Twitch
The comforter is raised up by her knees and fingertips, forming ropey clouds and the grey heavens that forecast her mood. The warmth under the blankets is saturated with apathy and puzzled nothingness. Nothing.
Each hair stands abruptly on end, as if pulled by some wire to form the rows of teepees that goose bumps are. A twitch, and then her self-made sky rumples down, and is violently thrown aside. She skitters out of bed, and crashes her chin onto a waiting corner. She jerks erect, and wrenches the curtains open. The purifying light catches the swirl of particles that land on her chest, which rises and falls, like a soufflé on repeat.
Cold
The footprints like legless ants
meandering across a clean page
trace the lines where we go
marching.
The cold drops melting kisses
and winter’s first caress
is cradled in the arms
of the worshiping trees.
It sinks into their bodies,
a white coat to guard them from
the chill light-lacking winter.
But she with silver hide
stands alone,
as natures’ attempts of protection
sludge off her in awkward thumps.
The Consideration
I am the tipped over cereal box,
sitting alone and unnoticed in the background,
like the boy who once told you the truth.
Who told you the dress was red and not for you,
but you didn’t listen.
You twirled and twirled,
and then were to dizzy to sit down.
Then the clock whispered formulas to you,
and everyone cleared their throats
as you made footprints on chairs,
and walked away,
orbited by strange equations,
whose geometry gave you angles,
until you were a cube within a cube within a diamond,
and you shattered.
They swept up your splintered pieces,
and tossed them in a field,
where you melted under the stars.
that light wouldn’t dare to gleam on.
The shadowed hands to pull her up
to shadows of shadows… unknown.
The wind swirls the midnight of their hair
And clutches at the mud-weary dirge.
The Madonna and the whore
shed no shape to show the difference,
and the sun cuts the lines of color
until a face is shadow and not.Not my fault
He’s dangerous,
like the little bit of sand that got into the gears.
Dangerous.
Precarious,
like that stack of papers that you
thought could balance just a few more…
he tips.
But his scattered slices are not a shattering you’ve known before.
As you flip through pages of his never-to-be-published manuscript,
you’ll realize why his book was sealed,
dipped in wax,
never to be opened,
silenced.
What to do, what to do…
Help him?
Because if you do,
while picking up pieces of him,
you’ll lose some from you.
Slowly at first,
but gaining speed,
until the pains of his words
are a numbness to feed your heavy shoulders.
His burden now your own,
and his past is now your present.
His eyes know the loss in yours,
and an arm pulls closer the shaking body;
whose hands are full of shattered delusions.
He would have rather been burned alive,
than to see you dealing with the ravaged remains that the past has written.
As glance touches glance,
you breathe…
just breathe…
Slowly you realize,
you can do nothing.
Ode to the “Perfect Woman”
You smashed a dish in the sink
Some imagined dramatic rage
Since it is quite clear
That destroying something will
Destroy the destroyed in you
Well…
Maybe not
Perhaps it will patch it
And if not fully patch it, perhaps cover
Yes, cover it up! What a great idea!
Well pretend it never existed
And then I’ll sing you to sleep
And no one will notice what oozes
Will they…?
But from under that façade
A putrid perfume permeates
And poisons some cobwebbed image of you
I painted you once. You were perfect.
In my mind you were the epitome of beauty
And Grace Kelly was put to shame
If I could have but charmed men like you
But no, I could never be that girl
And now I wish I never wanted it
I beg God that the numbness you possess will never afflict me
and that I will never be the root of such cruelty.
A new man, just a new accessory
But he became outdated before any purse
Now just part of your collection
And you measure yourself in these heaps of affectionately broken boys
So beautifully strewn across your souls closet
Your definition in their devotional demise
I could paint you blacker than black widow
As you sit with fangs bared
Sacrifice follows sacrifice
The toll of the broken grows
And now you’ve shattered a bowl
You’re proof of your power of destruction
But you are more broken than that bowl could ever be.
You
Shakes the white stick
like it’s an Etch-A-Sketch.
Hoping it will turn up
Blank.
Prays that there is just one line
making a joke of her fear.
Letting her laugh off
just how okay she is.
Wrong. It’s wrong.
