive force
trying to embed itself
into our daily routines,
into our bedrooms and internal organs. We resisted
against the onslaught of neon messages
telling us how to dress,
how to eat,
how to think,
but in the end
the electric movement was too powerful
for our hand-made ideas.
Our organic thoughts shriveled
and browned
before implementation was ever conceived.
And so, we assimilated into the daily pattern
of breathing in and out,
walking side to side (never forward).
of breathing in and out,
walking side to side (never forward).
It became the way days were lived,
until our memory of a freer, more fluid time period
was abandoned,
forgotten.
until our memory of a freer, more fluid time period
was abandoned,
forgotten.
Here we are now,
soldiers with bayonets loosened from our grasp,
their purpose unknown.
soldiers with bayonets loosened from our grasp,
their purpose unknown.
Here we are,
a collective of individual veneers,
fumbling through unrecalled wants.
a collective of individual veneers,
fumbling through unrecalled wants.
What war?
A Terrible Promise to Lady L
Instead of healing my wounds,
they slathered some ointment on the injury,
slapped a band-aid on it,
and let me leave.
they slathered some ointment on the injury,
slapped a band-aid on it,
and let me leave.
I knew the scar that would grow
would be deeply etched and irrevocable.
would be deeply etched and irrevocable.
I knew the disease that had seeped into the gash,
now swimming in my blood,
would slowly cause me to rot internally
before there was ever a visible clue to my condition.
now swimming in my blood,
would slowly cause me to rot internally
before there was ever a visible clue to my condition.
But they weren’t interested
in actually addressing the disease
resulting in my slow death.
They were only bartering on borrowed time
to get me out their door,
hoping I’d forget their disinterest and
continue payment on their exorbitant tab.
in actually addressing the disease
resulting in my slow death.
They were only bartering on borrowed time
to get me out their door,
hoping I’d forget their disinterest and
continue payment on their exorbitant tab.
The fundamentals of understanding
First, you must seek acceptance,
complete and (w)ho(l)ly your own,
through the exchange of oxygen and carbon,
as you expand to intake the universe
and expel it in a slow steady caress.
complete and (w)ho(l)ly your own,
through the exchange of oxygen and carbon,
as you expand to intake the universe
and expel it in a slow steady caress.
Second, you must taste the tang of empathy
titillating the tip of your tongue
the central vein,
as it washes in whispering waves
against the cavity of your throat.
titillating the tip of your tongue
the central vein,
as it washes in whispering waves
against the cavity of your throat.
Third, you must nourish the path your feet tread
rooting into the strength and unwavering sootiness
that keeps you uplifted and away from the abyss.
This darkness is the negation of light that
embodies a complete misunderstanding
of that word “human”, so often misapplied
and mistaken for upright ambulatory movement.
rooting into the strength and unwavering sootiness
that keeps you uplifted and away from the abyss.
This darkness is the negation of light that
embodies a complete misunderstanding
of that word “human”, so often misapplied
and mistaken for upright ambulatory movement.
Then, you can send love into the fire of your soul
and keep the embers in a burning glow.
Just allow yourself to breathe,
open your eyes,
and see.
and keep the embers in a burning glow.
Just allow yourself to breathe,
open your eyes,
and see.
a modern construction
The walls in this house are like a blood-brain barrier,
letting the strange voices seep through,
sustaining me on vitriolic echoes while
preventing the infiltration of
biological refuse from disintegrating emotion,
that conversion of exothermic to endothermic reaction,
that peripheral touch that might have caused me
not to wake from my slumber,
not stumble across the house
with my mussed hair and cloudy vision,
not witness the death of anything resembling wholesome familial connection.
letting the strange voices seep through,
sustaining me on vitriolic echoes while
preventing the infiltration of
biological refuse from disintegrating emotion,
that conversion of exothermic to endothermic reaction,
that peripheral touch that might have caused me
not to wake from my slumber,
not stumble across the house
with my mussed hair and cloudy vision,
not witness the death of anything resembling wholesome familial connection.
The heat in the room sparks and sizzles
with syllabic exactitude between their bifurcated origins.
I am left cold
with fear and confusion.
with syllabic exactitude between their bifurcated origins.
I am left cold
with fear and confusion.
Weeks later,
the biggest, strongest man I know
will spill his salty sadness upon my pillow,
leaving me, at the mature age of five,
to pick up the pieces and
reassemble the puzzle of our days.
the biggest, strongest man I know
will spill his salty sadness upon my pillow,
leaving me, at the mature age of five,
to pick up the pieces and
reassemble the puzzle of our days.
