The Ink-Dark MoonThe next timeyou feel self-conscious,just remember:once a month,the moon gets out of bedwithout her face.
In Dark Silencea pile of exiled leavesand a grief-stricken moonsetcapturethe secrets of fireflies.A stranger to gravity, sometimestrees know how to be brave,standing tallwhere the stars collide.
Bashful SkiesThere will be nights you stay awaketo see, to count, to make wishes onthe stars...and they won't be there.The city lights will be too bright,the moon will take center stage for a tragic soliloquy,storm clouds will be thick and angry at you for not paying attention. They will get in your way.There will be mornings you get up earlyto see, to paint, to be inspired bythe sunrise...and he will disappoint youby wearing faded colors that wash him out,by being so late you have to go to work with unwashed hair and yesterday's wrinkled blouse,by deciding to wear no colors at allbut shrouding himself in last night's storm clouds instead.At these times, take a deep breath,think about all those moments you've had it rough,and remember this:even the sky wakes up feeling ugly...but the sky still tries to put its best foot forwardwhen the time comes.
Shy TruthsI spilled a cup of oceanand opened my handshoping to catch the truth.Empty seashells,broken clams,and a palm-fullof worn pebbleswere all I caught.I guessthe truthis shy.
He Came to Me in the Grocery StoreAt the end of aisle thirteensurrounded by tin foil, saran wrap, parchment paperand Ziploc bags--everything requiredto make a life filled to burstingwith overdue student loan billsand bimonthly paychecksthat can't be savedjust a little easier to handle--he appeared."What are you doing here?"I asked him,the floor beneath my kneescold and unyieldingthrough denim jeans."Tell your mom hello,"he replied instead,smiling,and then I blinkedand he must have walked away,though I could almost swearhe faded out.When I opened my eyes,the alarm was ringingand the husband was asleepby my side."Hi, grandpa,"I thoughtas I drug myself from warm covers and a heavy arm."You look good."
Cupid's Late Night Radio ShowCupid hosted late night radio once last week,told a caller wanting advice on women and pick-up linesthat love is a three ring circus:the trapeze artist has just discovereda latent fear of heightsand refuses to come back down,the elephants have trampled the contortionistfor cheating on her loverwith the lion tamer, Emil,and the ringleader can't find his top hat,his checkered bow tie, or his courage--no one's really sure which it is.Listening in that night, loneliness eating away at my gut,I couldn't help thinking if that's the case,then life is a zoo keeping us caged.
Lucid DreamingDreamaboutthe twilight--in that soft time,you are free to re-imagine the world.
The World's Largest Pocket WatchThe sun tickshalf-past the clouds,flaring the time.
Shedding PoetryYou stuffed the pagesfrom your favorite booksinto the cracks of your walls,dialoguesand climaxesand epiloguesbeating back the chillof a black-and-white world.When I peeled back the paint,fistfulsof happily-ever-aftersand tragic goodbyesfell into my lap,a tidal wave of emotionsyou strove to shedfrom your fingertipslike poetry.
Prism BoyLoving prism boyimprisoned in Leaves of Grass.Sprint, grow, transcend – boundtowards a Jupiter dawn:your natural liberty.
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
the stained masqueradei have a red-line-rash from scratching too much;you always rubbed me the wrong way, but i guessthat's what i liked about you, wasn't it?you could go on for days about how girlsshouldn't wear powder foundationwhile you dabbed it on your own nose.i hated the way your rain boots would squeakafter you jumped into a puddle of mud.you never cared about "intended use," andi guess that's why you liked me. you could useme any way you wanted and i just wouldn't care.the ballroom inside your mind is cracking, though,because i took off my mask when i wasn't supposed to.it's not time to play make believe any more:"you need to grow up, earn your own bread and butter."but you couldn't take the reality of the worldso you hid inside your mind and used me as your puppet.i'm leaving marks on my arm again, as i lie on your bedwithout pajamas, because if i turn updead i want the world to know what happened to me.i want them to know that a girl acting like a traincrashed into my life an
Things I Would Tell HerI want to tell her the thingsI'll tell her when she’s older,but the information terrifies her.In order of importance:she has luna moths in her head,monarch butterflies in her stomach,and a feral fetus in her womb.Her handsare collapse-clasped and foldedin her lap;she holds her elbows like wingsaway from her ribs,ready to flap,to flutter,to fly.I want to tell herto keep one hand in her purseso she can always find her keys,to keep an eye on the doorand the door always openso she can run if she doesn't feel safe,but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch redand the tension in her shoulderswarns me she's not readyto hear this.And there is the possibility thatmaybe I’m not ready to tellthis fourteen-year-oldnow woman,I’m just as devastated as her;that she is surrounded by friends and familywho are violated by a communitywhere no man can say yes all men.
Cyhydedd HirDost thou ever hearA voice in thine earSpeaking loud and clearThrough each season?Doth this voice so boldSpeak of doubts untoldOf spirits grown coldWithout reason?Dost thou know the lightShining ever brightFrom the moonless nightWithin the shade?Can thy poetryOf melancholyFrom deep within theeBegin to fade?
Fresh SnowfallWinter's strong hand reaches for your bonesShadows intermingle with fresh snowfallWhat joy is there in a heart cold as stone?So far away is the chickadee's tonesWith great ease does such poetry enthrallWinter's strong hand reaches for your bonesAll that greet your ear are the frigid groansOf evergreens assaulted by stiff squallsWhat joy is there in a heart cold as stone?On the forefront of your psyche there dronesBlack nihilism's ever-constant callWinter's strong hand reaches for your bonesYou have long forgotten when hope last shonewhen shadows over your heart did not crawlWhat joy is there in a heart cold as stones?Between the vigorous gale's icy moansAnd the constant layers of fresh snowfallWinter's strong hand reaches for your bonesWhat joy is there for a heart cold as stone?
