asking
because when you have
thumb-tacks holding up the past
eighteen years of your life
on a wall, and the rest held up
with painter’s tape
to the closet door,
you start to question things--
like the exit signs in the hallway
(why red, why a warning)
the green chalk on your hands
from the pool cues, and the
(apple juice) stains on the comforter
(a true source of wrinkles), and the
slimness of the bed and the absence of
photographs from when you were content
in the security of the simplicity
of the questions you were asking
because when you have
thumb-tacks holding up the past
eighteen years of your life
on a wall, and the rest held up
with painter’s tape
to the closet door,
you start to question things--
like the exit signs in the hallway
(why red, why a warning)
the green chalk on your hands
from the pool cues, and the
(apple juice) stains on the comforter
(a true source of wrinkles), and the
slimness of the bed and the absence of
photographs from when you were content
in the security of the simplicity
of the questions you were asking
splinters
certainly, it’s
been a while
since i sat here
last.
we bought this
very nice bench--
all wood and metal,
with twists and curls--
for me and my
mother and sister
to sit on, to
wait
for the bus
when we were
in kindergarten
and first grade.
now, i’m about to
take the college
leap, and
nothing is the way
it used to be.
even this bench,
too nice for a
busstop bench,
chained to the
telephone pole,
it has splinters,
and so do i.
certainly, it’s
been a while
since i sat here
last.
we bought this
very nice bench--
all wood and metal,
with twists and curls--
for me and my
mother and sister
to sit on, to
wait
for the bus
when we were
in kindergarten
and first grade.
now, i’m about to
take the college
leap, and
nothing is the way
it used to be.
even this bench,
too nice for a
busstop bench,
chained to the
telephone pole,
it has splinters,
and so do i.
july 3rd
with the
bombs overhead
and shaking in our
chests,
she played guitar,
her voice quivering
in the full moon
light,
we painted sunsets
with her guitar strings
and my quiet
listening, attentive
fascination with
the songs bursting
at our seams
in that summer
july third night.
with the
bombs overhead
and shaking in our
chests,
she played guitar,
her voice quivering
in the full moon
light,
we painted sunsets
with her guitar strings
and my quiet
listening, attentive
fascination with
the songs bursting
at our seams
in that summer
july third night.
ripple
transitions
were never
difficult
for me, but
i thought
living away
from all i ever
knew
would stir the
stillness of my
placid pond
sea of mind.
but no,
i’m rather
still, still, but still,
i feel the weakness
of autumn leaves
above the stillness,
waiting to fall
and ripple.
transitions
were never
difficult
for me, but
i thought
living away
from all i ever
knew
would stir the
stillness of my
placid pond
sea of mind.
but no,
i’m rather
still, still, but still,
i feel the weakness
of autumn leaves
above the stillness,
waiting to fall
and ripple.
blue ink
perhaps she only
writes in
blue ink
because her
eyes are sad
and
confused, or her
heart is sick of the
games he plays, or
maybe her words
rained beautifully from the
sky, and that’s what
filler her oceans
with poetry
perhaps she only
writes in
blue ink
because her
eyes are sad
and
confused, or her
heart is sick of the
games he plays, or
maybe her words
rained beautifully from the
sky, and that’s what
filler her oceans
with poetry
ima
and when the truth is
she just wont
last the winter
what am i
supposed to
do
but become the
sky,
and throw away
my rusted
trust
that she will indeed
simply freeze over
and come back
when the world melts
and the flowers
bloom
like she always did
when she saw me,
like her eyes
always did
when I saw her
in her beautiful
weakness,
her beautiful
bruises,
scars,
and
rusted, threateningly
thin gaze
that all but froze me,
and melted the sky
that i always became
and when the truth is
she just wont
last the winter
what am i
supposed to
do
but become the
sky,
and throw away
my rusted
trust
that she will indeed
simply freeze over
and come back
when the world melts
and the flowers
bloom
like she always did
when she saw me,
like her eyes
always did
when I saw her
in her beautiful
weakness,
her beautiful
bruises,
scars,
and
rusted, threateningly
thin gaze
that all but froze me,
and melted the sky
that i always became
elbows and knees
i had a dream
about elbows and knees
and three red gashes,
red scrapes,
bruises,
and
slashes,
along and between,
and on either
side,
of those elbows and knees,
in that blink of a
dream,
a scream of a
dream,
and no face to link
with those elbows and knees.
i had a dream
about elbows and knees
and three red gashes,
red scrapes,
bruises,
and
slashes,
along and between,
and on either
side,
of those elbows and knees,
in that blink of a
dream,
a scream of a
dream,
and no face to link
with those elbows and knees.
i had, at a moment
and i’m lost in bicycle
handlebars and
fifty-one cards and
feathers from turkeys
that i had, at a moment,
wanted to write with
and i’m lost in bicycle
handlebars and
fifty-one cards and
feathers from turkeys
that i had, at a moment,
wanted to write with
sanity
drown me in measurements of
sanity
and maybe the
chaos will drown
itself in flames made of
clouds shaped like
running horses
drown me in measurements of
sanity
and maybe the
chaos will drown
itself in flames made of
clouds shaped like
running horses
heart-sick
sometimes,
in the worst of times,
I feel the heart-sick
sinking in my whole
self.
not just in my
chest, nor my
head, nor my
fingertips,
which are by far
the most sensitive--
for I am an artist.
I feel the weight
of what you carry
in my little artist-hands,
like a book.
too many pages
ripped out--
torn edges,
bent corners,
like bruised
flower petals.
sometimes,
in the worst of times,
I feel the heart-sick
sinking in my whole
self.
not just in my
chest, nor my
head, nor my
fingertips,
which are by far
the most sensitive--
for I am an artist.
