bibliophile

she reads me
like a book through
a pane of bubbly glass -
the words blur, but
she gets the gist of
the plot
which arcs over our lives
oblivious, uncaring
of the fallout, the
pieces it will leave
behind

library

how much i miss
my solitude -
the daily walk up
to the writer's room, the
silence full of pen scratchings

through the rain i'd run, book
tucked under arm,
hood pulled
low over my eyes.
the alone-ache
blending into something i
could live with - a painful
waking
pins and needles

unsatisfied

you left me gasping, body
[clit] still throbbing
aching for completion
as you sank into slumber

and i used my tears to water the bed
because it was the one thing
i'd wanted, in a day filled
with a line of spectacularly
shitty things -
i gave up
left my body huddled, alone
drifting in blankets
that were not warmed
by your sleeping heat -
you could have
not been there at all

southwest

what will we remember, when
these years are through? a
scent of dry grass, the unbearable
heat of a scorching sun -
agave

speechless

my dull, bleeding mouth
chewed in indecision,
the moments
when i bite back
words - the
things i do not say
drowning
in my mouth

a household obscured

languid evening
smoke curling around
the air, hugging
the walls & ceiling
smoke drowning it all -
the noise of tv, the dishwasher's
dull hum
is lost in haze
[a household obscured]

storm

i wish it would rain
hard,
wash away
all my anger -
the resentment i hold close,
the lack of brightness
to my days.
if i am dark, the sky, also
should join the night.
the wet grass, water streaming
from my car as i accelerate, &
stop.
the people slouch along, as if
the clouds press them more firmly
to the earth.
i straighten my shoulders, take my place
in my environment.
let the rain fall,
let this all wash away.

cloud blood

someone (who?)
i don't remember
called it cloud blood and it's true
today, after last night's hail
tapping me to sleep, brittle
against the windows.
they predicted tornadoes
running through the channel
of the city. none came -
my disappointment, instead.
i settle in
for another week in
corporate hell, use
my illicit nail polish
to stain my fingers an
unobtrusive shade, armor
against the constant application
of soap and bleach water.
the chemicals leach into my skin.

the shame

i do not
miss you
although
i wanted to

clock

fits & starts
the ricochet forward, and
fall
backwards, languidly
time lacking
a center to cement to.
the flying - faster,
breathless
rushing ache of it -
and the dull backwash
of hours moving sludgelike
in the center.
the years so fast,
this month will never end.
this week can't go by soon enough.
only four hours
before i can go. oh god. four
hours - an eternity -

[even if i hardly use them]

i've been stockpiling
razors again
it always helps to calm
my mind

distinct

the scars keep coming
& the only thing that worries me
is that others might
see these marks i paint
into my flesh
and believe
i'm too crazy to be competent -
i've never worried
about opinions,
but it has occurred to me
that my arms might
paint a picture of a person
far more unstable than
i am today - i don't want
people to see a mental case
i want my arms to testify
to my great will
to survive

full time

the concrete floor
presses ache into my spine
pacing the same spot
for hours, giving others
my time
downing the free coffee
to stay awake.
snatched hours of sleep -
never enough to wake in anything
but a panic - the
rushing, rising sun sharp
against my windshield.
they say to take my
piercings out -
of course
i don't comply.
i do not blend here,
the tired girl
rubbing her eyes,
wiping the lack
of sleep on her pants.
order:
latte, mocha,
CD/S/L - NF
americano, half-caf -
rinse & repeat -
the code of coffee.

marked

i think there will be
no part of this life
that will not stain me,
leave me scarred.
my wrists ache in the
morning, now -
another reminder that the
invincibility of youth
inevitably wanes.
i live in the in-between,
the light and dark,
the gloaming
which makes me blurry, indistinct.

to pretend

i met a fellow poet
plying his trade, paid
by the flowing wealth of Big Football,
as we all were,
playing the fantasy of New orleans
for people who have their names
on buildings, faces
on alumni magazines -
the types who never
ended up with their feet
in the gutters, to see
the poets who
perform on the streets.

