The sunlight creeps insideThe sunlight creeps inside my bedroom while I’m covering my eyes,it finds my eyelids, still resisting, it pries them openand it sighs.Its soft caress has never pleased me and it fails again this time.It tries to cheer me up by singing a little songthat doesn’t rhyme.I wish I could resume my slumber. Go away, you foolish beam!Your lousy singing only robbed meof my dream.
I do not loveI do not love.I am not a calm Sunday afternoon,warm sun rays and gelato,pacing back and forth to relieve tension.These are other people.I laugh at the turning tides,I laugh when it’s most difficult,feet buried in the sand, nothing can move me from this place,I chose to stand here,water around my ankles, waist, neck.I am gathering storms in my purse,collecting pieces of puzzles that have not yet been created,both the great wall and the one who smashes against it.I throw myself at the fire’s mercywith open eyesand clean palms.I do not love.I worship.
Title(s)What if I tried to strip you of your titles?Cram them inside my mouthone by oneand gorge myself on every single letter?Lord, ruler, commander, sultan, emperor,Your Majesty?Would you be less frightening then,would you be easy to mislay?Less of marble, more of clay?Would you be paltry, boring, plain?Would I even look at you again?Would the birds persist to singif I discrowned you, dearest King?Life would go on -I know- the way it doesand there’d be other words to comeand fill the gap.But even if you can feed the silence, make it speak,there would be things that go unnamed,untouched and muffled.There would be things unbearableunder the layers of lull-such as the sound of bodies when they clash,the sound of memories when they come rushing backand the wild thumping of a heart against a heart.Oh, but I’m dazed and dazzled and confused(such a cliche, a doodle, overused),though sometimes I believe that I could break the chain,it would take but one small g
SolaceSolace is often found underneath bruisesand wounds which stubbornly refuse to heal,like knowing you should have forgotten about names and placesbut carving treasure maps on your armshoping to retrieve a moment, never forget that it was real.And happiness can be found amidst a sea of tears-barely breathing yet bent on staying afloat.Like how I felt when you held on to my hips.But now I can’t help but wonder,did I dream about my name upon your lips?
I stand with deathIt’s early, much too earlyfor these words,names and adjectives;the tingling down my throatvaguely reminds me of alcohol,except I haven’t had a drop.I stand with death between my fingers, I standwith death between my fingers,I stand with death.The sunlight kisses me, warms placesI had never thought were cold,muscles and hair roots writhewith excitementbutI dare not hope for happy endings, I darenot hope for happy endings,I dare not hope.
Conjuring HellDevil man, devil man, show me your teeth.Show me the horror--what lies beneath.Be placid, be harrowed, or if you want, seethe;but come along, devil man, and teach me to breathe.My wicked reverence don’t try to subdue.It’s hopeless, you demon. I’m burning for you.Though I may seem mellow, my devotion’s concrete--I’d sacrifice virgins just to lie by your feet.When night falls around me, I scream out your namein hopes of your coming--to cherish or maim.Oh, devil, you monster! Condemn me, I beg!You promised! You promised and now you renege?Devil man, devil man, show me your teeth.My soul, oh so gladly, to you I bequeath!
Whether Winter WillWhether Winter will cover me with snowI cannot tell.I’ll wear my scarf, I’ll wear my coat;all will be well.My mother will offer me chestnuts,I’ll accept.I’ll smile to her and she won’t knowI wept.Whether I’ll be reborn in Spring, well,who could say?At least I’ll know I have no debtsto pay.
RestorationDig into me with your hooks,mangle and shred and pull apart the fleshto uncover what lies beneath,the source of my unrest.I reckon it is not the bloodpumping through hearts alone,it cannot be the marrow,resting deep inside a bone.What is, what is, what isthe cause of discontent?What is the reason for this painwhich won't relent?Dig into me, bring me those blazing claws,my being tear apart and reinvent its laws,construct the puzzle from the startand make the torment cease,or let me rest in piecesand in peace.
Shape ShifterSkin worn inside out,carefully hiding a zipper under long hairwhose colour changesevery other week.The eyes are almost always the same,in shape, that is.Their hue changesand you couldn’t tell if they aregreen or grey or blue.The architecture of the bones is slightly modified,not too much,just enough to keep from dissolving.From time to time I parade around in someone else’s shoesand they don’t fit butI keep walking, strutting.Nobody notices the stranger wearing my face,wearing a smile that doesn’t belong to me,they don’t realize I’m hushed upunderground.When I laugh, I surprise myself,yet no one shows the slightest sign of tension.And how can they,when there are days that even I can’t tell who’s laughing?Is it the shape shifteror me?The days I choose to exhibit my true colours,are usually the most grey ones.The shape shifter cowers from me, bleeding,while I too allow myself to bleedand I don’t accuse her
k.n., ii7 9 13 he took a bow overlooking interstate 680: car-comets in full spin, orbital lights his dreams planetary, saturnian - he almost sprouted wings that night and i cannot say it would not be beautiful; the palpations of downtown pumping luminous cells, coursing through highway veins and he, standing in the heart of his world visions galactic mind ecstatic - his feet began to lift just a little.9 20 13a few phone callsand a pair of
stars only die from drug overdoses.there's a boy i knowwho used to swallow coinslike hard candy;tree sapstuck to his chinfrom my own hands,Septemberlucid in our lungsand the roada blur from our sadistic words.he doesn't believe in hellandneither do i.but i believe in the stars and i want to know what happens to themwhen they die.
