What Fools We are in Love

What fools we are in love
                Take ten thousand stallions
                       To run through thoughts of us
                                 I feel your hands inside my throat
                                                              You see my eyes
                                                                           Begging myself
                                                                                       To let me go
                                                                 You stand there like a fool
                                                          You watch me watch you
                                              You make gestures as if to leave
                                      What fools when we can't see
                             This painted glass will shatter
To form the knife I dig in with, much too deep

Did you know?

Have you seen me walk outside your condo?
Have you seen me fight with him?
Did you hear that same dog bark at night, barking insistently without attention from its owners?
We called that same dog into the human society as a noise complaint at least once or twice.
You're welcome.
Have you seen me jogging, only when too stressed to make it in to a proper gym?
There were only a few occasions.
Once or twice I can remember for sure.
Once for the birth of his first child.
The second when about to loose a job
Did you see me clutch my stomach in sudden side cramps because I pushed myself too hard?
Suck in air, somehow scolding cold, into my lungs, like knives down my throat, while I held back tears, let go tears, brushed away tears,
Pulled on my jogging gear in frustration and ran on?
Did you see me walk a million times past your place to get a loaf of bread, some ramen, some pizza, something to make it through the night without stirring in my apartment to ruminate over how much we were falling apart, falling away, tossing and turning inside our own fitful waking young sleep of a marriage?
Did you know it was me when I walked into your office introduced myself and sat down and proceeded to not trust you for a very good reason?
Because theses were quiet, personal times. And if you knew, there's something wrong with not saying a word about it the first time you saw me.

When I tell you we're no longer together

Don't be sad. Don't say 'I'm sorry.' Don't smile because you think it was the right thing to do, given the situation. Don't stare off blindly, not knowing what to say at all. Just support me, no matter what. Know that this process started years before you and I knew it had. Know that there is a way to happiness, and there is the way that always was. Just be there in the moment with me, as I am with you. Nothing you do or say could be worse though, ever, than not putting yourself in my shoes and listening to me calmly and respectfully. Because not knowing what to say or do in these situations usually happens with all people. But trust me, words sting, at times it seems permanently, after a loss when someone has said the wrong thing. But caring is never lost or forgotten as something marked and remembered as the one feeling that felt good through it all.

It's my Birthday!

My best dream ever happened last night. I dreamed a man let me stay with him in a remote European  country, I wasn't sure if was Germany or Poland, could have been either one. He was a professor of a foreign language. I stayed with him for sometime with my sibling sister, my twin sister. He also lived with his two siblings, a boy and a girl. They were ferociously mad that he would share his small estate with us. He defended us each day after work though. The best part was today was my birthday and I know the man in my dream and he is a man I highly respect and like. It's as though my subconscious was telling me, hey, we know it's your birthday, here's a non nightmare ;)

Him Poems

How many poems do you think, aren't about you? You're the original coat of paint. Scrape off the green, yellow and blues, and there lies egg shell white beneath. With your name carved into it with an indelible, chemical base.

The truth.

All my superman's turn back into Clark Kent's eventually.

Change will do you good

But will it happen again? I'm not that young chicken I used to be. I have dirt beneath these finger nails. I have much more bullet points on this list. I'm all crumpled inside when, before, droves were drawn to the smooth facets of naivety, innocence and live rage turned into the music of youthful energy and vibrant activity. I'm not the me who could bend and not break like jello. And my face now shows far too much of the incognito I'd like to cover these edges under. Simply put, I woke up and I need someone whose awake as well but won't try to beat me back into unconsciousness again.

Silver Haired Fox

How do you know my name?

Maybe you said it on a cellphone conversation I overheard while taking a bus with you for two years. Loving you without saying a word, but loving you just the same. And you noticed me out of curiosity once at a grocery store where I didn't recognize you because you cut your hair.
Or maybe we all died in a nuclear disaster fifty years ago and we're just two replicas of ourselves the government hasn't told that we aren't real yet and we're just screaming into infinite silence at one another? But we're the only two who've figured it out yet?
 Or it could be the former.
Either way, I love you, Silver Haired Fox, and I wanted you to know.