louisiana

the coolness of air
poised over a swamp
murky and green
with gators basking
in the remainder of the
heat of the sun.
now the air bites
through my sweater
and i wish for warmer clothing
a jacket, pants.
i'd kill for coffee but settle
for lukewarm water.
i smile when necessary.
sneak away when i can
find the time - i often wonder
how i got here - this place,
town, job - and
i remember there is
no reason, only randomness.
only senselessness.

heroin[e]

the slick needle
slid out of its packaging
i watched her ritual
powder, cotton, water,
syringe.  she did it
again.
i wouldn't let her pierce
my skin.  took the rubber
band, wound it tight
tapped air to the surface
a little squirt, a dribble
of clear.
my veins have always
stood at attention
for me
but especially
this night
waiting for the sting
a raw rush, i
new to this world.
i watched her eyes dilate, beautifully
felt my own respond
in kind
as she kissed the perfect dot of red
left behind.
first try bullseye
and i finally understood
these hows & whys

the second time, i
let her,
fascinated by the intake
of my blood into the
chamber, right before
the plunge.
she held her arm out for me -
and i recall knowing
that she was gentler with me
than my hands could ever be

new city

night -
our walls are strange,
and i am listening
to the trains
as they sing
in harmonies.
we are close
enough that i can hear
the clicking tracks.
day -
i stare at our
inherited patch of grass,
wondering where to plant my trees
that they might root,
something
i never seem
to know how to do.

you

make sure to lie,
past your lips
and straight through
your teeth.

gay as i want to be

my father paved the way:
divorced my mother
and learned
at 54
how to become
what he had always been.
i admired him, mired
as i was
in the dying embers of self-denial
the three years
of running away from pain
encapsulated in the memories
of betrayal.

in that fear
i betrayed myself.

now, my father recommends places
so wonderfully gay
i marvel at the fact that he
ever became this comfortable with himself
at all.

i stepped into this world
wanting so badly
to become a part of something
bigger than myself.
my dad
the unlikely pioneer
in this journey.
i am proud
of us.

the last

i hold a bandage
over my wrist, obscuring
my tattoo:
same old pattern, new refrain.

the worst part is
the asking -
everyone wants to know
& those who deserve it
are the hardest
of all
to tell.

my tired resignation,
it's really nothing, no
big deal, look drop it
already
it is unexplainable.
i can't patch this up,
for you, with logic.

meanwhile you shake
your head, look
so dejected
i always wonder why -
it always removes from me
any emotion at all.

tip me, bitches

how ironic, that the man
who would not give me tips,
bought me the button
demanding them

how vividly

i remember
killing the bird.
it lay on the sidewalk,
lungs fluttering, too
young, quite,
to fly.
thought it was dead
until i stooped to look closer,
lifted it
into my hands

tiny thing, yet it had
the obvious weight
of the living
that indefinable force, a presence
no one can explain.
i held it, broken thing
too fractured to live, but
not soon enough for dying

i carried the sparrow
beneath its oak,
laid it gently on the ground
but couldn’t leave it
to its suffering.

i said, i’m sorry
put the tip of my boot
on its tiny head, and
pressed,
feeling the inaudible
pop
released my foot

it lay still. i
hefted it once more in my palm
feeling the lightness
utter stillness
and placed it on its bed
of autumn leaves.

this is
death, i thought, the
moment between
animation
and stillness.

i buried its body under the tree.
i walked on.

ghosts

i did not dream her
completely. she
was real, or
i guess is
although i haven’t seen
her face in years
almost seven, though it
barely seems so long ago.
i guess this is the beginning
of getting older
letting old loves fade,
save in dreams.
i met a girl, yesterday
who reminded me of
the girl in my dream
sweet, a bit reticent,
with shining eyes.
i wonder, sometimes
if i’m trying to
remake my past,
right
what withered
on the vine.