A few remain missing, though;
I can still see through the veneer.
I can still see through the veneer.
romance & cigarettes
you lie there,
recklessly,
amongst the folds of wrinkled cotton sheets,
your breasts pressed against a strewn pillow,
your derriere, like a ripe peach,
almost touching my thigh,
the soft fuzzy hairs
seeking me out with a passive electricity,
like cilia.
The cheeks still blushed red from my handprints,
my loving caresses
that had caused you to dig your heels in,
rocking with increasing fervor
as you pitched and swayed
your way to fulfillment.
I had watched the glorious bloom rise
from your hips to your face and back,
as you panted with pleasure,
eyes closed,
intent on your own cresting wave
steadily crashing into mine,
the echo of which
begins to fire synapses
along the length of my nerves
as I raise my hands to my lips
and suck long,
hard,
and deep
on the cigarette resting between my lips,
a prelude to my intent,
my means of waking you from your slumber,
as I set the nicotine in the tray next to me,
a mere afterthought,
a minor stimulus
compared to that drug
between your legs.
recklessly,
amongst the folds of wrinkled cotton sheets,
your breasts pressed against a strewn pillow,
your derriere, like a ripe peach,
almost touching my thigh,
the soft fuzzy hairs
seeking me out with a passive electricity,
like cilia.
The cheeks still blushed red from my handprints,
my loving caresses
that had caused you to dig your heels in,
rocking with increasing fervor
as you pitched and swayed
your way to fulfillment.
I had watched the glorious bloom rise
from your hips to your face and back,
as you panted with pleasure,
eyes closed,
intent on your own cresting wave
steadily crashing into mine,
the echo of which
begins to fire synapses
along the length of my nerves
as I raise my hands to my lips
and suck long,
hard,
and deep
on the cigarette resting between my lips,
a prelude to my intent,
my means of waking you from your slumber,
as I set the nicotine in the tray next to me,
a mere afterthought,
a minor stimulus
compared to that drug
between your legs.
You’ve changed
Your smile is reluctant
where it once was welcoming,
ready.
Your eyes are cloudy
with a hint of grey;
gone is the warm clear gaze.
where it once was welcoming,
ready.
Your eyes are cloudy
with a hint of grey;
gone is the warm clear gaze.
You have forgotten
what the promise of the moon feels like.
You are generally unkempt, uncaring.
Your skin is rough, callused,
brown from excessive melanin.
You think you might have fallen asleep
in the sand
on your afternoon stroll,
but the details are in disagreement with each other.
You are adamant that you gazed out
over the ocean stillness while
being sandblasted smooth by a fierce desert wind.
Never mind that you haven’t seen the sea in decades,
and it’s been raining soft and steady
for weeks on end.
what the promise of the moon feels like.
You are generally unkempt, uncaring.
Your skin is rough, callused,
brown from excessive melanin.
You think you might have fallen asleep
in the sand
on your afternoon stroll,
but the details are in disagreement with each other.
You are adamant that you gazed out
over the ocean stillness while
being sandblasted smooth by a fierce desert wind.
Never mind that you haven’t seen the sea in decades,
and it’s been raining soft and steady
for weeks on end.
There is a weak impression of the sun
somewhere overhead,
a dull burning echo of you,
a mere existence.
somewhere overhead,
a dull burning echo of you,
a mere existence.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
memorial
The night sky glows
from the glare of this human ant pile,
the scurry worry flurry
of movement with no purpose;
this fear of silence,
this dread of drowning in solitude.
Even the moon is afraid of stardust,
that it might illuminate her perceived imperfections.
For days in a row, she feigned a peaceful sleep of
acceptance
only to swallow her tears, her quiet heaving breaths
in the summery song of crickets
rubbing their legs together
in a semblance of warmth,
of emotion.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
evening in the city park
i.
The nocturnal cacophony
hollows her cheeks
and glistens her eyes.
ii.
The hare gathers his courage,
lopes across the dark pavement
in search of drier pastures.
iii.
The pines remain stalwart
through the dense and dampened air,
preparing for the coming storm.
iv.
The stars do not shine where
humans choose to tread, instead
spilling grace on deserts and fields.
v.
She lays under the thick of night
in her own acidic solution,
wanting to be
overexposed.
vi.