I Want Him

Clench your fist,

Close your eyes,

Turn your head in the opposite direction,

Follow your senses, not your sight,

Loosen your hands in front of you face.

Feel zero visibility, instead of just know it!

Tap your foot inside the place that's taking you to the next one

Road block your words,

Notice your breath.

Take time to think.

Take your hands from in front of you,

Lay them gently at your sides,

Just keep going down that road,

You know where it will lead you.

You've done this a thousand times before, without even having to close your eyes.

The words in front your lips,

Who are they for?

About How it's Like.

I already had leftovers

Generation Y

I f'ing love coloring pic.

My Favorite Pose in the World

Is the one a lady makes that can only say one thing: "Hey there, boys......."

Sometimes I Can Still Smell D76 in the Air.

I just wanted to have fifteen seconds
Inside a house made for two
Brown wallpapering
Stenciled wild flowers
That we both hate
A picture that I hang up
And must remind him how much he loves me
In order to keep it up
Four chairs and a table found at a flea market
Kitchen cabinets redone soon after we moved in
That entertainment center that says we've lived here a while and have gotten a bit comfortable
The things made of old time
Like rusted tin recipe boxes
The recliner chair thread borne plum colored ridges smoothed out with age
I want us to be surprised at all we were once not here and happy and living our lives the way we saw others live theirs better than ours.......

Alibi.

I'm finding reasons to stay like alibis to a murder. I was with his sanguine smile and good looks. I was beside myself with pride at his purchase of flowers and chocolates. There's no way I could have been deciding and executing such a thing. At that time, his hands were firmly cupped in mine, I see no mistaking it: I love my husband, sir.

One Thing He Said Made Total Sense.

He said, "If it weren't for the music, I would have committed suicide a long time ago." I totally agree.

How to... Bake a Divorce.

• Find out what 'irreconcilable differences' really means to you
• Read websites that don't help
• Continue to read those websites
• Realize it really won't help reading those websites
• Talk to everyone you know, and some you don't, and lots of people who want you to shut it, about how he's an a#& hole
• Realize he makes you cry more than he makes you laugh
• Realize you're making more than yourself miserable by sticking around
• Try to work it out
• Realize he's ten when you do so
• Make use of your time exercising your legs instead of your mouth
• Realize above all else we are responsible for ourselves, our happiness, our lives, our pains, our emotions, our success, our security and no one else's
• Let cool
• Literally walk it off
• Try to stop crying
• Buy a car!

Everything's going to be okay.

Edging closer to solidarity. Asking for redemption while still slurping up the same thoughts of yesterday. Nothing matters but him. Nothing matters but the way he looked at me, all those years ago. That didn't matter at all. As long as he's not here. Hes' gone. He's nowhere between hand and foot. He is between two wasted tears. Wept too often. Taken to another. Burdened on the shoulders of others, too often. And for far too long. He is a double panned window taken with me from year to year. Never quite seen through. Impossible to penetrate. To etch truth and action into in order to see the reality beneath.

New.

I really miss those days, feelings anew. the taste of it. The feel of it. The knowing maybe for the first time, the world like a glob of jello on a plate, if you poked, would jiggle back and forth to the touch. I miss the reality of naïveity. The thrust of energy captured by emerging experience and first hand account. I miss life wrapped up in maybes and what ifs and possibles. That little knowledge and age combined to spit out a person so fresh and new it hurts to look at them and not feel pulsating nostalgia. I miss it.

Wind Up Toy.

Silenced breathing,
Expected feelings
Yet... I was , am, in the way.
Giving you no other choice,
To throw your eyes in the opposite direction
Like a knife hitting the wrong apple,
on top the wrong head.
You knew my name,
You knew my face,
You knew my husband.
You knew these eyes
But that door lead inside me, once
When yours were shut tight
Occupants left to guess
If they're allowed to stay

Oh, You Never Left.