I feel the weight
of what you carry
in my little artist-hands,
like a book.
too many pages
ripped out--
torn edges,
bent corners,
like bruised
flower petals.
under the shayde wood
a waltz of soft-spoken words
poetry, like thin, cunning fingers
in the darkest hour of the moonland
eyes alight with the stokes of pen
and snow with dribbled ink
the page, a friend close to heart
and far from sanity
but still a cloud of gentleness
a kindness met with furry companions
a thoughtful kindness
unending compassion
for those who cannot speak
spoken about and to, through words
among pen, pencil, type on a screen
and stage-worthy, echoes of emotions
performed and practiced, rehearsed
to perfection
words spoken with a deep knowing
a close-read understanding
perfect understanding
of life, of the canines, of the unspoken
of the performed and beloved words
the words of and under the shayde-wood
a waltz of soft-spoken words
poetry, like thin, cunning fingers
in the darkest hour of the moonland
eyes alight with the stokes of pen
and snow with dribbled ink
the page, a friend close to heart
and far from sanity
but still a cloud of gentleness
a kindness met with furry companions
a thoughtful kindness
unending compassion
for those who cannot speak
spoken about and to, through words
among pen, pencil, type on a screen
and stage-worthy, echoes of emotions
performed and practiced, rehearsed
to perfection
words spoken with a deep knowing
a close-read understanding
perfect understanding
of life, of the canines, of the unspoken
of the performed and beloved words
the words of and under the shayde-wood
close their eyes
pale-faced with
red and veiny eyes
glazed over.
I see nothing but
ghosts,
death upon every
heart and soul.
close their eyes,
please,
if for nothing
but their own
static dignity.
or let me close
mine,
and rid me of this
haunt.
pale-faced with
red and veiny eyes
glazed over.
I see nothing but
ghosts,
death upon every
heart and soul.
close their eyes,
please,
if for nothing
but their own
static dignity.
or let me close
mine,
and rid me of this
haunt.
handful of fog
and fog is a weight,
a heaviness, a slowness,
a swimming through air
gracefulness,
like ink that
runs,
as the rain down the roof and
the windows.
there is a thickness,
a sfumato haze
of contemplation and
chiaroscuro emotion
in its tangible nature,
its presence in cupped
hands, saying,
it’ll be alright.
and fog is a weight,
a heaviness, a slowness,
a swimming through air
gracefulness,
like ink that
runs,
as the rain down the roof and
the windows.
there is a thickness,
a sfumato haze
of contemplation and
chiaroscuro emotion
in its tangible nature,
its presence in cupped
hands, saying,
it’ll be alright.
between the ages of nine and thirty
to all of you, your backwards-hat, straightforward-lipped, new-fangled old-school kids,
to all the screen-sucked, social-absorbed, drama-rich children
between the ages of nine and thirty,
I’ve had some time saved away, like the five dollar bills
in the old tissue box in my bookcase, to think about all this
stuff that you’re doing.
bring me back to tape players, because I wish I still had mine--
it was green and covered in stickers.
I had a CD player, too, when those came out, and my sister shared it
with me, but would skip to the next song before the one playing
was over, and I hated that.
everything is in files now, like cabinets that fit in our pockets.
like the universe before the big bang, fitting on the head of a pin.
picking up a book is old-school, a cliché for the hipsters and nerds
who haven’t moved on or don’t care to.
fresh waves of flavors new and news to you on every page
with facebook, or is that yesterday, when all my troubles seemed to fade away...
I love typewriters--watching how they work, their mechanics.
take time and some change and save it, then use it to think free of the files and pages;
don’t forget the mechanics of things, because some...some will never change.
to all of you, your backwards-hat, straightforward-lipped, new-fangled old-school kids,
to all the screen-sucked, social-absorbed, drama-rich children
between the ages of nine and thirty,
I’ve had some time saved away, like the five dollar bills
in the old tissue box in my bookcase, to think about all this
stuff that you’re doing.
bring me back to tape players, because I wish I still had mine--
it was green and covered in stickers.
I had a CD player, too, when those came out, and my sister shared it
with me, but would skip to the next song before the one playing
was over, and I hated that.
everything is in files now, like cabinets that fit in our pockets.
like the universe before the big bang, fitting on the head of a pin.
picking up a book is old-school, a cliché for the hipsters and nerds
who haven’t moved on or don’t care to.
fresh waves of flavors new and news to you on every page
with facebook, or is that yesterday, when all my troubles seemed to fade away...
I love typewriters--watching how they work, their mechanics.
take time and some change and save it, then use it to think free of the files and pages;
don’t forget the mechanics of things, because some...some will never change.
buzz
they speak
with snake-tongued,
scythe-toothed,
silver-bullet venom,
mixed ever so
carelessly
with cut-throat,
curse-riddled,
coarse-mouthed words,
completely aware intent
to slice through skin--
thick or thin
and sting,
wasps or queens
in black-and-yellow jackets
i can’t say for sure,
but i know for a fact
that i refuse to
bee
a part of
their
buzz
they speak
with snake-tongued,
scythe-toothed,
silver-bullet venom,
mixed ever so
carelessly
with cut-throat,
curse-riddled,
coarse-mouthed words,
completely aware intent
to slice through skin--
thick or thin
and sting,
wasps or queens
in black-and-yellow jackets
i can’t say for sure,
but i know for a fact
that i refuse to
bee
a part of
their
buzz