Her mental box of limitations
opens at twilight
and scatters her to the wind.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
desert bound
you thought you wanted to be a boxer
once,
a scrappy fighter from down to undercut,
in the jaw,
under the eye,
but what about the overbite,
the hammer down down
down
once,
a scrappy fighter from down to undercut,
in the jaw,
under the eye,
but what about the overbite,
the hammer down down
down
onto that pretty face?
so you dissolve into the asphalt;
you float like driftwood,
fighting gloveless,
fistless,
bitter beauty buried in cannabis dreams,
watered with carrot juice
and tequila.
you won’t swallow the worm, though;
you float like driftwood,
fighting gloveless,
fistless,
bitter beauty buried in cannabis dreams,
watered with carrot juice
and tequila.
you won’t swallow the worm, though;
that would infer a certain level of commitment
that
leaves you in a singular state of indigestion.
instead, you squint into the glare of the sun’s eye,
Eastwood-esque,
unsure if
you’re good, bad,
or indifferent
until, slowly, you
turn away from that
sting of reality,
apathetic to the burn,
roll another joint,
and fade into the soft green of your mind’s eye,
a coastal grassland littered
with
alligators and lost tourists.
the humid air boils within you
and silently evaporates
from the surface of your bare skin,
one more thing to leave you.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Fe-Male
You should be
beautiful,
popular,
sweet,
soft.
How dare you be
mighty,
broken,
unbeautiful,
arousing,
an expansion
beyond the confines of your weaker sex,
bounded by preconception,
fear,
a lack of blood to your
cranial thoughts.
Look happy,
keep smiling,
be a pretty face,
what more is there for a woman?
Ambition?
Why waste the
footprints
and breaths
and wrinkles.
Be still.
Be satisfied with less.
For you are less.
a neutral stagger
I should have known better…
stick with chocolate and cheese.
stick with chocolate and cheese.
The Swiss were never known for their sandwiches.
The bread was neither hearty or soft, somewhere lost
between whole grain and white.
I would have expected a dark Pumpernickel,
grilled, filled with a tangy cheese
born into being between two solid plates of fortitude.
The bread was neither hearty or soft, somewhere lost
between whole grain and white.
I would have expected a dark Pumpernickel,
grilled, filled with a tangy cheese
born into being between two solid plates of fortitude.
But there was no conviction at all,
merely a mess of ingredients that left me unfulfilled.
merely a mess of ingredients that left me unfulfilled.
That was many years ago,
during the war
the “War to end all Wars”
that didn’t actually end up ending anything.
during the war
the “War to end all Wars”
that didn’t actually end up ending anything.
Recently I returned to the Alps,
searching for the memory of
something I once presumed lost.
searching for the memory of
something I once presumed lost.
It was after the fall of the Eastern Bloc.
There were too many –istans to remember,
long complex words full of letters and guttural beliefs
as full of presumed resentment as the German language,
waiting to hack up syllables in phlegmatic distate at
the “Englishness” of the new world order.
There were too many –istans to remember,
long complex words full of letters and guttural beliefs
as full of presumed resentment as the German language,
waiting to hack up syllables in phlegmatic distate at
the “Englishness” of the new world order.
One quiet morning in the hotel lobby,
enjoying a chocolate and coffee (lesson learned),
I witnessed a treasure trove of personalities
stroll up to the front desk to check in.
enjoying a chocolate and coffee (lesson learned),
I witnessed a treasure trove of personalities
stroll up to the front desk to check in.
The clerk must have made the mistake of misspoken identity,
For I was just close enough to hear the new guests utter in disdain
deeply and unforgiving, with perfect pitch and grammatical structure:
For I was just close enough to hear the new guests utter in disdain
deeply and unforgiving, with perfect pitch and grammatical structure:
Russian? Russian?! You people all look alike to me as well.
I proudly hail from Kazakhstan, and no, we don’t want any vodka.
Champagne, for our celebration, see to it!
I proudly hail from Kazakhstan, and no, we don’t want any vodka.
Champagne, for our celebration, see to it!
“Straight away”, the clerk muttered hurriedly,
rushing embarrassedly through their paperwork,
snapping for the bellboy to lead them up to their rooms.
rushing embarrassedly through their paperwork,
snapping for the bellboy to lead them up to their rooms.
I chuckled at the exchange, the irony, and asked for some Polish vodka,
a mild form of protest.
a mild form of protest.
invader
a rash under my skin
a niacinic flush
an illegal drug
I long to scratch through,
find that trail
those shedded scales
betraying the cells that allowed you entrance
into my constant waking.
a niacinic flush
an illegal drug
I long to scratch through,
find that trail
those shedded scales
betraying the cells that allowed you entrance
into my constant waking.
From one turn of a thought:
one step forward,
ten years back.
one step forward,
ten years back.
The child in me is frightened with wonder while
the woman in me is bracing for
six more weeks of winter.
the woman in me is bracing for
six more weeks of winter.