                     

                                 His smile, moved into my hands
                                     His whisper, into my shoulder blade
     
                        Lashes flaked my cheeks,
                            
                                                            His presence layered intermittent sighs.


          But I didn't even see him today.
            He was not there at 3AM.

      Missing those screams, those nightmares

                                                The entirety of a decade encases his absence

                                                   But every word and move he ever made
                                               
                                                        Walked the  very scope of three ocean shores
For me

Inside my memory of denial,

                                     Which has survived these last past years.
                                   ..................................................................

The Way I Know You.

I love you,
did you know?
Was is it okay?
When this showed?
I love you,
Did you know?
Does this rain have to come down,
When it's no longer
Gray, and cold?
I loved you,
Did you know?
I felt all flowers,
stars,
clouds,
and wild horses.
Between the days I felt the love for you,
since too young, years old.

Moriah.

I wanted to be 26 weeks pregnant on a windy, tree laden, hilly, suburban road. With a husband who had nice eyes. His name; Allen, Alexander, Todd, Thad, Robbie. As long as those eyes were kind, decent. A pay check to support us, didn't hurt. We would skip brunch with the in laws on Saturdays to go down to the nearby mineral pond and skinny dip. He'd say I was beautiful, only in private, as a rule to himself.

We'd wade in that mineral pool, he'd pull the wet, thick, dark strands of my auburn hair away from my eyes with his middle and forefinger. He'd press his lips to mine, we'd make love by the rocky face of the water beneath weeping willows. Splashing and bird song would be the melody to this love story.

We'd have a daughter, name her Moriah, and In the spring adopt a German Shepherd named Piggles who would whine over the injustice of shared attention. Sometimes I'd let myself in on the secret of our magical life. Only for a moment, though until the wash had to be folded or the cable bill paid while I'd sprint under squeaky wooden floors to get a pen and balanced check book.

Alexander was his name, actually. And we had to name her Lonnie after his great grandmother. We would play piano in the evenings together, as Lonnie cooed in the background. There were more hills than I'd have liked, and the trees weren't much to make up for it all, in the end. Though I loved the library that came with the house. It had white wanes coating, with wooden floors.

But he called me beautiful in front of everyone, more of testament to himself than as a rule to make me happy. He let me choose her middle name, which I chose Moriah, of course. I loved her dearly. In her first spring, I put her pudgy little toes in my mouth counting each one with the tip of my bottom lip that had just weaned off the last of the honey suckle plant in the front yard.

When the rains came, our front porch roof, that doubled as the sun room, dipped with the down pour and Moriah and I would point and laugh with the tales we'd found in the left over books of the library under it. He'd come home that night. He bid me hello. He kissed Moriah on the top of her toe head and led me in to the kitchen with a stern stare. He opened his brief case and pulled out of it the piece of paper foretelling the rest of our lives.

I'm Tired.

I'm tired of living for others. I'm tired of loving others who do not love me back. I'm tired of sacrificing for those who do not sacrifice for me. Just the same, I love the one who was not taught how to love. I love the one who was not taught how to sacrifice without sever repercussion. I love the one who has the capacity and will to learn. And I will sacrifice and love him so he knows how to do the same.

Predator or Prey

I've read a great deal about what a man sees in a woman. And it's this: Not necessarily beauty, but, yes, intelligence, confidence, and inner strength. I can contest to this. A pattern exists within my own life of whom has been attracted to me over the years, at various positions in life. It's been the predator and the prey. The prey wilted and echoed too closely my inner weaknesses and wounds from past predators. The predators themselves preyed upon these wounds and weaknesses to exploit me through manipulation of my overzealous desire to make things work out and use this desire however they saw fit. To both men I want nothing of. Why not find inner strength of your own? Neither become predator nor prey, but a stand-alone human being capable of execution of his own desires through hard work and sheer tenacity? But to the predator I simply say this: F&*# off.

