(123)

we're all a cosmic hiccup
a frame in the stop motion starlight
and all the kinky quirks and tears and scars and passion
can't negate the fact that we once weren't
and once won't be

but the welling blank brink
threatens an absence we can't afford
belies the simple truth etched in the universe

that we

    are
    were
    am
    was
    is
   
can be
will be

(122)

when all is said and done
and I am stripped
and all that remains is the breathing
the simple, calm heartbeat of it all
there is a smallness to me that encompasses everything

the in and out
the blood coursing
elemental
ephemeral
eternal

(121)

she won’t choose what is right
an insult to the depths of herself
mistrusting requirements
abandoning them for the magic of identity
the suggestion of the eternal

she doesn’t die
she can’t
without colliding with the everlasting
transitory Universe
a function of the old trouble

we come from a knot
no nearer embracement
than when we believe ourselves to be

she wanted to believe
windswept and trembling
she wanted

(120)

to shield me is an insult bewildering
let yourself go
passion is sanity fated to pass
(if not punctually)
a transitory Yes
a stream of the moment

(119)

we radiate something curious
the story of the Universe
(itself small--a function of the fear that things won’t fit)

(118)

I’m no different than memory
I’ve traveled to misty places
where foreign flowers bloom in starshine
gone and failed to learn to speak
traded my last bit of sanity for a ticket home
----
I meant what I said
I’m sick
a cosmic fuck-up
everything my desire
----
sidewalk memory
all blood and grime
staring up at the cosmos
flowers forcing through the cracks

(117)

I run the path of most resistance
the clean
the easy
the lucrative
don't interest me

I revel in the struggle
face smeared with dirt
and ambition
the slide of grime in my fingernails
centers me

I yearn to pull you with me
take your face in my hands
leave my mark
on your porcelain cheeks

(116)

there's always a catch

(115) free fall

teetering on the edge for years
always almost too close
breathing centers
the in and out of life
tides rise and fall
feet begin to slip
always barely find purchase
in the inevitable cycle
in and out
in and out
in and in and in
and silence
a choice
a step
the free fall
with nothing between
her feet
and infinity

(114)

she cries old-fashioned tears
tumbling toward the edge of the fissure
pushed by the pressure of repressed monsters

she follows the call
the sounds of desperate ringing
the whispers of violence
flashing behind closed eyes

she longs for everlasting synchronicity
the hydrostatic equilibrium that eludes her

(113)

the end is all I can see
where our words
battle
to be heard

now use them
to solve a miracle
to pull through the end
where blue stars bless
the emptiness

claim yourself
speak my name
our bodies
length to length

understand that
time regenerates with fire
there is no place to hide
from the clarity you fight

it burns tomorrow's desires
it burns tomorrow
it burns
i burn
i

(112) the perfect poison

the taste of you a supreme rush
when the fire calls and nothing passes
the most predictable story ever told
drawn to some wondrous breaking point
and when the shadows stretch to yesterday
and tomorrow
I'm not sorry
I can't be sorry
while we linger in the smudges
because we fashion the silence of everything

(111)

I was never clean
my upside down dependence
became a self without substance
but I understand the alignment I seek
and try to avoid the swelling blank brink
have fistfights to cure the night whispers
hope to be as I was made to be

(110) mirror stranger

I hear
when I shouldn't
(in a haze
stars
--so far--
align
visions dawn
epiphanies empty)

I can't see
(I'll loose myself
or maybe just
my sanity)
let me float
listen to your crying
(when I miss,
teach me--
pull me back)

something in me
believes
needs the starlight
of your eyes

(109)

I'll never stop running
push me out
in the darkness
without words
shut down for the night
flip the switch and forget

break the machine
with dying fantasies of infinity
the rush of silence
space
secretly breathing
in my ear

(108)

i never really cared
about where i came from
state pride and all that shit
where is really a matter of who
in any case