morphing

i crawl into the familiar
accoutrements, high
high heels strapped
to my feet.
on the stage it’s the customers’
fierce stares that strip me,
not of clothing, but
respect. they
show contempt on their faces,
take in the sights but
leave my stage bare, so
i don’t get undressed.
i am already naked –
sure they can feel my
utter loathing
just as surely as i can feel
their condescension
that sense of entitlement
where they believe
my time is not
worthy, as if it is free.
i pay myself in small
revenges, “accidentally”
kick their legs,
when they sit beside me,
trying to
take me in.
at night, i go home
wash the rude eyes
off of me, and remember
the good ones – the
boy who touched me as if
something sacred
and i start to relearn
the goodness of people.
i do.
in the morning, dragging
myself to the shower,
i hold this in my mind.
i go back to the club.
i go inside.

that comes when you think you might

perversely pondering the implications of death,
i scuffed through fallen blossoms
staring through you like a broken window,
too ashamed to admit
that we were disjointed

i wanted to hit you, but made do
with thrashing to glittering dust the pieces
of your heart that would be the hardest
to reclaim
with breaking our flesh, creating scars
which bite and sting us,
still

i watched flower petals swirl down
noting the incredible ill-timing
of this unexpected fracture

but all my rage
does not alter the fact that
i drank until i forgot reticence
finally unlocked the door
let you in

you were shocked, i could tell
but you wanted to fuck so badly
ravenous with desire
heavy under my fingers
and i shrank within myself
scarlet in my anger, screaming
i am impervious

we ground our fragments into something solid,
barely restrained
but
i understood, then, the complications
of what would supersede us

cento

a hundred times consider what you've said,
sleepily indifferent –
the chill of closed eyelids

the trick is to make it personal.
i'm drunk – i stand on the porch in my bathrobe
let silence drill its hole
disappear, emerge, twitch, reverse course.
what he needed from me i have no idea.
oh plunge me deep in love—
in the glaring gap


*this piece created for a contest. my entry is here.

colors of the mind

i would walk through
our shotgun house for soda
the most ridiculous shade
of purple,
but there’s a redhead in
our bed, fucking himself
not to be crass, but it’s true
and i don’t feel like interrupting

this is a weird domesticity, the type
where you know these things,
and it’s not remotely awkward
although i’ve been with lovers
who’d go to any lengths to hide it,
even if i knew anyway

this day is tending towards blue, although
the clouds are persistently grey
as is the cat twining between
my legs, pestering for attention

it’s funny how red hair looks
brown, when wet
the slow change from dull
to iridescent, as it dries
on my shoulders
me in my brightpink
plaid pajamas which
i never changed from
when i migrated to the couch,
to join its slow meditations

amazing how the green light
from the porch full of plants
reflects
inside our living room,
turns the slowly fading light
alive

Matthew

i always wondered why
you left the burned hole in the floor
once you found it,
didn’t try to hide the evidence
under layers of putty, as
would i

your name always evoked for me
theology class, Mark, Luke, John,
the books i read unwillingly,
having had enough information already
for a religion i knew
i would never belong to

you
comment on the length of my hair
as you are enveloped in the
smoke, the haze of your hookah
how much it’s grown -
how much i’ve changed,
you mean,
although you wouldn’t say it

we own cats, now
slinking from room to
room, as if they
own the place

and you have not changed,
despite my bend
and warp
constant, and sure of yourself
in ways i will never be,
despite all my confidence, and
appearance to the contrary

temple

last night, adorned
with flowers on
a garland,
the monk handed me
literature, asked
if i wanted
the Bhagavad-Gita,
offered me clothing
for the times when
we gather to dance
and learn
what it means to accept
another’s culture

i try to imagine me -
wrapped in sari,
my pale face as obvious
as a beacon

we chant, Hare Krishna, Hare
Hare, Krishna, Krishna
my second time
uttering these words,
seeing
that all beliefs are really
one, if you boil them
neatly
down

my friend persuaded me here
free vegetarian dinner, and
i came for the Indian spices
i missed, from when my roommate
used to fill our house with the scent
of curry

left, wondering how
these people are so willing
to enfold me entirely, say:
“you don’t have to change
your religion to grow
as a person”
so i come, on sundays, to temple.
i grow.