Lily Pad

Take my hand,
Sweet Lily pad
I send your name
To my ears and eyes
To fold you in a page
I will look upon fondly,
When the days dry up in my eyes
That have seen nothing but
Cold, drab concrete,
A shrub too over grown,
Two pieces of discarded trash,
Drenched in a down pour
That happened
Two days prior.
Lilly pad, take my hand and hold it,
Never let go.
I need your life,
I need that thread that flows through the middle of you, that wants to live.
I need that energy
I need that force
I need that vein that keeps you alive,
So I can have one of my own.

its

It's the little things you remember. When you thought the world would never end. And did. Driving down the road, the back seat full of dirty laundry in a beach city saying nothing at all because you're related and there happens to be nothing to say except you're lost and laundromats cost more than they use to. It's the little things that bring back all the grief of the going and coming and missing them. And you find yourself wanting to yell at the person who was once you "Why didn't you make the most of this nothing? This ordinary? This moment where you thought there was nothing more but to look out the window and note the gray sky and dirty road? Why didn't you grab her by her shoulders and let her know how much she meant to you, then, now and forever? Stop looking out your stupid window and listening to your stupid ordinary thoughts about this stupid ordinary day you... you... person who thought she knew everything and didn't! Life does end! Grief does hurt! Love doesn't last forever! Tears do steam forever and never quench the bottomless reservoir of despair and heart ache that you didn't capture this moment and use it to it's fullest! You fool! You just keep looking out that window and not hear me... Because I can't get through to the same person I am today as I was yesterday..."

Hearts

The killers of hearts are rarely brought to trial. Much less convicted of their crimes, of intolerable cruelty, upon their victims for the remainder of their lives.

It Does Not Matter If He Loves Me

It doesn't matter if he loves me or not
Life does not revolve around the tea party set of  a little girl
Life revolves around tailored suits
Broken wine glasses
Lazy, well earned Sundays
Too often well stocked medicine cabinets
Full of what will cope for me
When I just can't
No, it doesn't matter if he loves me
Because a little girl's dream stacked in the corner next to the doll house and barbie van
is where love saves all lived and died...

My New Favorite Thing in the World...

 

(it's an old clock/alarm clock and it smells like my grandfather's things)

The Part Where I Got Drunk and Wrote this

People persevere because they have to. Feelings exists as a partial extension of evolution. In order for the human population to procreate, feelings are a necessity. people exist though now a days not to simple procreate, the deficiency of this may acutely supplement overall happiness, positivity of feelings, towards the remainder of the human race. Sufficient supply of our species has led to this. An existential crisis can be derived from the inability to feel necessary when a surplus has been met. This leads to disillusionment, devastation and sometimes outright rage. Many turn to supplemental elements to artificially elevate emotions. These things can include anything that does not in fact evoke true emotion but mimic the reality of it. These things, temporary elevate the overall feelings of justness of self, purpose and overall calm but lack the solidity that true a true emotion can bring. Otherwise, hard sought after, as well as not easily earned, and maintained experiences that lead to true emotions are disregarded as a source of fulfillment due to the overwhelming sense of non fulfillment. When once we were a necessity, now we are only a number to be added to a tide inundated with false and true emotions to liken a slurry of doubt. Welcome aboard, lets try and have fun, folks!