But the double pink lines
are the equals sign
to the result that was …
this was…
Never supposed to happen.
Holding tight to the arms of this chair,
like it’s the railing of a bucking ship she’s aboard
that’s soon to throw her over, when they tell her
You have a heartbeat.
Lungs.
Eyes.
Fingers.
Hours of numb,
kneading out thoughts with her hands.
Wringing out the idea
of you.
Then if her skin looked like cellophane,
she’d see your name float by through her veins,
only to lodge itself in some chamber of her heart,
until every drop of her has met you.
You are the strongest force she has ever encountered.
Not quite knowing what this means
She steps up to the plate
Squares
In a square-ish hole
I placed a square-ish box
Filled with earth till full
Your name carved on the rocks
So simple, so smooth
Like melted chocolate.
But no amount of bleach
No oxy-clean, no tide
Could hide the stains you dyed
On my soul, like some fingerprint
That I never asked for
And I scrubbed, and I cleaned
But it grew
It grew and it grew
Until I was reflected to myself in inky eyes
That sang lies
And knitted my heart to fear
I stood hypnotized
By the song of that siren
And believed in it’s ugliness
I do not know what beautiful discord
Broke the sound
That bound and strangled
Then on waves of circulation came courage
And the demon now fearful
Prey loosed from her song cage
Struck
But I, now aware, fought, sang
Silky sound waves wrapped and spun
My skin cells engraved under her fingernails
My torturer writhed until undone
and lay asphyxiated in my new found song
A black stain on the ground
Staring at the remains of my newly filtered soul
I dug a square-ish hole
No flowers, no tears, no black shined shoes
My blurry hatred-wound-hurt vanished
And the demon that you gave me lies now still beneath my feet
With strength I rise, this dreadful ordeal through
And if ever again we meet
I’ve forgiven you.
Damaged Package Notice
For modern women,
Remember, for your safety,
postpone your general ambitions
to enhance their own unique style.
Twiggy mad men
sit and read the colors
of any new government.
So polished, unique, classic;
They, a sign of the times.
Wearing what they did,
raged in classy luxury,
surrounded us.
After the grace period ended, all charges
Advanced
Do not
Do not
Have that lovely sent
The cage was delightful
Dazzling gemstones.
The ultimate pacifier
In 2011 I was hospitalized for approaching perfection
And by perfection, I mean the cooked to perfection type of perfection. The claws of my classes had sliced me to thin ribbons and the Laura-bacon was now sizzling over the open fire.
And that’s the story of how I failed all of my classes and became a hobo.
That boy
Brian Kelly used to sit on his counter and slice oranges for me. He’d cut them into equal sections while watching the lank flow of my hair. The copper shards of his green eyes knew. They always knew.
One day, while wedging fruit, he slit his ring finger. The vitamin C of that caustic ooze leached into the wound and tripped his heart.
Believing he was close to his last breath, I placed my palm on his chest, and stared into his eyes. I picked up a mildly reddened orange slice, and ate it.
Chris was a choice. My choice. He was a plaid kind of man, who sang. His voice was of the kind that reverberated in your lungs. That shaking that he did, well, it re-arranged some molecules.
Chris is a serpent slayer.
On a trip to the grocery store I bought a bag of silence.
Pinpricks
He sat there, rocking the dull knife blade back and forth, causing paper-cut slits on the arches of his feet. I felt him like cigarette residue, subtly there but never quite vivid. I was entranced by his manic need for pain; his demand for his own screaming nerves, but at least they made sound. I’d stopped screaming a long time ago, before they took my voice. I guess I’d chosen it. I guess I needed it.
I stepped behind him and grated his fabric through my fingers, then shoved him off the bench. He looked like tired possum. We sat there as the leaves blew past. Just two people, desperately needing something to happen.
A glass of water
Harold sat in the bathtub enjoying a cigarette. Harold wanted a glass of water, but was too lazy to get up and get one.
If Harold had gotten a glass of water
-His wife wouldn’t have cheated on him
-His dog wouldn’t have died
-His son would have had the courage to ask out Susie Dopplebock
-The grass in his lawn wouldn’t have turned brown
-World Peace would have been achieved
But Harold didn’t get a glass of water.
Fuck Harold.
