Not-so-holiday spirit

Your smokers’ cough is still the same.

I hear it ice pick up your lungs,

and jackhammer your belly.

It disgusts me,

But not as much as the day,

everyday,

when we needed you

and you walked out

to do those chores,

and drag that poison deep inside you.

You chose this.

You left.

You just didn’t realize it poisoned us too. 

Needed a change

My heart’s propped on hinges,

and like swinging doors it beats.

But I have never needed to see the sun more

than when I lost you face

in a crowd so thick

it made clotting look clean.

I’d beat open doors,

prop open windows

and swing open sounds

if it would bring you back to me.

Shivers run through me.

Like a sweat soaked t-shirt

at New Years,

I guess I just needed a change.

And trying to fix you has just reminded me of how broken I am.

Hindsight

We ran so quick,

we ran so quick

we cut our feet.

Out of breath,

we were

out of breath

and clutching that glass wall.

Smiling at each other

with some kind of victory.

We were panting

and it stung.

We were supposed to walk.

I dared you to run.

Sorry about your splinters.

Alone

There is a shadow that stalks me;

down alleys, round corners,

and into the hallows of my lungs

It sits so deep

and pushes so hard,

and breathes the breaths I didn’t want to.

It cracks my bones

and hammers my heart.

Until I,

brought to my knees,

can do nothing but sob.

The hunt began the day I closed the door,

and left you bitter.

Now every mention of you brings a howl,

as the creature brings it’s rage,

and extracts it’s pain,

from the memory of you. 

Just Sheets

My sheets still have your skin cells

They cling to them,
as if your scent was their substance.

I’ll curl up tight into them

and disappear

and disappear

and disappear…

… and miss you.

I’d give my own arms

for these to be yours;

my own breath,

to feel yours on my skin…

But these are just sheets,

and that’s my own panting,

and these are my own sobs I’m holding. 

Ruthless Stiletto

I’m tumbling down piano keys

who’ll sing my sonnet of woe.

In a smoke filled room,

with teary eyes and swirling glasses,

smooth jazz is soundlessly snug.

I’m the woman in black with red lipstick,

whose lips are parted just so.

A tall glass of disbelief and mourning

is swirling in my right hand;

in my left beats the still-bloodied knife.

It had to be done. 

The poem of a friend

I am a swordsman
you are chronically depressed
we are warriors

I am love and rage
expressing my affection
I wish to fight you

We have proved of God
Man that sees all reactions
I have to fight him

-Marsh Lemen

This was written for me by my friend and ally. I will always fight for him. He met me where I was. 

Some new melody

I would hold your hand

over a thousand words;

choose feeling your skin

over a million notes,

but you’ve never asked me to stop singing.

So,

darling,

let me tuck in close beside you,

and collect.

Isn’t this the most beautiful madness?

Fear

Darling,

this might be the most ridiculous,

most profound,

most terrifying,

cup I’ve chosen.

We are some purposed tangle,

some chosen knot,

Who knew it was binding?

That that first demure glimpse,

meant that I was yours,

and you’d teach me to drown.

I’m not afraid anymore.

A No-Cheese Entrée

I’m staring at understood love songs.

There’s salt in the butter,

and bitter in the chocolate.

While waves of you carry me under

and under again.

I’m crashing.

The world is falling.

Could this be drowning?

It’s all from innocence.

And I laughed

‘cause I don’t believe in horoscopes,

but darling,

these alignments…

The Distant Future

I

must

clamber back

over.

These mountains of memories…

I must keep returning.

Keep returning to that night.

The night my lips didn’t know what it was

to hold back words.

They wouldn’t stay hidden,

I couldn’t clasp in.

I told you the truth.

Then a jump,

like I’d slapped you

was all I ever needed

to know you loved me back.

Minimum

You’re wearing that button-up,

because I told you I like crimson.

It makes you look warm,

radiate safe.

Our bodies are accordioned on couches,

arms linked like Velcro,

and the ensemble in your chest

wants me to know

 your song is still playing.

Then I ask you how you feel,

and you answer,

 “Blessed”.

Some sort of Combustion Engine

My heart’s a clak-a-lakan down these splintered beams.

My gut’s a twisted round some spinnin belt.

But I aint never been more lost

than when I was bein’ drug,

belly down,

by that demon puffin’, scratchin’-soot,

and screamin’ through my home.

When that fear stretched my pupils,

I knew my dirge was comin’.

I begged Christ’s grace,

as blood filled chamber valves,

like gasoline fillin’ pistons.

Just waitin’ on that spark.

Waitin’ on that burst. 

Pearls before Wine

I have to tell someone.

I have to tell someone before

my words forget their meaning.

