We Grow Our Roses In Veini am dying.if we ever escapethesehorrid dreams,do tell.catastrophic nymphsand poetic windsare nothingcompared to our beauty.do notforget.
free (f)allwe arein an extensive game of chessplaying pieces notmeant for usas we could be foundbeyond the edgeswe could befree—or alive
20 is the omenshort black nails chippedto punk rock language intendedto forge danger,parallel to haphazardfingers that just don't knowwhere to start--breathing poetry throughcancer--sticks and bones are the hometo dismantle the tongueand let it dance onits own from4 AMuntil the late morning,and onlyblack coffeethat tastes likedirtand costs like goldcan glue it back,slathering and pouringand drowningany memoryof thistwenties ragewith more bitternessthan of a young adult novel has.
re: relapsethis isembarrassing buthold my head,despondent andrestrained,as it's turningoceans into poolsof sweat—soaked in thoughts andsweet, sweet smoke,squeeze my fingersuntil the sinabruptly stopsand i can finally breathe;and hold my headwhile i bend my bodyto stay on the ground, half-digestedmatter and spit and bloodand all—concrete floorsare not much of a home...but you can holdyour breath if you want to.
Van Dyke Brownghost-shaped people plantedfirmly on memorieswith drab eyesblinking routines thatare warm to touch as firestarts from dry humour—to suppress the liesin our wait.
CalibriTo the man out of sight: Somebody took your manuscript,That book written on an inch and a half of crisp paperand bound by a single silver ring,with printing instructions at the margin:Calibri, font ten, single-spaced, italics.Somebody took it when you listlessly left the tableyou've been vandalizing for nine minutes. Were you lostin your literature and ink,as I were in your hands and paper skin? Ironic, though, it never occurred to methat I missed your face but my mind defended:It was because of my reassurance of time to waste.Though in retrospect, I doubt you were realwhile I drink a bottle of sighs, as if I knew how to be drunk—swaying and laughing, and feeling the bloodon my cheeks— in a cordial delight. You did not even bother to returnand search for your unpublished work anywayas I never bothered to know anything further. (In the end, you might be a figment of my imaginationas I am in the fiction
When Fingertips SingHer eyes are injectedwith stars and inky skiesto stareat his freckles andthink of them as galaxies,despite the earthquakes that of hisflesh hollow down.The air falls deeply to earthboundtheories further going south.She falters but quietly recovers,fingering constellationsand naming them beforethings that made himlaugh—and she smiles thatcrooked grin, blanketing itwith his hair and eventuallyhis skin.And finally, he sleeps from its sound.
fag artistart is this,art isthatof my cigarette smokeand wine glass.paintbrushes untoskinand coalagainst nine inchsleep,everything is a statementof life inits irony of simplemaths.liquid voices for mydrowning lessonsin the ocean ofthe sky,fancy me with alanguage:the demons,it willrevive.liquid prism inour eyes--punk rocklinerin watercolor dyesi am notsorry,come sin with me.(i am an artist,lover of thedamned)my night isredwith yellowed loversunderneathsheets of blank.they taught me howto fuck--to make art, notlove;i told them howto destroy--art iscreation and,my dear,destruction.
Paranoia ParoxysmHands over mouth; don't make a sound.A ghost is lurking in the dark our grounds.Eyes tightly shut; don't you dare.This is not one of your childish nightmares.Cold, dry sweat dampens the skin;Her ghostly touch giving an exhilarating spin.Lungs collapsing; a silent scream,Consciousness slowly ripped at its seams.Hands covering ears; the deafening heartbeat.This is where incoherent fears meet.There's a ghost haunting without a cause,A ghost of my rotting thoughts.
Graffiti Dreams in Black and White The strokes are dreamt permanent,the only lasting demarcations of claiming existence,and the collective artists who painted them majored in Biology,or Accounting, or English and Professional Writing, or dropped out as so many do when they wake up.The poet paints them into existence with his words: “ideas are illusions, and all words are untrue.” And we nod our heads and sip our coffees, indeed,put a price to labors and words and even to thoughtsbecause we no longer want freedom if it costs us the freedomof saving face and keeping pace with the ebb and flow
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
making teain a warmed pothot water and tea leavesmeet in an intimate embracepleased by the tea leaves' attentionsthe water becomes a sweet golden nectarbut the water is a cruel loverand she turns bitter if held too longso the tea leaves are left behindtired and used, forgottenthe water has taken what she wants
a timeless ringshe wears me uponher withered hand:an angel's halowith no beginning orend infinite.she didn't likemetaphorsor goodbyesbut he brushed away thedrops of jupitertwinkling on herface,promising toreturn but it wasjust a fool'serrandand now i ama memoir ofreminiscence;because he isdead but he isnot, he isgone but he ishere, he isa ghostalive withremembrance,a memory preserved;she wears me uponher withered hand:the crown of aking lost in battleand shegrazes me with herlips andtremblesbecause soon iwill be ametaphor andshe will be thegoodbye.
VisitorThere is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,wrist-deep in fresh soil. Her hands are birdsin flight.It's late, but no one comes to take her home.The pale moon offers a silver smile -the clouds disapprove.Too tired to dream, she buries her legs in sky.Tonight she is invincible, untouchable,this frail girl beneath the starsthis death in light.-There is a ghost doing handstands on my front lawn,falling to her white knees. Her stare is a paneof glass.The eyes of the living are often murky butthe eyes of the goneare windows.
