Poem

you can't say the word poem
in a poem
it's just not poetic
it's a hammer to the marbled façade;
scissors to mystery's veil
it's a clear and vulgar warcry
just say what you need to say
what you can't hold in
but not outline the box where it lives


you said I was your favorite poet
so I found you some sandburg,
made sure you'd met cummings and poe
like penguined pebbles
I've not been following a recipe,
or expecting your receipt
I saw a mother biking the city with her babe
fresh and wide-eyed with the blueday,
her charge was sweet as well
but I saw you in her place
poems are just another path
to get out what I can't give direct
it's what happens to snowfall in summertime
the notes on a broken string
it's just not the right season to say
so I sigh,
slide it here instead
under tomorrow's closed door

If Our Love Were An Estate Sale

if our love were an estate sale
canyons would form in the foreheads of collectors
their perplexed expressions
would interrogate each of our rooms
each doorway would welcome
with peppermints and tangented buttons
to everyone else: discs of meaninglessness
relatives would try to make sense of us
find postcards we never got around to sending
from places we always travelled alone together
breathless hikes through every color imaginable
horizontal flight in a field without a name
(surely, along with my body,
they have named each other)
the dragon-footed bathtub would be broken and filled
with charcoal remnants of a thousand journals
each one as a star blinking out of time
the furniture men would search with rumors
of a historic bed and a globed couch
they would sulk furiously empty
confused by the rubbish and tatters they found
we don't take pictures of tuesday cuddles
or thursday morning love notes
& I'll never get around to making a mix tape
of the sound of the storm
as it collides with your chest song
it won't matter...
in the slow hour of our love,
we will have laced hands everywhere
kept trinkets only to smash them with 9-irons
the only antique would be
the cardboard cut out of my life
before you walked in
if our love were an estate sale
there wouldn't be anything left to find
we would have lived it all away

Worth Falling Into

I’ve suffered your storms complete

I’ve wintered your winters, true;

and all I hoped to be

was someone worth falling into.

you are steel and stone

you are lost and home
though naked legs crossed,

stalls my wanderlust's roam
there remains a together
we cannot be
through all seasons: you are you
and I am me.
still I'd rather suffer your storms
and wage your rage true
than walk away thinking
I'd be better without you.

Taren

added to the list of this I did not know

There is a country called Kazakhstan

Bigger than France, Spain, Germany

et cetera

combined

it is 4x the size of Texas

 

subtracted from the list of this I know too well

her smell

the sound of my name in her mouth

soon. she will never fill my eyes

again.

already. the fog between us

is a barbed fence of fare-thee-well

trilled softly through gulps of air

that we are done does not ease

the friend she's been to me

she will only be a state away

they say

they do not know that our states

are not mappable

cannot be trekked again

our last meal shared and I cannot swallow

there is a knot growing that is bigger

than I am

that is 4x the size of Texas

Mecca

the night we met the prophet Muhammad
and contemplated Jesus of the black-foot,
Beverly kissed our shoulders reckless
so we swan dove into parking lot cavalcades
the silent dare passing between our mouths
remember how summer woke us
so I held ice cubes on my lips
and tried to kiss you cold-
I'd like to blame Muhammad's drinks
staying to hear about sand dunes and evil eyes
but nothing could waste me more
than you
just you
this morning something has shifted
you've been pulling this out of me with each glance
needle pricks as your tongue clicks
have sewn this
love,
when you look for me, I am not there
when you least expect it, I am everywhere
what am I-
there are parts of this world I will never see
prophets and diners that will pass unknown
but for this moment as morning songs sweep over me
I have lived it all.