Transmission LostThe transmission doesn’t reachhere, past snaking gravel roads undermountainous shadows; the voicesin the static are corrupted, shortcircuiting in and out of focuswith each click of the dial.We are similar, you and I,nameless voice in the void –you, invisible, intangible, inaudible;and I, imperceptible, inarticulate,hibernating under mountainsuntil brain waves become words,and words become
The Morning Star Concert HallGod’s favorite concert was a ‘98jam session in a hellishamphitheater downstairs.The producer bookedthe big ones – Hendrix, Cobain,Joplin, Johnson – one nightonly, fallen stars rise again!Saints they ain’t, but Godhas one ear for prayersand one for souls wailingsoul into a void with no echo,no applause, no expectationof anything more than their ownrelief.And when you’re top billingin the Morning Star Concert Hall,the fans are the only comfortyou’ve got left.
Ode To A Pair Of Hiking ShoesA pair of well used hiking bootsRest beside an open doorwayTheir leather no longer stiffAs the first day they were appliedA couple holes decorate oneStains of white paint splatters on bothAnd a faint whiff of sweat lingersFrom each hike, brisk walk, and paint jobThat has provided them with useAfter years of being beatenBy cement and the burdened feetOf the morbidly obese manWho chooses to utilize themThey have developed characterThat not enough people strive forAnd too many, through foolishnessAnd with fervor, claim to possessWhat kind of a country is this?
SENRYU THREETears of joy and painNo matter which one does falleach will taste the same...
UnderappreciatedA moth is beautifulbut none choose to praise it.Instead, monarchs flutter, and suddenly,twenty-four lines are written about howits amber coloring reminds you of autumn's heartbreaks and winter's futile approach, seizing the broken vessel you tried to tape together, but to no avail;its black outline reminds you of the eyeliner she wore day after day, all perfect and pristine, until one day, you found her among rosebushes & lilacs crying out "Why does it always rain?" Where is her sun?its slender antennae reminds you of stilts, splintery and all, tall, magnificent, and so easy to snap and watch the performer fall from
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do because being okay is expected,if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,what can we do to be okay?we can scribble illegible wordson a canvas made for by paintersmasquerading as notebook paper,and hope that we can sell the burnof stinging emotions for some paper.but the funny thing about that thought?is that american money isn’t paper,it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.so even the money you'd earn from your misery,isn't anything you can write onwhen you realize your money isn't made to heal. even if it does talk. but it never really ever says enough, does it?But that's okay...being okay is the hardest thing we dobecause sticks and stones do break bones,but you can hide the scars with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,the way your
CollisionWe work togetherNot like peas in a podBut like sunbeams on waterViolentBeautifulBlindingAnd everything sinks to the bottomWith timeBut fortunatelyNot everythingDecays.
At World's End LITTLE BOY clouds s k s y k s y c s r c a r p a e p boy girl r e c o n c r e t e r &
Chalk OutlineA chalk outline waits for mesometimes it slips into bed with my shadowand I can do nothing but roll my eyeslike a mis=abused and weary parent,but every night when my shadowmerges with the edges of the day's pageand blurs into a dirty midnight orangeI lie in bed and shudder;without my shadow's protection I feel it,a chalk outline waits for me.
The End of the WorldI didn't prepare for the end of the world.I somehow thought that we, reclusive in a hardened bubble-shell, would survive it.I didn't brace for impact, I didn't even consider it happening to us. Why would I?I didn't prepare rations, bedding or bunkers.It didn't occur to me to imagine a post-apocalyptic world in which our love wasn't enough.I didn't see it coming. It destroyed me nonetheless.The end of the world doesn't care for your readiness.
Here and There, Now and ThenBurnt umber dawn, swaying electric treesThousands of souls chant in the summer windJournals of the dead are read by schoolchildrenThey awake shaking someone else's dreams from their headsStatic electricity on the nape of your neckIn the television, on your phone, in your dinnerThe calling of a murder of crows from the treesYou remember the view from the hospital room windowA smorgasbord of life and limb, death and decayThe antiseptic smell has an undercoating of rot and dirtTalismans won't work any more than prayers and candlesSoldiers still fight lost wars, glory in the faded nightTall fences are built to keep the worlds separateBut everything that ever was still is, still livesTake your flowers to the ICU and give a last kiss on the foreheadBury your bones, but listen for the chanting on the wind
Ghost in the MachineThere were daysMelissa measuredher happiness in brightness,when she would holdher hands over her eyesand the cracks of sunlight,like old paint on drywall,would shine throughto let her know exactlywho it was that held her.Who is it?And at that moment of recognitionMelissa felt…...she felt okay.More than photonsreflecting off of totem shells,humanity is conch-cradledin her dusk where light perceptionis limited to the moon, where blindis a swear word and an oathdependent on a circadianarcade: she is blindand going blinder.Lingering,she allows herself a curfewto blow out the lanternand sing without colorfor the first time.Melissa,you rely on a perfect balance—trusting the sunshine to smileon your bare arms at eight a.m.,two p.m., half-past six and ticking on,letting the moon comfort youas patchwork clouds shawl overmidnight's studded shoulders,leaving behind aspects of life:natural, mundane, mechanical,and self-made doubts.Don't fo
Catching WishesYoutalkto thestars like theyknow what you're saying,but I think you've forgotten thestars cannot hear--all your wishes get caught by the moon.