(107)

the smell of wet wool
won't let me go

the catching breath
the in and out
in and out

snow flurries melt
numb my scalp
and trickle
down
and down

a startlingly satisfying cut
hair flutters
the mutilation gratifies
and nothing hurts

the in and out
holds me together
won't let me go

don't let me go

(106)

and for the everything i want
there is also a nothing
a void-- a chasm into which
i must first venture
before i can take
what i believe i desire

if i can look into the abyss
and feel wonder
instead of fear
maybe then i will be free
to choose what i need

(105)

I am the might have been
a shade of myself
creeping inward (outward)
toward what I was (am)

I am the trusted lies
the fighting words (worlds)
a dream of horseshoes
and hand grenades

I am the skipping record (hit record)
flooded in always (and no ways)
refracting syllables
dancing with figments and lights

(104)

I carry the churning globe in my hand
whispering secrets of a darker rhythm in sleeping ears
trustless fingers know me
and together we keep the world from splintering

(103) bruised evening

(102) dust silhouette

(101)

  

Alternatively:

_________

the ferocious why 

lingers 

in this

            broken 

                             universe

--his poison--

                   -- the will to ask that vast perhaps 

                       to lie

(100)

just before the scene
she hesitated only once
(the damn fool)
too timid to ask
(too clean to understand)
and then he blew out the match
and shut his eyes again
(and nothing's changed)

(99)

somewhere I no longer is spoken
somewhere we moulder when inaction we trust
somewhere pain is forgotten forever
somewhere no one gives into lust

(98)

somewhere the drums continue their beating
and voices never are hushed
somewhere nonsense is littered with meaning
when the sunflower seeds turn to dust

(97)

somewhere the moon sings with Eternity
children's songs to the long ago dead
somewhere Life's tucked in under covers
haunted by voices that throb in her head

(96)

somewhere the strangest tide beckons
trembling with the unborn histories
--the ancient futures

(95)

In every job that must be done
There is an element of fun
You find the fun and
SNAP
The job's--

Still a job.
But now with singing.
And I'm not sure that's better.

(94)

.

(93)

(92)

Dear Sir/Madam:

Bite me.

Sincerely,
And You're Going In My Book, And You're Going In My Book, And You, And You, And Most Certainly You

(91)

imagine her wanderings

lost in dandelion clouds
almost as if she were the shadow
of the sky

90

and there's always some love story
and you laugh
or you cry
but in the end it's all okay
because
hey
at least they found love
right

and that's what we're looking for
as we stumble through the days
and nights
of our lives
this thing we call love

and we assign so many of our hopes
and fears
and dreams
to these four letters
as if the word itself
can change who we are
and what will become of us

as if this simple syllable
breathes a benediction into our souls
when in fact
we bless ourselves in the hoping
and the fearing
and the dreaming

(89)

The sky peeking between the treetops is navy. Thousands of stars shimmer.

The edges begin to blur.

FADE TO BLACK

The sound of breathing continues.

In and out. In and out.

(88)

you left a little piece of you
inside of me
it's not something that I can
identify
really
but I know it's there
beating in time with my heart
allowing for more of me
to exist

(87) The Twitter Chronicles: 4

Never again.
#butlastnightwasawesome

(86) The Twitter Chronicles: 3

Watched Walt Disney documentary. Cried. Me in a nutshell. #dontjudgeme

(85) The Twitter Chronicles: 2

I wait in delicious anticipation

...

Let's be honest,
I should be asleep.

(84)

there's something horrible going on here
some sort of horseplay that must
be bad for the status quo
something even a copper penny
face up on the ground can't resolve
and the doctor will inevitably hammer
the coffin closed before the singing's end

(83) The Twitter Chronicles: 1

a little innuendo in the afternoon is good for you

(82)

Hufflepuffs are particularly good finders

I turned in my library books.
Or did I?
Was that yesterday or a dream?
I get confused.

Sometimes I find myself shaken
with images
I don’t know if I created
or really saw.

I wake gasping
covered with spiders
or falling into light.

Did they see us?
They definitely saw us.
Shit.

(81)

the moment
slips

words fail

(80)

to sleep, perchance to

not be tired when I wake up?