When you went to marry God,

I buried my heart,

gave it to dust

and never told a soul.

But ever since you left,

I looked for someone

to fill your gap.

I’ve found him.

I’ve found him,

and My God!

He is wonderful.

He is so wonderful.

He is …

not you.

I must forget that now.

Waters more Peaceful

The time mirrors asked questions of me,

I leaned into your beating heart,

and was stilled.

Stilled.

I know the questions will come again.

I know they’ll come again,

but

for this moment,

let’s,

just you and I,

imagine this boat

is on waters

more peaceful.

The Warmth

I gave you The Words tonight,

bundled them in navy blue,

and kissed your silhouette.

Your weight sinks my lungs,

and curls me close.

We’re just two people,

ear to ear in warmth,

sharing century old sentiments,

that are completely new to me.

I love you.

Bad metaphor

You used to drink coffee and now it’s tea,

but that’s a weak metaphor,

since I’m the stronger.

But that’s a strong stance,

watered down in arms of coffee,

on a cube that might be ice.

I brewed like twice used leaves,

and asked you not to notice,

but even you can’t drink lies.

I think you know, I tried to be coffee,

but Lord knows, I could never be that bitter.

She knows it too.

Coffee stared me down today,

and before my cherry crumble chewed,

I knew, right then, you were still addicted. 

Pretty Nonetheless

Under desert skies

on two wheels and freedom,

the road leans forward.

Miles and feet,

where feet have never touched,

where dust never wakes.

Step off and grit the shoes,

crunch the soil,

taste the air.

This patch is

plaid, but not leather,

breath, but not a sigh,

echoes, but doesn’t sing,

and God knows,

every speck of dirt can sing,

if you remind if of first melody.

She sings, but in leather and sighs,

and those two wheels.

She clings so tight it could meld two to one.

Her song wasn’t the secret.

This dirt didn’t need it.

Walking on leaves

I never knew I was lost in the woods,

wandering up and down non-existent paths.

Thought I’d cheated pain,

cheated loss.

How suffocating those trees were?

For years they were my haven.

Then the sky arrived,

and at my first glimpse of the stars,

the years rained down

and my face found yours,

and your hands, your arms, your eyes, and starlight

gave me peace.

There’s a warmth now,

like music,

that shakes my bones.

It grabs my veins like pick-up-sticks,

and pulls me close

to you.

The bird feeder

She turns her head from side to side,

with locks that swing like Christmas bells,

and pours tea, for the man who feeds the birds.

The man who feeds the birds is tall,

not slumped, but proud and lean.

His wit, an insatiable flicker.

He never knew he loved the birds,

but I guess he always has.

He always had those crumbs on hand,

the birds don’t know he’s jazz.

Unresolving, inconclusive,

but lemon fresh and kind,

The man who feeds the birds

could make you lose your mind.

He lost his once,

to the green eyes and freckles of a goddess.

He found himself in her blue dress sway,

was trapped in light perfume bliss.

Now everything is packed away,

and he sleeps on a bed with bars.

His head on the floor,

his heart at the door,

and she never knew he waited.

“I’m not going to feed you anymore baby bird.”

To his ex

I don’t

hate you.

I don’t think I ever could.

But, you are a bitterness;

a background taste in his kisses,

a small discord in his words,

and something that fills the back of his eyes.

As his fingers twirl my hair

I wonder…

I wonder how much of you he sees in me.

Do I echo your memories,

as he shakes his head,

not knowing whose face he touched?

I don’t hate you,

but we have scarred each other,

as only lovers can.

Robert Frost is Schrodinger

I’m walking two different paths,

followed by two different tangents,

into two different valleys,

with two different coils,

and either way I’ll miss you,

and I’ve never even left you.

No wonder you’re lost.

In one breath

Listening to water hit wine,

and I need to touch your face.

Are your dreams mine?

Are we trying to force a place?

I know nothing to show you,

but what walls are made of.

I don’t know how to know you,

I’m lost on how to love.

And this is rhyming,

and I’m praying,

and dreading…

all in the same sentence.

Remembering

If you forget me,

I hope it’s in a good way.

I hope it’s the kind of forgetfulness where,

when wisps of me cross your mind

you’ll sigh,

feel contented,

and not know why.

But deep inside of you

that tiny smoke of me has settled,

and wrapped you in affection.

You are loved.

And even when my name is gone from your lips,

I hope those traces of me, left in you,

take root,

give you comfort,

strength.

You were never weak.

I will sing you to contentment,

and when at last you know it,

leave me,

and walk on water. 

Your tiara is sideways

Hearing every song new.

Every song’s new.