The Curious and Peculiar Tale of the Simonov TwinsThe Curious and Peculiarly Tragic Tale of the Simonov TwinsI have done most of my post-doctorate work alongside Dean Eroslide as he ran Harry Loaine School for Boys. It was a tiny little establishment, set up in a series of pathways and cottages that made up the dormitories and the 'holistic' and 'traditional', designed to accommodate Dean Eroslide's philosophy of natural living: 'clean and untouched life energy regulates all chakras and promotes a positive educational environment'. Needless to say, Harry Loaine School for Boys was a parent's last resort, when everything from Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to Interventions and to Involuntary Hospitalization was never enough. The Dean had no degree of any sort other than a few licenses for Chakra healing and Reiki, so the entirety of the upkeep of the facility remained on the shoulders of these desperate parents--and of course the government kickbacks the School received for keeping me as a full time Child Psychologist
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernovato let the stardust andcosmosslide down my parched throat andwash over my intestines,like a pebbledrowning in the sound--
the letter that never arrivedas if grief had never hollowed out my heart,caverns echoing with the memory of a laugh,as if despair had never stolen my voiceuntil love whispered in my earand I knew what mattered,to speakof knowing: there are thingsyou will decide to protect yourself from,painyou must never relive,and some you must liveand live again,no matter the cost
Letter to a loved one, on losing a loved one.I want to tell youthat this grief is temporary,that even if you feel lost,you are not a ship adriftwithout a crew.But darling, grief stillsits heavy on my tongue andI will not lie to you. [Grief gathers at the back of my mouth and renders me useless on days that feel like the day she died, my limbs heavy, my heart sore.]Instead I am going to tell youthat grief is not the last thingyou will ever feel;there will still berumpled sheets and lazy smiles,your fingers will still findmy naked waist beneath the blanketsand mine will still fit neatly betweenthe knobs of your spine.We will still drink too much coffee,smoke too many cigarettes, and love withurgency but not with haste.I will sit with your grief,as you have sat with mine andwe will be okay.
Black Widow IIawayi'm going to break awaydrain i'm in the drain of drains and slowly being spun downwards and downwards and downwards and down wards.thirteenMom's rose garden grew beneath the steps, and I did too. They weren't aligned and it bothered me. I always tried to fight it but she would come down and lay her hand on my bare skin and whisper, "They aren't growing."And I would be red like the roses and blue like the violets.She grew beneath the steps too.pastnotlookingforthepastorthe f u t u r e e e e e esetset down the lighterput it down.don't make it brighter.I set the roses on fire.ingenuityshe never knew I them on fire. I set them on fire.her hands on my bare skin and whisper,they aren't growingrose
i don't think im alive enough to die yet.we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners,cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lipsand morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems.i remember how i was always shot.you ran away when i didn't dieand left me to bleed outonto the cold concrete.but you don't understand-dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticksdon't beat true. it's just dull thumpingin a hollow chest cavity.(and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)
AerosolIt has been a day and a half since the crash, and I have found a cabin. In some ways, this is a relief. I don’t know if I could face another night on the mountain without shelter. Outside, a fire does no good: the heat simply travels upwards. However, this place also raises some difficult questions. I estimate that I’ve put eight miles between myself and the crash site. I don’t know if this will be enough. It occurs to me that I don’t really know anything.The survival manual recommends staying with the plane. It explains that this affords the best chance of rescue. It explains that the wreckage offers warmth and shade. It explains that seventy percent of pilots who stay are located within three days, while seventy percent of those who leave are never recovered. It does not explain what to do if the payload begins to leak.Jenkins shouted after me as I ran, said it was our duty to defend the aircraft. I tried to warn him about the spur of wood protrudin
pollenwasp-waisted beautypray into my collarbonelet your snake tongue slitherwith the syllables.i wish for soft-chested nights,and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,nurse my coiling tongue with yours;tap my scalp like a silent drum,and wind my hair in between your fingerslike broken guitar strings.(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
not grief, but something like itmy grandmother's tartan bag sits on an upside-down bucket in the basement,full to the brim with little liquor bottles and cardboard boxesI go to do the laundry,pass it twice an hourand every time, just for a moment, I think she's visiting
A Short VisitIn the country,the scarcity of humanity,our ability to stand outside and be alone,holds an undeniable appeal to me.Even in the cold, the quiet can bea great friend. The sun was out today,pleasant on the skin. The wind had subduedfrom last night's blowing. I sat in mygreat-grandfather's metal lawn chair.He kept this one outside the barn.Told me once how he found a meteoritein the chair. Said it hit the barnand bounced right down to sit a spell.Said it gave him a little shock,a space-spark he called it,when he picked it up from its resting spot.How old was he then?My age? I only recall an aged,bald, weathered, cowboy who still preferredto do his business in the outhouseinstead of the indoor room with waterfrom pipes. He told mehe knew when I was being bornbecause his knees itched from whereI would sit and his hands stungfrom where he would spank me.He and Granny shared a small house,blown by the horrid western Oklahoma wind,on a hill that overlooked their pond
ocean lungsyou weigh something like gravityin my tired expanse. you aresand;(my once splendid mountain)my love is the oceanthat has worn you down.with my monstrous tongue,i pulled you in.as you fall,sweeping peacefully into the depthsand filling each crevice,i am learning to inhale shores.some would say i'm suffocatingand bring me buckets of air (only to have itescape my slippery grip).no, the tides need something heavyto make of hera home.