That River in the Mountains

There were good times. Like that time on that white mountain made for boys but filled with little girls. There were bunk beds and trails and streams and stories about friendships that would last a lifetime. I loved life, then, without thinking. Without thinking I loved all things in the universe. Without thinking I had a love that could last a lifetime between those girls, those songs, that camp fire, that cabin, that mountain, that cold frigid air, the blowing wind cold enough to wear three layers and still get wet. I remember the time in life as happiness even if at the time time I could not grasp the beauty of the moment quite until ten years later until I was too old to do nothing but think. To be happy because of the thoughtless spirit of existing just to trifle with the idea of what next could follow the path of just two feet in front of me instead of forty or sixty or a hundred all at the same when I could only accomplish just one. I loved myself, everyone around me and everything inside me without knowing. Grasping nothing and the world at the same time. With the same audacity that water exists inside a glass but is transparent in color and taste. I was all that could be with being nothing at all. I was a young girl.

Him

And my thoughts return to him
Down his back
Across his eyes
Maybe a touch to the shoulders,
Some hair slipped between two fingers
A slow fingering of the fleshy canal of his spine.
Irregardless of the look, thought or illusion,
It's the truth
that he does
and does not
fill this room

Blind

Because it's easier to feel the tears cried out in blood
Than look into those eyes
Into those politics
Into those words
Into that circumstance
That you cannot see
But cannot be undone
But cannot be left behind
Replaced
Or deleted
Or made into something more aesthetically pleasing
No it's easier to take this knife
And plunge into unsaid words
Regretted days
Blatant lies
And sever a place
presently unclean
The place you were suppose to heal

And Maybe I Don't Mean Any of this........

I do yoga in the morning, instead of mope. I read Sartre, instead of cry. Actions come easier now, when thoughts were all I had. I'm at place, full of live anger and partial acceptance. Which is better than hoping.
Because I'm tired of waiting, I'm tired of wanting, I'm tired of hoping. I'm really just tired, instead of me. Because when a person becomes everything to you, and they're never around to see it, negligence is all you have in your hands to show time what you've accomplished. So I've decided to let you go. Tell myself to stop hoping. And tell my feet to start walking. And let my head do the thinking. Instead of a maybe . Or a possibility. Or the what if.
No, just the action....
Because the one thing this world requires of you, and it's not negligence, it's you.
For a change, I want you to come to me, and remember how special it is that I actually love you. Because nobody ever asked me to. I chose that for sure. And now I'm choosing this.

Bath Tub

A bath tub full of water. Once shiny now unkempt after years of neglect. Layers of porcelain, long since chipped. The interior more than eroded, flaking into bits from every edge. Beneath deep cracks and exposed bumps, lay rust and patches of yellowish, dull white. The bath tub itself sinks deep into a floor whose foundation, originally poorly made, came into a curve beneath the center of the tub. She lay her fingers on the edge of it all, the bath tube full of Luke warm water and bubbles. She blew five kisses to the wind and sunk her head under the murky surface. The sharks of her imagination where mere prisms of dust and visions of virus and disease. She bathed on, held her breath as long as she could. She promised herself she would clean it all up tomorrow.

Beautiful

"I love your innocent, decent face."
They would say, with a hint of pretension that engages them in snarls of their lips. Pushing up their own confidence in making it wrong for you to be the most beautiful man in the world. Be my most beautiful man in the world.

Fifty Small Pieces in the Ocean

Fifty small pieces in the ocean swimming around, fighting for life. One screams out "Do you know me?!" the others turn away from it's plea. [pretending they did not hear.] Fifty small pieces in the ocean fall beneath the surface of the water, one by one. The plea unheard, but not on deaf ears, fifty small pieces in the ocean silently whispered the same plea in their minds, ["Do you know me?!"] before dipping below the depths of the dark blue.