They bubble and froth,

and chase each other down backs,

and up thighs.

They pluck nerves,

those numerous angle-hair-pasta strands,

and make finger tips feel songs,

like knees feel sinking.

The bells play sparks on eyelids,

and tease upturned lips,

and everything tastes like watermelon,

and smells like summer.

My toes get cold sometimes.

Your knitting needle fingers are losing count in my hair,

and even though the knots are off,

I’ll still bite your cheek bones. 

Ruins

In a hallway where the mirrors face each other

I echo unbounded essence.

Down that hallway,

my steps are infinite.

Where the mirrors face each other,

they echo down sideways.

They echo down.

They echo.

Each reiteration is a purification, a recrystallization,

of the essence of me.

I’ll calibrate them,

the steps, I mean.

Make sure they match each other;

make sure the mirrors can’t see any inconsistency.

Then I’ll place my hands on both sides,

and press.

I’ll leave the hall,

and those tiny,

unseen fissures behind,

and the next person who walks into the room

will watch them shatter,

and they will never know why.

Attempted offering

There’s a book on the black marble pedestal.

I tried to make you read it.

I begged you to read it.

Not because I was proud of it,

but because it is an explanation.

An explanation I thought you deserved.

Wanted.

And those gold lines that trace up the marble;

those are a map.

They are my veins;

pulse my words,

wind my thoughts.

The whole room smells like grapefruit and mint, and in the sunlight that shines, you can see the dust particles swirling.

The room was never opened.

The key is still lying on the desk.

Next to it is the letter that’s handwriting is choking.

I guess you never read it.

Never learned about the room.

Never learned how to save.

And I am hunched,

breathing like some animal,

hunted. Haunted.

My whine of warning unheard.

Dancy Pants!

Screw this!
I feel like dancing, and you should too.
So... you should turn on these songs, and flail around. :D

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FwAgLvAk7JI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4H5I6y1Qvz0&ob=av2n


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7movKfyTBII&ob=av2e


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=faD3B7Ya9Nk


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJCQDd4vYjg


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CR8logunPzQ&ob=av2e

It's Harold's fault

I haven't been able to write since I told you.
Nope, not a word.

Fuck Harold.

Who knew?

I’d like a drum roll with you, and to feel like our hands are moving through jell-o as they near. You are fingernails painted ruby.

I hope you’ve wiped off that eyelash and made a wish. I don’t think you’re St. George. Three times is too many times to lose you. I’m no peach tree.

Better bet I’m lip-biting fidelity. So put on your hand wraps and let’s go a round. I’ve always wanted a fighter.

Let’s not get sentimental

I got chips of my red fingernail polish in your oatmeal. They must have fallen in while I was making it. I was trying to show you how much I care, but I cringe as the accidental sprinkles pass your lips. You seem unaware, but I know they’ve cut you inside.

A Good Man


Partings are wierd.

I hugged Ben Bosco goodbye today, and the world was a little less shiny. He’s thin, tall, and tree like.  A good man, good human, that I probably should have fallen for, but couldn’t.

 He’s too much like my brother.

And maybe someday, in ten years, I’ll run into him at Wal-Mart with his heard of children, and he’ll still be the superhero I always knew he was.

The Norwegian

He painted me a picture of a duck, but I told him it wasn’t good enough. I told him he’d need to become famous so that I could sell it for millions of dollars. He smiled with his eyes and asked my name, which is so German it hurts.

Riskless

The man who had done everything right was setting silverware on his fairly earned table. The edges of the napkin bent up gently around the fork as he sat it 6/8 of an inch from his plate. He ran his un-callused hands through his left-parted strands, sighed, and yearned for burnt dinner. 

The sound of my own typing is terrifying.

Waiting is like holding glass shards and walking down thousands of stairs, but you need to hurry. You have to hurry or the stairs will disintegrate behind you. They already are, and you have to reach the bottom. Even though the door down there is probably locked, and you’ll be left hanging on a landing.

As you run your pulse pushes against the shards, and with its force, it makes them ruby tinted.

Why are you carrying shards? I really don’t know. Perhaps you just needed something to hold onto, and even though this was broken, it was better than nothing at all.

Important

I lied to you about who I am.

That was before I knew you were perfect.

I didn’t know you would matter,

so I made myself better than I am.

I told you all sorts of glory,

and hoped you didn’t know the glimmer was fake.

I found out that you are perfect,

and the only thing I’ve sang to you so far,

is hypocrisy. 

Sick with Sentiment

While walking down weary wet pavement

the city smells like city.

I’m making footprints in clichés

and tracking them with me onto your

newly polished

body.

And I’ll make myself sick with sentiment

while you just…

just…

don’t know.