(79)

the rest is silence

only because death is
literally (literarily)
the only way to make Hamlet
shut up

(78)

il y a quelque chose d'étrange
à l'attente

éphémère et éternelle

(77)

Sunlight on my face
Is warm upon my eyelids,
Casting black shadows

The books in their row
Sit on my shelf in silence—
Speaking without sounds

Orange and trembling
A leaf falls from a tree branch.
I put out the lamp

Darkness conceals you
The light consumed by absence.
Stars twinkle and fade

Moon in a blue sky.
Shadow of an owl poised
In the night’s brightness

(76)

You may not play
If Ever I Would Leave You
at my funeral.

In case you were wondering.

(75)

and all I hear is the rushing
and the breathing
and then the silence

(74)

ne t'inquiète pas.

il parle,
mais tout ce que j'entends--
c'est l'afflux de sang

(73)

The gadabout’s rag vacillates between
knowing and not knowing. Time
stretches and squeezes ad infinitum—
laborious and an earful. What
tablet could contain such conundrums?

(72) 2

Treatment? Loglines?
Two shots and counting.
I am part sponge,
Restless.

Listening to two guys having a
Serious discussion about beer pong.
Life=Shambles.
Good thing drinking is socially acceptable tonight.

I should buy a thing of food.
One thing of food?
No, one thing of many foods.
Glad we cleared that up.

Today I learned that Christianity does not exist.
Weird class.
But you’re a barber,
so I guess it’s legit.


My colors are blush and bashful.
I’m writing and reading and writing.
We should play jeopardy and learn salsa,
Weekends suck.

Wait, this can’t be right.
Where have you taken us, Phillipe?
The calm before the storm?
Should I buy an umbrella?

I ran into a bonfire yesterday.
We can quibble about what to call it
But I think we can agree
It’s creepy.

Death? I’d do it again.

(71) 1

This is no place for a girl on fire.

Is that pathetic? Probably.
But I feel like I can take over the world.
Mine could be a good life,
Guarding the fire.

I wish some parts of my life were out of boxes
It takes forever to unpack (sixteen days)
But it doesn’t matter when I come home
You won’t be there.

I ate fried butter. It was delicious.
Odd.
But I had a surprisingly good time in the ER.
Happy birthday and junk.

Ugh. This isn’t werking very well,
The post vaccine achy body blahs
Perhaps today I’ll finally buy that long awaited coffee
Or pumpkin pie ice cream back in Nac

Meow!
Kitty in the trashcan
Chasing a new mouse (the computer kind)
And having coffee with a lap dag and Charles Dickens.

(70)

She sat there for a long time.
Long enough to wish that she’d though to bring her jacket.
Just as she was about to give in and sneak inside to warm up,
a body planted itself next to her on the fence.
She knew it was him, but he didn’t say anything.
He just sat a few feet away, staring into the distance.
They sat there, silent, as the minutes passed with an excruciating slowness.
He broke the silence, his words cutting through the black.
She just nodded, not thinking to wonder if he could see the movement.
She wasn’t sure her voice would work.
They walked to the car.
He opened the door and she slipped into the passenger seat,
glancing back at the house that blazed with light.
The door slammed shut.

(69) Dizzy

She thinks that it's a brand new day, and the sun is high.
All the birds are singin' that they can’t wait can’t wait can’t wait!
Avast!
In the middle of the night he kisses my forehead ♥ ♥
Feeling better about this now than ever,
I feel dizzy while caught in the inbetween...a beautiful disaster.
Awake almost a week, she is powerless against apathy,
Pondering all thoughts and dreaming of a happier future.
She misses the sunrise and screeeaaaammms!!!!!
Back in TC she knows it’s not the easy way, but it’s the cowboy way.
Reading, feeling better now, she still needs to find a home for this darling little kitten
WHAT. We have CHICKEN?
She is hushed, positive that today is going to be fantastic!

*A blast from the past. My first Facebook poem. It's rather silly, but I'm fond of it.