The wind is howling,
and the thunderclouds are rolling forward
with a visceral hunger.
The sky is almost green,
and the first hint of rain has begun to spit on me.
I feel the acid collecting in the bottom of my belly,
and I shiver, an almost tremor.
and the thunderclouds are rolling forward
with a visceral hunger.
The sky is almost green,
and the first hint of rain has begun to spit on me.
I feel the acid collecting in the bottom of my belly,
and I shiver, an almost tremor.
rough love
Your chin rubbed against my inner thigh
like burnt toast on butter,
the way a knife sounds spreading the yellow fat
against the dark and brittle skin.
I resisted the temptation to wrench your peppered hair,
instead grounding myself
in the fortitude of your forearms
majestic masts through the softened air.
like burnt toast on butter,
the way a knife sounds spreading the yellow fat
against the dark and brittle skin.
I resisted the temptation to wrench your peppered hair,
instead grounding myself
in the fortitude of your forearms
majestic masts through the softened air.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
sew, reap, bury, & bargain
you put your head down my shirt
searching for my womanhood,
the apple, Adam's undoing,
but all you see are seeds,
cyanidic and bitter from overexposure.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
shark-bite
nip a little
tug a little
tug a little
nip a little
tug a little
tug a little
bite
bite
bite
bite
bite
then they tear a little more from you and
then you strike out,
hit a little, rip
a little bit off
then you lash out,
hurt a little,
cry a little bit more
still the sting burns,
yes it burns, an
electric griddle
slow build and burn,
like a snake
bite, see the red spot growing
soon you’re all numb,
from the nose to
the bloody footprints.
they’ll think again,
‘fore they stab
you with syllabic knife-falls
you’ve kept ‘em quiet,
kept them
distant, now the silence swallows.
lone, you’re alone,
quite successful,
just a broken shadow.
listen to the crickets
how they sing,
always for another.
now’s when you feel
feel the cold,
how it seeps into ya.
you’re now that shark
the solitary ‘mongst
the fluid flurry.
cold beats the heart
beats the drum
that will kill you some day.
Friday, March 7, 2014
like bees do
drink from the nectar
pooling
‘gainst my glands
before it seeps into the skin
and disperses,
like dew on dappled grass.
rip out the petals
sweetly,
one by one,
as they peek out
from the covetous
calyx of my nodes.
savor the silky sensation
on the tip of your tongue,
as I pollinate your eyes,
your chin,
that delicate hollow at the base of
your throat.
you seek to make honey,
as you sting me once more.
the viscous sap hangs low
in a swollen drip,
not daring to drop.
pooling
‘gainst my glands
before it seeps into the skin
and disperses,
like dew on dappled grass.
rip out the petals
sweetly,
one by one,
as they peek out
from the covetous
calyx of my nodes.
savor the silky sensation
on the tip of your tongue,
as I pollinate your eyes,
your chin,
that delicate hollow at the base of
your throat.
you seek to make honey,
as you sting me once more.
the viscous sap hangs low
in a swollen drip,
not daring to drop.
Saturday, March 1, 2014
downwind from skinned
when you look at me
the molecules
the molecules
of my being
are disheveled and rearranged
into a frenetic movement
into a frenetic movement
of primordial and philosophic longing.
The slight of your stare,
the curve of your mouth
distracts me from the cranial crash of
alphabet soup known as language.
the curve of your mouth
distracts me from the cranial crash of
alphabet soup known as language.
I falter in the light of your power,
the disarming delicatessen of
the disarming delicatessen of
tug,
pull,
crash,
fall,
rise,
swell,
attack,
retreat.
I contract,
e x p a n d,
swell,
and weep
in a small,
silent,
dry
manner that leaves me
puckering,
a parched, shriveled lime
with seeds gaping inwardly,
a fig once ripe,
frigid with freeze burn,
cold and tasteless,
for you are the crocus on another lily’s leaf,
floating on the sea salt roof of the world,
far above the valley that consumes me,
a slow savory destruction.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Fire & Ice
I have an Old World beauty
Rubensesque in nature
not quite the image of Danu,
Earth Mother,
lithe as a snake,
a twisted pretzel.
I have an Old Soul,
worn and weathered,
my supple skin
belying the wisdom in my glance,
with the nose of a Spanish monarch,
the eyes of a Syrian dancer,
the life passion of a zealot,
and the caution of Eastern Europe
trickling through my limbs.
Never give me cause to
exhume the Celtic curse
buried at the base of my
spine.
The venom would most certainly
kill you.
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