OctoberI only felt autumn's presenceIn October, in HamburgA month after she was expectedCrisp leaves, warm lightGeese on the lawn by the lakeAnd lonelinessStretching through short days and long nightsHeralds of winter's comingShoes worn thin by milesI wander, a stranger, muteHead full, heart singingThe love of dark trunks and bright leavesUntempered by geographyOr language
adventurousyou're walking on a tightropeas thin and as brittle asgossamer in the cool rain I dare you totake a barefoot baby stepall misty tundra and windlay in a cobweb hammock be allyour afternoon reverieall your forgotten regretsyou never thought would brighten you dreamof the chances you will takefor it is not an old end--it is a new beginning;it is not a winter melt--but a summer to be
the invisible wounds of warhome is so different when you'restanding behind the wall;i wonder of the people wholive/will live in that house now as istand yonder on the neighbor'syard,my face illuminated in a yellowlight.i wonder if they'd listen to my windingstories; the nights i'd screamback at my parents as they screamedat each other -the tornadoes and storms that rippedthrough the back yard, leaving us untouchedbut devastating others -the christmas and easter mornings, goodtimes and bad, dreams and heartbreakand so much cigarette smoke stainingthe walls and my lungs.(we were a good american family withgood american values and traditions,weren't we?)i wonder if they'd listen to my twistingroots, sitting calmly as i'd tell themof the horrors of standing nakedin front of my mother to have her tellme my body was wrong.i've always been told that peopleabuse in myriads of ways, but neverthat the walls of my old homewould abuse along.
Peacetime Songs or EuthanasiasI wanted a war-time melody for the aching ears of all the people who silently protest the military efforts of our time; a song to soothe, a flood of words in which to drown our battered hopes, for their mercy. So I conjured in my rib-caged eye the images of war,the open minds of fallen soldiers, spilling New York and Los Angeles, Moscow and Baghdad onto the streets of anywhere; their mouthing wounds elevating cries into the city stench of gunpowder blackened buildings; the look on their eyes when the true meaning of damage and collateral crashes into their fleshy souls, begging in curses, wailing arms at them for a redraw of the cards: You instead, not my little boy! But every soldier is a little boy,and as I saw them huddled beside Humvees, warding cold deserts with divine stories of mundane happenings at hometown proms, repeating to themselves this weapon is lighter than a wrench; as I saw them mourning for the friends that wouldn't recognize them, returned, victorious shells, I re
Dead languages and bitter teaWe were directly opposed,circling each other in a confining pool,my mouth seeking yours, but only findingthe fragments of composure you left in your wake."Nunc scio quid sit Amor",you said once, and I agreed with you,then looked up what the hell you meantas soon as I was alone.We went stargazing when we were hungryand fed ourselves with the namesand the glow of all the starsthat spread themselves out to tease us."This is what I see in you," you flattered,pointing at the sky while the wetness of the grasssoaked into our backs."You're that string of pearls, right there,hanging around the neck of the sky.You are more than what I’ve been looking for,more than anything I've ever tried to find,"you painted stars and lies.I left you job listings in the mornings,and you told me my fortune,in the bottom of my teacup.We were directly opposed; I told you to leave if you wanted,so on a night too cold for me to see the comfort in your dreams,you left, gathering
Victory in defeatAmid the horror and the bloodshed, weeping,I dared to look at my loathed foe.He smirked and then he promised:“If you bow down to me,upon my word, itends. Bow to me,and go home.”I saidNo.