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Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
TrickoletThe ambiguities he hides
between the ever-changing lines
of poetry; our romance rides
the ambiguities. He hides
emotion he creates decides
the meaning but never defines
the ambiguities he hides
between the ever-changing lines.
WantsI want the time to write about
the beauty, the newness in nature
I want to share with you. I want to
catch each individual snowflake
with shutter snaps and take them home
to decorate the windows. I want to watch
the river don its icy finger-gloves, to consider
lines and angles shifting, indifferent, softening
under winter's lofty load. I want to snowshoe
on some not-too-frigid night with a full moon
illuminating night to noon-like with blue-
white light or when there is no moon, only
innumerable stars, impeccably brilliant,
impossibly far away against the ebony
of New England midnights- I want to know you
see these things that bring me to my knees.
Stranger Things HappenCome, child- I know
you do not know me,
and you've been taught
you ought not talk
to strangers, but
sometimes that which
is most familiar to you
is far more dangerous. Herd
mentality: Sheep follow their leader
endlessly until overcome by exhaustion
if one is senselessly startled by an unknown.
Luckily, you are no lamb. I understand
fear, am not unaware of its sheer
magnitude.One must come
to one's senses to avoid
repeating idiocy. Be the one
to free yourself from
such a dull existence.
Believe. Lead. Force
feathers, albeit bent,
your wool. Afford the dove
the value of her teachings-
soar above humanity and be
the earthling you were born
to be. Scream and be heard.
Trust me, child. Be one
brave enough to change
the world forever.
Cooking In The BarnI would wear a mask
to obscure the obvious
irrelevancies, but I can't
make the children listen
to the flavor of my bronze
thoughts.They all sing copper-
bottomed songs and I don't know
them, so I don't play along.
How's Your Game?Darling lime-light lover, lips curled
firmly around your noisy enjoyments,
how enormous, your orange ego's glow,
but where does the energy go, when
disconnected from its adoring source,
when there is no affirmation nor outlet
for your emotion, and all grows violent-
ly silent, and your mind finally nests,
still as a pinball in the lowest corner
of the maze you make of it all?
XerophyteI want to die for a while
but death is not for a while.
I can't believe I'm here again,
I can't believe I'm breathing in
all this fucking mud again but
haven't finished drowning yet.
philosophy has lost its appealYour absence isn't the elephant in the room;
It’s the invisible parasites lounging in the floorboards
Just writhing for a taste of lonely flesh.
My repaired left half is gone;
Without you, I’m faulty once more:
The half-blind broken wind-up doll is here again.
There aren't words to describe the emptiness:
just return soon.
Her Hysteric Obsessioni've ripped off my scars &
plastered them amongst the sky
because you didn't believe i was
insane enough to love you.
To My Biology TextbookOn page 159 of my biology textbook, it reads,
“...cancer is the uncontrolled growth of cells”
as though that could explain everything,
and I thought it did for a time.
But my textbook never warned me
that his skin would pale
to a point where I could see
the blue freight trains
carrying eighteen pills
throughout his frail body.
My textbook never warned me
that his watery irises would freeze over,
that he would hurl insults like knives,
and that he would clench his jaw
as tightly as his fist clenched his wine glass
because the only person to blame is himself,
and he can’t swallow that as easily
as he can the olives in his martinis.
And my textbook never warned me
that it would be this difficult to breathe
because of my acute awareness
that his breaths are limited,
and that there would be nothing I could do
but soldier on searching for that silver lining
clinging to these foreboding thunderheads.
The BeachIf my grandfather’s brother hadn’t been murdered
then maybe he wouldn’t have hit you so hard,
seeing bare feet and hard times and
the violence that repeats itself over and over
because tragedy sends shockwaves
that still echo when you’re grown.
I know now that when you scream at me
you’re not really my mother.
You’re fourteen again
being punished for a crime that happened years before you were ever born
mourning for a life that vanished like footprints on the beach
and left a lonely child
trailing through the sand and never finding someone older,
never finding the right way home.
I know I have it lucky –
kids in those decades used to disappear like air
I know I have it lucky
one bruise is better than three or ten or thirty
I know I have it lucky,
it’s better to be sad and scared and still alive.
I know I have it lucky here.
Out on the beach there are only bones.
poem for borderlinesif i could concentrate over
seven hundred thousand eyes
at the roof to the numbers stepping
from the nicities & rows
to go back
to the shattered surface
& the ripples beating over the hang
halfway between shallow
biting lips. maybe--
she couldn't have known
that it takes a whole three minutes
for the lungs to
well, maybe she
who, oh well
the white; the haze--
the booming over
the spume and spray
me get out of my head
just pull up the shutters
my tongue the weight to talk
but that's all we'll ever be:
a match burning itself out for
under the backspray of someone else's wheels
All of Youacrylic paint crusts over
on the frostbitten razors
of your Armageddon days.
a storm is born every few
seconds in my saltwater lungs
and my mind is caught in
a torrent of just you and
our atoms collide, but
you slip through the
patchworks of my veins
and you're glad that we didn't immerse,
glad that you have the delirious surface world to your disposal.
congratulations, i guess.
you pick a crescent tide
from the mourning aqua
and then tell me i'm out
of my mind.
i think i might be out of
my mind, but this braking
music refuses to let me
slip from its dripping trebles.
i sink under the waves
but find that i can breathe
better than i could in air.
i draw you in with me too.
what use is the ocean if i can't drown?
i can make you love mewriters,
do you bend in
shaking with leaves?
a sinner's devotion
or that boy
in the other aisle
(i hold your books
and stroke the pages,
they haven't arrived:
(that was forty-five
hoping no one notices
that i've read this
as i watch him
slip behind the counter
(i devised a plan to
volunteer on fridays
and trap him)
as i read
for the fifteenth
ConfessionI couldn't keep up the pace
when the accusations leaked into
so I retreated
inside closed eyes
where the darkness showed me
while my losses won the war
filling the deficit with their valour.
Now my shoulders bear the burdens
and the scars prove an
yet only remembered when I
drown my sorrows,
feeling tears appear only to fall down
and escape the obligation to share in the guilt,
of the grand old scheme of things written in the sand
with bullets, from a pen
onto paper made from heroes.
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