Dead People

There's no one here except me and a bunch of dead people. They are all the people I use to know. Use to be with. Use to be family. They use to have lunch with me, dinner with me, talk with me. We use to do laundry together. Fight over whose going to pick up the grass clippings.
It's just me down here with all my dead people. Clogging up my arteries. Whispering me into deafness. Dragging their nails through my intestines. Laughing hard at my attempts to vanquish their eyes from my life with prescription drugs in the morning and alcohol at night. I don't remember if I ever quite buried them all. Of this, I am definitely confused. Because their blood still stings underneath the bed of my nails. Their screaming of my name still jolts through my brain. I can still hear their coughs, their grunts, their clearing of throats. The thought of their sighs keeps me up at night.
I'm just down here with myself and a bunch of dead people. Don't bother turning on the lights. God knows that won't change the atmosphere. I'm just down here with a bottle of Merlot five sips away from vomiting with a too truthful sad song pathetically rolling off my quivering tear soaked lips. Don't bother me. Not that anyone every bothers someone with a bunch of dead people on their mind.
(On loosing too many family members--lets be honest--to obesity they didn't have to die just yet)

Worthless

When I can't be me with you
I wonder if you ever knew
How we touch
In my dreams
With all the love
I'll never see
Look
Only to long
For what
I could live on
Like a knife
to my throat
If I ever left you
Alone
For only I will know
Everyday
What You'll forget
Once I say

You dare not

(This is a really pathetic poem I wrote when I was drunk and don't have the guts to take down)

Suddenly not so sober
I can speak your veins
I speak your silence
I speak your name
You know who I
But fetch me away
You know my name
I am who you are
But you dare not open
You dare not breath
You dare not look
You dare not omit me
If not the best thing you'd ever do for another
You dare not admit
You dare not know
You dare not see
You dare not poses
You dare not write
You dare no see
not anything
For the sake of MMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

What's in my head

Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre Mediocre

At least I'm honest. Is it too early to drink?

Mad as H@#!

Vacation Rental Dog Beach Tide

It's just  a place to put my mind for a while
so I don't have to think about the dog and the beach
and the resort vacation
and your hands all over me
Some call it other things
Like a job
a good book
a leisurely walk
a swim
a long ride on a bus
a rushed e-mail
solitaire for ten minutes before the clothes go into the wash...
but we all know what it really is
it's a place to put my head so I don't have to, for just a plucked minute, hour, half hour, second, day...
to think of you

Container

I traced the rough corners of the container and became irrationally annoyed. I felt the harshness of life echoed even ordinary objects. But thought, then, at least there is that, the containing of something within another body of material. Much less the slightness of a soul consistently escaping the grasps of reality and echoing off of fantasy, futile desire, and too often despair.

What to Do

Finish volunteer application
Schedule an appoint with an academic adviser with community college
Get transcripts from old community college
Follow up on getting a credit card
Run and swim at least twice a week and increase to five times a week
Get fruits three times a day and increase to nine times a day
Finish a book
Get a scale
Measure waist once a week     

     
      

YOU

When every moment of my life is spent wanting to die, you make me want to live just a little bit.

Rose Petals

If I die as a result of loving you
I will take you down
like the anchor to a ship
Slip your hands through mine
bound in place by fate
dive off that deck
and touch the bottom with a shared kiss
You will love it
I guarantee the results
A garden of trust
with thrust
from our demised embrace
You will finally have the gull
and all that comes with
Because if I die as a result of loving you
noting will ever matter anyways.

If

If marriage is going to be miserable, it might as well be with someone who is worth being miserable with.

Him

You are the only thing that makes me feel.

Him

When I'm all alone, I think of him
I press his cheeks to mine
I hear the pitter-patter of his feet upon my floor as I lie in bed
I know his middle name and roll it off my tongue in aggravation at empty toilet rolls
I see his dirty socks in the hamper
I feel his chest near mine
I notice his smell sitting alone in traffic
I know his music collection
I know his DVD collection
I know his hopes
His dreams
But I do not have his heart.

The Individual

They sniffed him out as would hound like white blood cells looking for a virus in the blood stream. Millions surrounding him, the outsider, the excluded, the strange man, the different. Just because his social behaviors didn't match theirs. An organism of uniformity will dash away the rare, unincorporated, anomalous, the dauntingly individual. But he is an individual with not only the ability of nonconformity—but the very needed innovation. 