1st Erotica

called down to the dinner table

my lyrics laid a blanched offense

another meal violated 

without permission,
the buds of my nipples indurate

my racy words: discharged filth
blushing to turn myself on
mother told me what I was

& at my blue rare age

this embarrassing derision lasts
flavors each diphthong
raunch


yet what happens when
supple flesh meets plosive curve
taught muscle to dehiscence
the way she plays my keys
never less of a reason to read
ringent need answered
in fricative clicks
these are not dirty things
only where words meet
and my skin breathes

Between Mother & Father's Day

my father was born broken
didn't know his cracked heart
was only surface friendly
and shattered spaces indeep
he thought my mother was glue
the kind you roll on your fingers
wait and watch to stick
the cheap and pliable kind
it's true, she tried
but my mother was born reflection
with nothing on the other side
was only surface shine
and echoing spaces indeep


I am not glue to mirrors
I am not the other way either
I have only been reciting my favored phrase
I am not them
I am nothing more.

Charles Bonnet Syndrome

the night we never slept
i mulled
the images the blind might dream
your neck clipped my lips
what is color to cadaverous eyes-
it is this.
sleep was never so futile
yes, swung the answer
we dream in images
I still held the full moon
somehow she'd grown dusty
grown different
but in fact,
she'd always been powder
and providence
as I'd been ricochet
and imprudence
awake, still we woke to bedshake
or is it all a dream we share
and the earthquake
was my silent prayer
cuss of another time ahead
this is how I dream of us
in images I've never known
colors vivid and new
but mostly
in braille for eyelids
each kiss a syllable of yes
but mostly
in wait and see
in clasp the non sense.

Mimosa pudica

one month after my eighth year,
wang weilin stood his ground
every evening,
I face tanks of my own
looking into the night sky I know
most stars are binary
spinning around a common mass
this is romance
our single sun can only say
love yourself
the rest is a mess

On The Night I Fell In Love With You

on the night I fell in love with you
I stood on a stage and lost every word
the paper in my hand shook
like Shechtman's quasicrystals
like Rabin and Arafat in 93
and the foundations of their city
every year after
no one warned me about this
that I'd try to deliver my lines
(as I had countless times) and fail
that your soft shoulder would cave me
drill me down into my better self
grow me stronger, keep me speechless
no one stepped in to explain
that I wouldn't be able to concentrate
on anything except writing your name
if anyone would've mentioned that this blue marble
(which has been shot putted tangentially
into a lonely corner
looping a single star)
has been withholding you for 27 turns,
I would've lost my mind trying to find you
all the sooner to fall headlong into oblivion
on the night I fell in love with you
it was all I could do to ask you for a walk
away from the crowd and into graveyard storms
to climb with me into trees and metaphors
feel the gasping, pulsing comfort of woven arms
and listen to the branches of my silence
if someone had told me that you would acquiesce,
and even match my awkward gait
I would have told them wars don't end with hand-shakes
but with confidence as unshakable as Shechtman's
and also, my balance, that falling is only the beginning to being

Skin & Shrapnel

we both wanted to be so man-overboard
that we actually believed the things we said
I knew I was just your favorite phrase
embroidered on your pincushion heart
& I should've told you in the beginning-
I'm not such a nice girl & no one's forever
I get bored with the cheesecake sweet
almost believing make-up sex is worth it
but the busted beer bottle bad in bed
couldn't drown out the echo of the sorry
we both felt but couldn't say
my face was buried in your sigh
your legs were wrapped around my shrug
maybe there was a subtler way for us to end
than the shards of skin & shrapnel we became
you said soon I'll hardly be your anything
in such a way you thought it would hurt
maybe if I were any kind of nice girl
it would.
it's taken all this time to bare the truth
we both fell more for the story
than for each other.

How To Begin

because I'd rather bend google toward answering
the difference between falling in love and loving
than
the difference between puppets running for office
although I know equally little about both
and less and less each day
because I'd rather fail with watercolor
than succeed with 10-key and shorthand
I am only the secretary to the wonder of the now
not made to bend with polite questioning
ready to storm the castle or tourist the moat
at the first offered hand
because you end up in every pinnacle of my thoughts
and remain long after I have laid them all out
stitched single-file and alphabetical
because they said I should never say I and or because
because neuroscientists and shamans frown alike
brain-cells and spirits are prone to disintegrate
each time I tip my mug
because sometimes I just want to be fucked raw
match the external to the internal scream
quiet the indoor voices to match the outer orbits
which take so many headphones to hear
because I'm not done yet
but I'm still not sure how to begin.