68

I have a lot of questions

it's very distracting
actually
but what
can I do about it

funny how it helps
though
when you hold my hand
(everything wibbles
(that's not even a proper word))

don't get me wrong
the questions are still there
(you can't fix that
the questioning)
but somewhere along the way
I realized
the universe is ridiculous
and that's okay

(67) 3

snap out of it

we can’t make things nice
not like they told you

we break our hearts
make messes
don’t understand
die
ruin ourselves in the process of being in relation

(66) 2

complete is a question
a missing rib
a whole to be filled
to be chased

complete is a joke
of the present and the future
a goal to be put away
to be forgotten

complete could never be
a monument to justice
a moment lost to all
to be lost on none

complete is a question

(65) shuffle weave

she bobs the thread
and weaves the step
stomps through to the
paradiddle pace
with crinoline wings
and buffalo pins
in spinning sarsenet grace

with buckling steps
the corduroy drag
draws back
the twill and the lace
to shuffle
flap
spank stitch and attach
the hem to his wandering chase

(64)

because he could
he asked the obvious question
but I can't make up shit this weird
his bluff failed as if on cue
and existence lapsed into infinity

(63)

I don't know
she says
as if knowing
means something
as if meaning
means something
or at least
knows something
she doesn't

and she isn't
at all sure
she wants to
know something
or anything
if knowing
means meaning
or understanding

(62) frostbite

that first summer was disconcerting
she'd reach out to touch his face
and feel nothing
but she knew he felt
and that was enough

she could hide it when she tried
pretending is easy with practice
and the trembling ceased with time
but he knew all the same
worried he wasn't enough

she worried too
wondered if this was normal
the seeping numbness
inching from fingertips
to hands
to knees
(and lips)

but she smiled anyway
hoping she was enough
willing him to be

(61)

(60)

i want you

not
the you everyone else sees
not even
the you you show me
(holding my hand with a secret smile)

no

i want the you that exists
when you think no one is watching

the you that
is
not the you that
does

(59)

Must we waffle on, here?
If raccoons ride on UFOs
and zap into the night,
what kind of xenogenesis occurs?
What mutations of magnanimous machinations?

(58)

                                                                      what i see in your eyes
                                                                              (the soul of your dreams)
                                                               is everything
                                                                     (despite anything i know)
                                                   is the hand of grace
                                                               (different than the true light)
                                      perhaps temporary
                                                   (but part of yesterday and tomorrow)
                                      perhaps
                    (it is worth perhaps)

(57) 6 am

in the
           darkness
                             beside you

skinbrushingskin

                               without
lust
           or
need
           or
want
           or anything

but
d
i
z
z
y
i
n
g
      i
       n
          e
            f
              f
                a
               b
              i
            l
           i
             t
                y

(56) 6 am

watching the sunrise is nice and all
but
eww

(55) 17

just beginning in our minds, we follow imagining—feeling. words, able to bring worlds life, are novel. now the pen plays, tears out words, becomes. behind writing is the push. moving. tearing history. forming new.

(54)

EXT. WOODS. NIGHT. 

It’s dark. Eerily still. 

A figure moves through the woods--running hard. 

There’s HEAVY BREATHING. A SNAP. 

The figure stumbles against an immense tree.

The moonlight illuminates a woman--KAREN--with dirt smudged on her pale face and leaves caught in her red hair. Her clothes are disheveled--torn.

She clutches a large handgun in a shaking hand.

Leaning against the tree she takes a few deep breaths to steady herself.

There’s a movement in the woods behind the tree--a soft rustling.

Karen stiffens, listening intently. 

The rustling sounds again, closer this time. 

Karen whirls around the tree, alert and silent. 

She raises her gun--hands steady, eyes hard. 

A SHOT resounds.

CUT TO BLACK

(53)

something about autumn called to her
(a deep primal pull)

maybe it was the way the wind
(invited)
as biting as in the winter months
(insistent)
was softened by the warm colors all around
(a purposeful caress)

maybe it was the colors themselves
(dancing)
colors that transported her
(to distraction)
into a world of fantastical tranquility
(everything and nothing)

she suspected
however
(enticing as everything may be)
that it had something to do with
(nothing)
the transient nature of the season
(or fleeting everything)
almost over before you notice it's begun

(52) All ye need to know

Really, John Keats,
Really?
All your whining Romantic
Imagery
Is starting to get on my nerves.