Whats Bothering Me

STOMACH

I'm totally not kidding.

Record

My heart is a record grooved over with time and tragedy. Edged just right for the record player to play the song of my demonized past. At times, I run my finger down the galvanized surface of a note, a ballad, a lyric. I run my finger into a stanza for a quick sympathetic nod. I take an entire chorus to have a mans ear for the day. But all in in all, I can't speak for the motions that took part in creating the rhythmically choreographed uniqueness it took (an unbreakable train, it's cabooses made up of years of malicious abuse) the day in and day out of worry over the lines that would have to be carved to allow it for me to look into your eyes the way I do now.

Rain

My life is a rain drop cushioning down upon all other rain drops. Falling from the sky, cascading into one big pin top of precipitation. I fall from great heights to rest on the shoulder of a pigeon, a tired old bench seat, someone's palm, an eroded wooden staircase, a blade of grass, a fire hydrant or the follicle of a hair. The rain that I am is a molecule smaller than a centimeter that builds with collision until it's time to makes is miniscule presence known to the world through quiet breaths of soundless liquified epiphanies in a form, warm or chilled few even notice.

Flowers

The flowers kept coming for exactly fifty days until the middle of a miserable night she came dripping on his door step, and a few unlayerings later into his home, their lips pressed together. She did not know whether to stay or to go in the morning but he knew he woke up without her. And as she watched swift light poles pass by in the crisp morning bus commute she had wondered what she had really done. She wanted to go back a thousand times but had he figured her out?

Oh Where Have you Been

Oh beloved where have you gone?
I am getting older
And I don’t know where you have gone
Take my hand if you can show me
I’m standing here at your heart's ache
I’ve loved you all along
You know my name but dare not speak it to your lips
And at the end of the woods
And at the end of your stare
You will find me
Just where I have always been
In your crying arms
Near your crying eyes
So that you might know where I have been, oh beloved

Statue

I would make an excellent statue. Something dogs can pee on and kids can kick.

Rubies

Don’t you start to wonder?
Don’t you start to see?
Under all these layers
Someone has to be me
Diamonds, rubies, treasures
They come from far off lands
But nothing seems to heal me
I see that slide of hand
And don’t you try to comfort
When all you do is mock
You must have know all along,
I did not come to talk

Him

There is no way I am going to give up on this belief I hold inside my frozen chest, cold as lake water, that he will return to me. He languishes on my heart and mind as an avid art collector of my past, as an echoing exhibitor inside a dismal spirit. If I were to loose him, all conciseness would be lost to a demise of my hope. I love him as life and I cannot learn any other way of breathing except through the delicate tissue of these lungs—neither can I learn to love except through these erratic thoughts of him.

Infamy

I do not understand how to live in a world where a day can live in infamy--but only within my heart and mind, not your cold, clenched chest nor mind.

Moving

    The music drowns to the whisper of her voice

        I see the room by the light in her eyes

    Easily swaying to the speed of her lingering perfume

        Eyes skip, stare and slide over the two of us

    As moonlight would flicker off the rippling tide at midnight

        Closer to the rhythm towards the end of the song

    Our shoes touch simultaneously with a shared smile

        Trailing laughter collects in the air

   Swishing, spilling wine, swirling hips, tilted head, half closed eyes,

    She knows tonight she can stand the world falling apart all but for the dance floor and his eyes.

