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.
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.
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.
Lucid DreamingDreamaboutthe twilight--in that soft time,you are free to re-imagine the world.
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."
Winter PoisonTo the boy with ghost hands:the best we can do is pretend.The breakers will always call us homebut you don't feel the poison--it drips, it dripslike a bad habit.We are fragile.Bury me in whiteunder the winter moon.
Moonbeam MayhemMidnight on bare skin--a subtle kiss of starduston a lonesome heart.
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.
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?
SynestheticSometimes I taste test names;Anita – sharp citrusand lemongrassfor the ann-i,a tortilla for the taa.Brad – I likeits weight; a slabof marbled chocolatemelted on my tonguebefore the last letter.Charlotte – somethingsavory, but sweet; porkmarinated in honeyon sweet rolls.Doug – vanillatinged cheesecake;a dusting of grahamcracker shavings;an Oreo with no filling.Elena – spiceand heat radiate –eh-layne-ahh – a coronabursting fromthe second e.Fletcher – it’s syllablesmesh like mashedpotatoes, lumpy yetconsistent.Gladys – driedlemons and staleSpree candies, rattlinginside and empty pitcher.Hawthorne – brackish,the leftover remainsof a magnificent feast,the apple still stuckin the boar’s mouth.Imogen – leanand stringy. Greenbeans and chickenbroth at a small,weathered table.Jules – red velvetand hot peppers, a weekold cake with hardfrostin
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
There are only three chaptersA war should comein the near, in the farit is growingin the heat of this nightI remember you,the eyes deep in the forest:there, where the knights broke their lances:the magnificence of colourful flowersit is nothing, only a reflectionin grey puddles it is drippingthe brooklet creeps down from dead grovesIt is cold – I do not feel it.
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.
Prism BoyLoving prism boyimprisoned in Leaves of Grass.Sprint, grow, transcend – boundtowards a Jupiter dawn:your natural liberty.
DuskCrowning glory aflame,a golden QueensurveysJeweled ladiesrevel in the comingof night.
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 &
SENRYU THREETears of joy and painNo matter which one does falleach will taste the same...
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.
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
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
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
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?
Train WreckWeare adisasterjust waiting tohappen; but I’m on the edge of my seat.
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.
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.