One more freaking
Nightingale
And I might lose my lunch.
Seriously.

And The Pot of Basil?
Eww!
Isabella can take her
Super-creepy potted head
Right to the hospital for the clinically
Insane,
Thanks.

If one more professor
Shoves the same lecture
Down my throat
About the static nature
Of that Grecian Urn
I may just jump
Out the window.

Can you say
Obsession with death
Much?
Ugh.

A thing of beauty may be
A joy forever,
But if I see you on one more syllabus
You’re not going to be beautiful
For much longer.
And that is all ye need to know.

*note: I kind of love John Keats, but this was fun

(51) Don't tempt me

Take that last French fry. I dare you.
The last of the hot water: you can have that too,
you know, if you don’t mind dying a horrible death.
Go ahead, have a party at 3 AM on a Wednesday—
nobody has classes on Thursday; that’s a myth.
Drink my last Capri Sun.
Do it.
By all means, ask the professor to assign more reading;
I know where your dorm room is.
And please,
oh please
turn on the dishwasher in the middle of my favorite tv show.
That noise will cover up anything.
Anything.

(50)

you could never know
the strange impossibility of me
but neither could I
without trying to understand
the dangerous temporality of you

(49)

she sat
among the familiar
trees listening
to the familiar
sounds of home
and cried

she cried
for her brother
she cried
for the fear
of losing
she cried
for herself

she cried
because she hurt
but also
because the act
of crying
felt good

she cried

(48)

existence wanders
when you hold me
in your arms
or perhaps more
importantly
when we sit together
doing nothing
or drinking coffee
or reading
together but not together
 a union so perfect
and imperfect
it renders words
unnecessary
but for this
faltering attempt

(47)

he questions control
her hand a sort of threshold
anchored in carnage
blood
but somehow still clean
opening himself
his awareness hesitates
breathes
curiosity gets the better of him
he takes the proffered hand
exists

(46)

this betrayal is curious
a remote fear breathes distance
into confusion
aware of disappointment's
hesitant eyes

a tantalizing horror begins
fingerprints smear blood
existence seems inscrutably clean
in the midst of this carnage
this truth threshold

familiar silence finally sorts all
warm desperation beckons
control slips

(45) we are all

inevitably
searching for hydrostatic
equilibrium

(44)

it hurts
(this rut)
(I thrust)
lips ever sealed
(pleads relieves)
(a silvered sleep)
(a devil peerless)
he falters
(the flares)
freely looking
(eyeing folklore)
never happened
(even apprehend)

(43)

she looks at him
curious
he's out of breath
intensely aware
hesitates
instinctively gathers in on himself

she looks for an opening
touches the blood
that sullies his face
wants to wash him clean
of the carnage

finally he steps across the threshold
a baptism of sorts
as he takes her outstretched hand
tangling his fingers with hers
relinquishing control

(42) Infection

the heart of the matter isn't betrayal
it's not fear
or confusion
or even rage

what festers is the resigned disappointment
broken and useless he can deal with
but this hollow passivity horrifies
like he can never truly posses the pain

and there's this fucking inscrutable
arrangement of lies
and miasma of truths
mounting in the silence
limbs splayed beyond desperation
the ugly infection taking hold

(41)

he's enchanted by this
the exquisite yet remote
something about the twisted distance
of menacing self-consciousness
burns his sterile eyes

dingy black numbers tantalize
never leave fingerprints
an entirely suspicious existence
if you ask me (you never do)
but perhaps better than this
the meager glow of the familiar
clumsy and warm
and entirely too aware

(40) Confidence Man

this is serious, he realizes
between raspy attempts at breath
he chuckles despite himself
and practically draws blood
he's not the playful rogue we're used to

let there be no misunderstanding here
this is straight up pristine
uncharacteristically sweet
denying himself the pain
now it's her turn to smile

his grin falters
that sinks in for a moment
triggers an alarm
she recognizes the shock
the oddity of the moment

it quickly wears off
he sees the moment
she makes up her mind
he speaks low in her ear
they hold an intense look

damn--she hit him hard
he gasps for air
knows she holds his life in her hands
he offers up everything
her gaze is answer enough

(39)

        To tell a story
Like a German painting,
        do we listen?