Walking

He's nowhere in mind
When he isn't quite here
He does not face the day
Just a child in fear
He stays outside all night
But does not knock on that door
He's inside and out
and right where he was before
He wakes up in the morning
With pain in his heart
But the routine is too strong
To be torn apart
He knows what he should do
He knows what he should be
But the risk is too much
And the pain too deep
He continues on his way
Like it's a thousand days to come
but he is nowhere assured
Tomorrow will not come undone

Escalator

Stepping on tomorrow
That can't be here anyways
His eyes peer out the window
Avoiding her pain
He watches cigarette butts twirl
In the escalator
Waiting for that moment he promised her would come
At that now that is going to be later
How can he fight when
It's here anyways
Better to pack it in
Than try
As she turns away
He can't take today
Or that tomorrow that was today
He'll promise her no more
When she's staring at fresh roses in her favorite vase

Movies

You know those moments in movies where nothing is happening, you're just hearing the rustling of  feet, the bed covers, the wrapping paper of food? Those moments when nothing at all is happening but the invisible thoughts inside the actors head as he ties his shoes, walks down a side street, closes a door, whistles to himself? That's how I feel inside all the time now. Empty but heard. Alive and heard but empty and void of content. Seen but not touched, looked upon and pondered but not felt or caressed. Vital to the scene at hand but not seen for anything other than background noise.

Rocks

my heart and mind are set stones
my soul, a river runs over
with the leagues of hate
Running it's course
over the rocky bottom
to mix up the blood mesh
that breathes out a human being
that wakes up everyday
with thoughts in it's head
to eat up all that is right
and returns fitfully unsatisfied into
it's digested feelings of worth
To feed again.

Pages

I've pages in my heart that reveal nothing but you
I wish there was something more appropriate to put in those places
Something more mature
Something more becoming
Something more...
And I pour over them night and day
I've read them more than once or twice
I've more than memorized them
And tucked them into a quiet pocket hoping no one will ask of the words written there
But I've buried them
Where dew festers and sleeps with rain
A place for centipedes and bean sprouts
So, even when you're gone
And so are those pages
They'll remain crinkled in my heart
Their age obvious
Each word carved carefully with sincerity
But in the end
They will be thrown aside
And remembered for just that
Words on a page

Dance Without You (great song)

Date Night

I don't know what was more disturbing. The fact that he hacked his date to pieces at one of the most prestigious 'date night' restaurants in town. Or that he lugged her in a duffel bag all throughout public transport without so much as being noticed.

Sea

The love of another is as though the sea crashing down upon the farthest rock on the shore. Spraying it occasionally and lightly. Letting it corrode under your salty touch. Mimicking endearments of those intrusted to touch it's core. Letting go gently the jealously of the birds allowed to lap up your touch. Making it too late and too early each time to admire it's own daunting feel of you. Knowing nothing of it's goings or comings seeing only what is to be seen between two short bursts of an everlasting pure joy and acquiesce. And yet coming back again and again to his shores, no matter how briefly, to swim in it's shadow, to bath in it's edges to take glee in it's existence and return to a full embodiment of disappointment in your desolate sea.

 

Love of a Lifetime

When sunlight hits her moonstruck eyes
My escape slips inside
I hide, I play
I fantasize
We mate like a butterfly's wings symmetry
Oh! How we collide!
She echoes a thousand epiphanies
We lay ourselves down amongst
Our broken dreams
I spend myself here
A peak,
A pier,
I look over the lip
As our two silhouettes shrivel and split.

Malareaux

"Fifty cents on Malareaux,"
the man said in defiance.
"For that is all she is worth"
the clerk looked on in despair,
thinking of a second job,
showing some legs,
flowering up her cheeks,
tossing seductive looks,
to pay for a small flat,
and for the children
he left behind.
She looked him straight in the face and said,
" Malareaux will win tonight,
take you by surprise,
For there is gold and luster in that stead,
if you'd bother looking her in the eye!"

Rythmn

Everything has a rhythm. A facet drips. Done properly, ores move a boat forward. Two pieces of metal bounce off each other in synchronized concussions of sound. Things that are stationary and inanimate mimic the quality and requirement of our lives but do not in any essence explain to us their mastery and beauty of their rhythm. We are left to our own fumbling deviant devices in the time and space of our lives. With our actions choreographed, defined and foretasted by our past and futures.
We are living breathing creates with opposable thumbs and a much better means of communication, but a pine cone seems to do a better job of living, thriving and dying...