Born Yesterday

may you be born yesterday

and tomorrow

and today

may you die a small death

every night

may you wake naïve

with troubles forgotten

with a taste of gratitude

to be given a body of air

a new start for your journey

may you lay your head

sun-heavy; no task uncompleted

knowing you spent each moment

making hard decisions gracefully

pushing yourself further

to love unafraid of consequence

not clinging to what may come

or has already past-

grateful to have travelled here at all.

may you die every night

and be reborn every day

may we all.

The Taste of Our Pace

this is not the story of us

a fish                     a bird

       f                   r

         e             o

           l         f

               l             

and worship made

a meal of him

little spaces with you

& the world stops

we become all to each other

I am the flow

of our stream

you are the tide

of our shore

& together we make canyons

from mountains

we could not move

Pier Fishing With Dynamite

they say everyone’s got secrets

well, I guess his origin is mine

don’t think I’m ashamed

it’s just a lot to say

they don’t have scripts

for this sort of thing

& truth is always easier

when it's someone else's

mostly I'm still stunned

by his quick miracle

that a man gave me my son

then walked out

& doesn't even know

that my ex-girl

gets visitation

what do I tell him she is?

have you read it?

the wise-man says

    “if it’s messy, eat over the sink.”

so no, I’m not ashamed

I know life isn’t always

cut and paste

sometimes it’s tear and erase

When You Walked In

to see your smile just for me now

& though you said you could never

somehow we both already have

the breeze ruffling your hair

our nearness catching me off guard

the brush and touch

of skin

to skin

like oh, hello

I didn’t know

you were there

and when can I see you again?

when can I taste your fingertips

and entwine them

under mine?

I had something to tell you

but other ears were listening in

sometimes, even in our own lives,

we can’t really live

I wanted to catch up

and say something clever

hope you'd fall for my wit

somehow cloud my expression

which sighs: each day with you

a feeling grows stronger 

that I don't want to spend another

without you.

missing you becomes cavernous

ridiculous

& though I never wanted this

somehow I was meant to

I’m wondering what would you think?

what are you thinking,

doing, seeing

when I am not near you

and when I am that careful distance

between close & not close enough

the thirst aches comfortable

it's all I need

to watch your hushed cup fill

empty

fill

Arrow

it seems

at least to me

always is too long

and forever is just a metaphor

for some time you’ve got right now

why does she need promises

why cant she leave

well enough

alone?

lingua est amo (it is the language of love)

un giorno
io sara ti mangimi con un cucchiaio
limoncello in sorrento
solo per assaggiare l'asprezza
sulla tua lingua
gusto come ti degustare
alla fine
vado a oscillare dolcemente con ti nella baia
vicino cinque terre
così possiamo cullare noi stessi senza tempo
faremo tutte queste cose
e tanto altro ancora

un jour
je vais marcher avec tu
dans les petites ruelles de carcassonne
tu serez mon château
je serai votre air de la montagne
saveur délicatement
avec la récolte d'automne
nous allons faire toutes ces choses
et bien d'autres
pour les moment est notre temps




someday
I'm going to feed you limonchello in sorrento
just to taste the bitterness
on your tongue
taste as you taste
eventually
I'm going to swing gently with you in the bay
near cinque terre
so we can lull ourselves timeless
we will do all these things
and much more
one day
I'll walk with you
in the narrow streets of carcassonne
you will be my castle
I will be your mountain air
delicately flavored
with the autumn harvest
we will do all these things
and many others
for now is our time

Quién sabe?

