lunacy.what the moon teaches us is
no one exists as a constant.
some days you will orbit elsewhere.
the angles of light that
make up the shadows of you
will keep moving.
it is the same with the ocean
and how it does not meet
the shore the same each time:
some days it will come crashing,
eroding: or it comes back to kiss
its edges over and over
there are some days i am more
of a tsunami. there will be days
you will be eclipsed.
and i don't mind this. the moon is
up in the sky but the ocean still feels
the weight of its pull, always.
i want to drown in the
push and pull of your gravity
in all the ways that's possible.
i could get used to the
different phases of this:
i could get used to our lunacy.
Autumn Againi. Autumn
The leaves are just starting to turn –
someone has been tattooing them,
highlighting their silhouettes
and gossamer dew pearls
hang in the grass in the early morning.
We can feel the frost framing our days,
the hint of it in our cups of tea
and in our scarves draped over sweatshirts
(it’s not quite cold enough for a coat yet),
and in the musk of the understory and the fireplaces
that fill our lungs and
we exhale this out into the night and
we form nebulae with the water vapor in our breath.
And when the first echoes of shivers
start to blur our outlines,
we snuggle, sweater to sweater,
and dream of the blushing trees.
These are the shortest days;
We wake well before the sun has even whispered along the horizon,
and rest long after it has slipped back into somnolence,
and the pale skies are wishing they could bask in daylight,
and they are bleakly blue,
heavy-lidded and laden with snow
that blows, blustery,
and we watch fro
The Art of Poetry KillingWhen I find an old poem
Packaged beneath an allegory
Or taped beside a piece of prose,
Warm and balmy and still swollen
Ripe with the undisturbed
Within their plastic wrapper,
I untangle its cellophane bindings
To find it's too old
And too stale for the proper use of a poem
So I pluck out its
Like some guts of a creature
And sew them
Onto other dust poems
Like the mismatched socks
Of a child
Just like murder is an art,
I still walk away with ink on my hands.
the dissection of matricidethe first thing you have to learn is how
if you pull and mold your nose with
your fingers, it will shape the cartilage
in slopes and thin streams to allow
the slimy species of scaly fish
to reproduce and (meiosis)
in the paper thin skin that separates
a chapter from a novel
people do not smell like roses when
they wake up and they don’t keep
their fingernails clipped the way
you do - instead they wake up with
the leftover taste of rum rolling around
in their mouth, forgetting
that they called you at three in the
morning to wonder why you
never kissed them back that one time,
and how you got out of that
ticket when a cop pulled you over for
speeding because your tears
were never sad, they were rubber
burning on the streets, the cacophony
of nebulous bathroom tile sobs;
eleven-hundred pixels and miles per
hour and you still can’t fly
the second thing you have to learn
is that you must wear your
culture like a badge until he peels
your skin away like th
tombstones don't mark much of anythingeight-year-olds don't understand
death. they don't know why the dog no longer
barks or why the cricket no longer
chirps or why the grasshopper lies still. they were brought
to life believing that we will live forever, yet the world
slams a fist, shows them
forever is never and that they will not believe
in anything so beautiful ever
(they live in laughter
and in love
but sorrow shall fold them into something
sixteen-year-olds believe in something
after, though they don't quite know
what. they understand the cat didn't tear the feathers from
the bird just for the hell of
it, but for the life of it, and where did that life go?
yet they forget faith as time rolls on
and brush death from their shoulders
like dripping rain.
(they learn you can't stride on a cloud
and fall through childhood
thirty-two-year-olds forget that
life moves on without the ones you used to love,
and they hate it; they hold on to
rusted photographs and tinted memories gone b
david and goliath.He passes under
the dying streetlamps'
darkening splashes on his face,
against the rooftops.
The tarmac, painted with his footsteps,
white lines of vertebrae
tickle along its back.
Lovely glass, shattered fragments
ruffle the curb of the pavement,
strands of rainwater
whisper along the gutter
in hymnal honesty; and sunlight seems swallowed
by the swollen beast of night.
prickle at the back of his memory,
a nervous pattern of speech,
syllables of iambic chattering
teeth against the cold:
the hotel window, shining with
the gaze of a thousand tourists' wonderment,
is where his own eyes rest,
as if the world is born anew
and love-songs spike the evening air
his life-tousled hair. He
walks on, passes on,
a stranger in a foreign land;
the moonlight seems
to turn about him, embrace his form,
a lonely touch, not quite animate in its caress,
but his love was the colour
of seawater on gravel,
and he would not take the taste of her brea
comatose.i never told you:
i hated the way you smelled
like winter, like
fog or listerine or
something long forgotten.
i guess i miss you the way
i miss brooklyn,
all thirsty for a song
i've never heard, pining for
a place i've never been.
i never told you:
i keep your old promises all tucked up inside,
like bruises sleeping fallow
along my hipbones.
i promise i'll love you always, i promise
i'll fix the coffee machine tomorrow,
and if you let me,
i'll fix you
well, you never were a fixer.
what you are is tired, and you never understood
why this fucked-up little town
unmade its bed, swallowed an ambien,
swallowed you. listen:
we were always comatose, clutching
hands gone cold
SynestheticSometimes I taste test names;
Anita – sharp citrus
for the ann-i,
a tortilla for the taa.
Brad – I like
its weight; a slab
of marbled chocolate
melted on my tongue
before the last letter.
Charlotte – something
savory, but sweet; pork
marinated in honey
on sweet rolls.
Doug – vanilla
a dusting of graham
an Oreo with no filling.
Elena – spice
and heat radiate –
eh-layne-ahh – a corona
the second e.
Fletcher – it’s syllables
mesh like mashed
potatoes, lumpy yet
Gladys – dried
lemons and stale
Spree candies, rattling
inside and empty pitcher.
Hawthorne – brackish,
the leftover remains
of a magnificent feast,
the apple still stuck
in the boar’s mouth.
Imogen – lean
and stringy. Green
beans and chicken
broth at a small,
Jules – red velvet
and hot peppers, a week
old cake with hard
Cliches I Have Datedi.
Anna collected stardust
like pennies, except
pennies are worth something.
Claire had ink
running through her veins; dead,
from an unsterilized needle.
Robin had birdbones
strung together on windchimes.
Sarah’s eyes were always
to the sky, and never
Lizbeth took my breath away
with every punch to the stomach.
Rosalie had too many things
in her ribcage; emotional adrenaline
triggered her arrhythmia.
Emily left me
for a boy with starrier freckles.
I am one cat away
from a stereotype, or one girl
closer to a happy ending.