Poetry
Melt into you.
In a tangle of limbs and hair,
he presses his forehead to hers,
and she can feel the world around her melting.
They are only water colors now,
radio waves,
a puddle after it rains.
God laughs.
This life is a comedy, after all.
The last few weeks
everyone around me seems to be dripping
in their own self importance…
not because they are selfish,
but because we are all covered in rain clouds.
Everywhere I look
people are missing,
falling out of love,
grasping at straws,
or sleeping under their mattresses.
I noticed only because it has been happening to me too.
A non-stop stream of events,
not really the usual "circumstances happening in threes",
but more like a piano dropped from a top story balcony.
And inside is a note that reads:
Sooner or later you were going to get hit.
Sway
Lips pressed together...
As I breathe out
you keep breathing in.
Sweat clinging to clothes,
as drops of sunlight find their way through a sheet held up as a curtain.
The tiny rose print swaying in the breeze of the open window,
and you make a noise so low and deep,
that I can taste my own heart beat.
Lips pressed together...
trying to find a way to melt into each other,
as I breathe out
and you keep breathing in.
Boundless Love
She puts ink to rice paper, taking care to not smear or bend
The first time I saw you,
My skin was vibrating from below.
Inside my gut
there was a string,
and the more I pulled,
the more I realized the other end was held up by you.
And don't think this is normal
or something that happens out of the blue.
I am not just anyone
I am this brilliant burning light,
but when I look closer,
I am made up of little bits of you.
Before this world began
and the world before that one-
We floated in a wave connected through light,
and it was there that things were planned.
We just had to find the right path.
We just had to take special care,
to know that things could turn out right.
Guy walks into a bar. He is a hurricane.
I cannot save anyone but myself,
And even then sometimes the line is blurry.
My heart breaks for a suffering I cannot love any longer.
For a distance only held up by mile markers.
For a love that starved itself of reality and backbone.
It is not me you seek any more,
But someone to wrap up in your ideals,
And show off to the world.
A place to mold that hidden love you do not know how to tame.
It was never really the same after that,
that time we rushed in on love and demanded it let us in.
I will never be the same after you.
Your mark is a notch that I will carry around like a stain on my heart.
Forever bruised forever crude.
You were that line, sometimes blurred, but deep and rooted in consequence.
The Open Road, A Classic, and You.
there is something about the wide open spaces growing out into the distance
only to suddenly find resistance in a tiny cityscape.
freedom in the wind, as it caresses faces,
as strands of red hair flow out into the open air.
and I watch as your strong hands grip an old steering wheel,
sun-kissed skin peeking out from around gold rimmed sunglasses.
my own hands find themselves resting on your worn out denim jeans,
just below pockets- full of loose change, hotel keys, and cigar wrappers.
celebrating the end of the world- a collusion of supernova strength,
leaving the sound of wild horses to reverberate out from our hearts
and fill these wide open spaces.
Between
I enjoy my isolation. Loathe my job. Sing loudly in my car. Stumble with my wine. Giggle from that oozing space within. Work on a novella that will never be finished. Eat a steady diet of cheese. Fight fire with words. Sleep in a molded imprint. Use Jedi mind tricks on strangers. Laugh at myself when I’m alone. Ponder the future of plastic. Remain calm in crisis but fall apart in traffic. Sarcastically call out my friends. Then call out myself. Stare at my walls. Imagine what life would be with the forty degrees I seem to 'need'. Peel oranges bent over my sink whilst humming. Wear nothing but a sweatshirt. Stand in the shower with the water on 'boil'. Plot. Knit. Photoshop. Scrub the tiny spaces between the tile and my bathtub. Spend hours on the phone discussing the future of Red Oaks. Design knick-knacks. Create origami creatures. Watch pointless TV. Laugh at puns. Smile randomly at warm memories. Try talking to my cat in a series of clicks and pitched meows. Send care packages with random pieces of paper. Scribble. Draw. Try to massage my own neck. Trip. Dance. Spin. Lose control of my nose during a laughing spell. Nap just to feel the bed take on weight. Read the thesaurus. Watch the news. Find ways to make sign language sexy.
These are the things I do when you are not around.
When I am biding my time.
Between the spaces and you.
Looking Forward To You.
There is a list,
torn with sharp delicate creases,
that sits patiently in an old cigar case,
just below a type writer on a dusty shelf.
On it is typed the following things:
Roam the country side with my hand on your thigh,
Build a fort in the middle of the living room,
lay on a beach and read to each other,
get kicked out of a bar as the sun comes up,
kiss at the top of a Ferris wheel and then fight over the cotton candy,
follow a band on tour,
never get out of bed...well, at least for two days,
sail around the world marking on a giant map, each spot we made love,
invest in a costume chest,
start a softball team with our friends,
rent a sports car in England and drive around listening to the Stones,
get drunk in Scotland and solve the mystery of mythical beasts,
grow our hair out and live on a house boat,
laugh and sweat with feverish enjoyment,
talk in hushed tones about dark things in a cigar bar,
plot our story in the back stacks of a library,
roam the land hand in hand,
write poems on bathroom stalls,
invest in a comic book storage locker,
get lost on a back road and enjoy the day.
This list sits tucked
with extra care
and looks forward to you...
New Years dissolves into something bitter sweet
Broke. Then broken.
Strength reserved for things just like this.
Forced to act in the face of politics.
Must. Find. A. Better. Way.
One that doesn't smell of shit and piss.
And sting at the touch.
Something has to give within this surging and pulsing tide.
Something more real than just a concept like ‘Hope’.
Or ‘Faith’.
Or 'whateva shit happens'.
A fever fills my head.
And my body falls asleep on itself.
Shutting down under the bullshit of things like money- 'a living'.
‘Making a way in this world’.
This isn't an American Tale.
And I ain't singing some sad rat-like fairytale.
Wreckage In My Love
Grapes in brilliant liquid form
comfort the storm in this leaky heart
the day of forced hallmark tradition
stung in your words,
and I had to keep my fingers smoking
in order to not break things.
Seems these days I’m trying to recover
from one long nightmarish hangover.
If it’s not death parading on my door step
then it’s you dressed for a black tie affair.
Thank god for silence between bed sheets
interrupted by early morning sirens.
Thank god for indifference and aloofness
interrupted by the need to connect.
Sometimes the immediate craving in you
mixes with the dormant seed inside me.
And the wreckage of my life subsides
into a pile of rubble, dust, and some ashes.