that's what I meant,
when I said you were beautiful
you stand apart
someday your fire will fade
may you find your way to this
then
think of the bullen discontinuity
think of the exosphere
you are everything between
I see them get at you
siphoning joy
pigeonholing your theories
as they do their own
that soft-center that I know so well
will curl on itself and plummet
anvil-heavy mid soar
it's not about you, bract
it never was
you are the milky way in a mustard seed
undiluted potential undulating aware
some aren't strong enough to hold facts
only while they're true
they've forgotten
we are all vaulting on our best guesses
you stand apart
knowing that truth is relative
you have aroused me by becoming,
by dancing on the fact
we can't all wake up
if we let anyone
keep us asleep

We Blaspheme Everytime We Say It

I had visions of your landing

falling down in a Jesus descent

you'd touch all the broken in me

& I'd be healed

in my visions your name was Katie,

your hair was dragon-breath licked,

I thought I knew your side smile

better than I know my own reflection

though,

I'd never seen it

You didn't come as Katie

as Jesus

You came in the backdoor,

kicked off mudboots,

made yourself at home.

I am not healed 

You've touched every cabinet in me

and called it like it is,

claimed my broken as scripture

my lost as poetic

Tonight I called someone I tried so long to hate

I sucked out my venom 

bandaged as best I could

and will sleep soundly 

on that good-night to you.

love is not a word

it is an eviction notice for harm

it is a call to be more than good intentions

it is a promise so sacred

that we blaspheme every time we say it

I won't tell you about the call

about all the ways I'm changing

that I'm becoming more myself

when you are around

love is not a to-do list

cannot be checked off 

it isn't calling you another's name,

thinking you'd look better ginger,

or comparing you to any one thing 

I have known before

it is knowing each of your side smiles

as a miracle

it is feeling my broken as scripture

staring into my rambling starting point

and simply 

doing right by you.

newton was a romantic

look at his 2nd law
for proof
the closer two objects,
the stronger their attraction
I have been falling toward her
since I branched off my family tree
I have been a wanderlust apple
tested by thermodynamics
and found wanting,
weighted with lack
avoiding close and near
his 1st law,
the conservation of energy
predicted my wait.
this vacancy has been hers
this awakening is not what I thought
it'd be
is it possible to ever care
and not be terrified?
as we approach the 3rd law
I am prostrate, open, humbled
newton's triptych is climactic
1patience 2intimacy 3zero, absolutely zero
he knew;
I have always been falling toward her
entropically

to: Myself

whispering I wanted to be hers
she volleyed: I belong to myself
this is a pattern I cannot repeat
so, we laid in a field under a starless sky
the color between azure and ochre
our timid tongues reaching
the edge of our vocabulary
we made love like the world
was beginning and ending
all at once
all in the arch of her yesnow
what we did should've been illegal
actually,
it probably is


I never meant to cage her
stop her from pursuing herself
I only wanted to spin her
as she's spun me
kissed down into my throat
clichéd my heartbeat into wholly:
to the exclusion of all else
passionate errors I've made: forgiven
trust that I'd ever find her: healed
like we were beginning and ending
all at once
all in the beg of my yesnow
this pattern doesn't need to repeat
I do, it's true, belong to myself
it isn't too late to reverse this,
to manage my careful drummer home


actually,
it probably is

Collective History

our collective history
built between eons of breadwinners
and backbreak
written in moments of stillness
to remember
struggle
has never dripped your sweet name
never gathered your filament kiss
my skin has frantically announced
with poor penmanship
that this is a travesty
my sighs do little to explain
history is made by winners
your frame on mine is not a game
is not a struggle
the story of us will blink out
far sooner than communism
in theory, I have some type of reason
in truth, the story of us
was built without trying
it evolved like flight
like flowers
purposeless and necessary
it will fade into the universe's reason
without trying
we've come to this conclusion:
the epoch of humanity, of existence
is happening in our brief gaze
at each other