                     We attempt to soothe writer’s block,
to tell the forbidden,
smeared truth
the stars pour out in their rhythmic beating.
           
            Story beginnings provoke vision
            once we close our eyes
and the dark sunsets
and flashing adventures
move over in smooth strokes
       of the pen.

(38)

Perhaps one day I will learn the name of the bearded barista who always serves me my chamomile with a crooked smile.

Perhaps one day he will ask for my name, intrigued by the woman who never craves the caffeine that draws such crowds to his coffeehouse late Tuesday nights.

Perhaps one unassuming question will follow another, unraveling strange intricacies of identity over chamomile and blueberry scones on his break.

And perhaps, that evening, as my still brewing tea burns my fingertips through the cardboard of my cup, he will cease to be my bearded barista, and become Tom, from Missouri, with two sisters and a dog.

But, surely, I will miss my bearded barista and his grin next Tuesday when Tom greets me and hands me my chamomile without that familiar question in his eyes, but instead with a knowing nod and a scone "on the house."

(37)

the words hide from me
skirting my pen
hesitant to be written
committed to paper
unwilling to be fixed
in time and space

(36)

what is a poem
but words gliding on a page
looking into you?

(35)

what is a poem?
my soul on paper to see
adrift in the world

(34)

what is a poem?
what am I to tell the world?
what are they to see?

(33)

what is a poem?
only a jumble of phrases.
perhaps a haiku?

(32)

Sleepwalk timidly
my poetic's clodding tomahawk
Teases verbal muses south
youthful worlds
a Hapsburg place
withdrawn fancifully
and criticisms comprehend
theological therapists
The Clashing of the Titled
underlying simpleminded convenience
unconscionable

(31) A Limerick

There once was a man called the Doctor,
Whose luck never quite seemed to prosper.
In his TARDIS he cried
While his planet, it died.
Now companions from Earth does he foster.

(30) 5

5
Naked truth
lies in the midst of nothing,
spinning knowledge
               and skewed ideals
to the brink and beyond

Ringed in scotch-stars,
the planet shrivels
               under our stare
as dreams shimmer out
each in turn

We lay tangent to truth
slipping to sleep somewhere
               beyond Cassiopeia’s reach


Okay--this one is an oldie, but a goodie. It comes from a series in a book written by myself and my lovely friend Natalie.

(29)

how long is an instant?
it's simply abstract
matching fiendish simplicity
with identical complexity.
I've never used
sharp difference
when curiosity
startles pardon.
nothing sinister
burns so badly
a reflection nonetheless
of the obvious question
a passionate requirement.
the bluff failed.
how long is an instant?

(28)

alter want fearlessly.
want. wanting. wanted.
the yearning churns
deep within,
aching with
unfulfillment

disallusion life.
disillusion want.
surge recklessly through
desire and hope and fear
and come out clean
on the other side.

fresh.
new.

want stripped bare
waiting for more wanting
or to be the wanted
for once
for ever
for a day
until tomorrow's
want wanders in.

(27)

I miss the soft wind
the tear that stared it all
suddenly absent

(26)

heaviness
pounding
deep
scars
you
offer
enough
liar
louder
beating
heart

(25) Squirrel Attack

He was perhaps the roundest squirrel I’d ever seen, that literal ball of brown fluff. He eyed me warily—panting—and glaring out of his beady black eyes as if I would rip the slab of pizza from his dagger-like teeth.  How could he know that this giant was supremely uninterested in consuming the square of cheese, grease and pepperoni that dwarfed even this plumpest of fuzzy tailed rodents?

As I watched him wheezing I wondered if squirrels have heart attacks.

(24) What's left to say?

C'est rien.