SolaceShe never slept well in the dark,not without the children of the sun and moonto guide her weary lids home.Guided by the aftermath, she was always two steps behind.What did the world look like to the girl who had been through it all?Braved the heaviest of storms,yet skipping over cracks in the pavement.They said her eyes were the wisps of clouds before the storm.To him they were reflections of pages overlooked.She said it was like she lived the life of someone she had never met.Laid out to dry, yesterdays news.He knew her as the girl who was built to never collapse.He wished he was too.He loved her more than words could say, and yet her pain was such,that at times, he feared she wouldn’t make it.But on nights like these, even when it threatened to consume her,he became convinced that somehow she would.
tonight i am old againtomorrow morning i will betwo again and scared of the shadows.i will be two again and i will notlook out the window unless you areholding my hand,i will be two again and my father willbe the biggest man on earth againbut tonight i am eighteen, i ameighteen, i amholding the world in my chest and it isbeating like a heart (well then it must be my heart)china digs a pattern in my backbone and iam red red red redi am a communist daughter andthe trains to shanghai will leave somethingto be desiredi am eighteen, i amall the life in the worldstacked around a schoolruined spineand the world moves softly and shetouches me gently with her faceand then slides away.tomorrow morning i will befive again and i will be happy,i will be five again and i will notlook at my body the way my mother looks at her body,i will be five againand people will just be pretty, people will just be"beautiful,"tomorrow morningpeople will just bepeoplebut tonight i am eighteen, i ameighte
poet, breathe now. you are the
You Were Not An Aquarium BoySea-glass became your bones,brine your blood, and seashellsmelded into your skin.You were not quite an oceanwhen you said "This is your sign to love me."My body was like a building;tall, cold, almost unbreakable.I was metallic and sharp,towering over your waters.I remember taking your hand in mine,conch and coral shells scrubbingmy skyscraper wrists, and laughingabout how one day you wouldsubmerge every last bit of me.Your lips, riddled with argonauts,found my cheek and I cringedat the coarseness.You asked if they bothered meand I finally told you "Ithink I love you."
when i dance, it isthe only timethat all parts of meare no longer lyingaround in placesthat i long agoleft behindand the piecescome back intoan order that althoughcracked and gluedare usefulenough to use again
if you need help making it through the dayremember:there areflowers growingin guttersand pavementcracks wherenobody plantedthem.
Last WordsIn the beginning you never want to let her go,and so you don't for a long, long time.You commit to bobby pins underfoot, mismatchedplates stacked like landmines,long hairs that circle and clog the drain, filling the tubwith stagnant water.You tell her something that you love about hereach night before you fall asleep,until one day you look at her and realize that youdon't know what to say anymore.-“I am not happy.”You whisper this to yourself once and then try to say it louder,but the words won't cooperate.Maybe a whisper is as loud as this thought can exist,or maybe some words weren't meant to be spoken aloud,but you still think them, and yes,you whisper them to yourselfwhen she isn't listening.Perhaps this is what you should have been telling hereach night as her hands searched for you in the darkness.-This isn't happening, you think,unless it is.You wonder if you owe her something,like your heart, maybe, your red hooded sweatshirt,
i vanish.a few excessive kilogramsadorn my body,stubborn in their departure:like an uninvited guesttoo dense to perceivethe subtle hints i leaveon my skin;not feeling as blessed as icould have beenif i werethin.if i am too muchthen why do i feel likei am not enoughfor the starved societythat eats away at my insides& feeds meempty, palatable lies,(a fabricated portrayal of reality's demise)leaving me wishingthat each bittersweet tear i cryis enough to rid my body,my healthy home,of excess saltall through my eyes;not realising that the numberbeneath my feetdoes little to measureeach person who feedsoff of my kindness, my sincerity,that each time i bleedmyself awayin a well fed wishto vanish,i'm just another one of society's preylosing themselvesto what they weigh.
coffee painti watch the coffee pot do cannonballsthrough the air and bellyflop into thekitchen wall-glass licks the air in cartwheel spinsand coffee stains melt down the paint and boilinto the wood of the cutting board likeliquid sandpaperand i think to myself-this is better than a picasso.
Small TalkIt's dripping with logic and reasonthe question you let gently droponto the table between us,“So, tell me about your life.”And I'm watching it carefullytelling myself it won't biteit's more scared of me than I amand I can capture it with glass.And I can't rest the answer therebecause it's bigger and scarierand this one will bite will sinkwill tear apart the careful stitches.It's too big for this tableand I can't put it onto youso it weighs heavy on my neckand the silence stretches further.
i hear knives in the windsomething in the timbre, tall heat,sugar licking palm fronds fat catssweltering sundays.wash the salt; wash the afterburn itisn't like we planned you neversay the words plain, only mm mm if we ever could we maybe staywe always tried but couldn't shakethe open space we make the world a-nother shape as we stand among thetimbertall sugar licking palm frondsfall. til heat escapes.
Long-Distance Longing.I kissed every letterI ever sent,Trusting that you'd touchYour lips to them, too;That we were making loveFor the cost of postage.
eugenics in bulkBy the time she was twelve they had already decided she would marry a man who could run a five minute mile and speak seven languages. They chose her a husband the same way they had chosen her eyes and her legs and the pale freckles that interrupted her nose - the same way their parents had designed their children and arranged their marriages, strategic.Her father called her petite reine. He owned an antique chess board carved from ebony wood and maple. Some days she'd sneak into the library, pry open the old chequered box and pick out one of the queens, and she'd turn it round and round, searching for imperfections. It was a plain, ugly thing, huge and fat in her tiny grasp. She had wondered if he thought of her this way. She wondered the same now. Her hands were not her own. A businessman in a white coat had grown them slender and strong, built her carbon fiber bones and nails like arrowheads. Her mother reminded her of this when the
[transmissions of a dead girl]i am themoon: i amthe silver pilldescendingdownyour throatto weigh downlashesinto leaden eyes--i am themoon: loverof the dark.the stars areall dead in theirtwinkling dance--you'll be safe, dear,as i am the moon,with all of theirsecrets.you're alright.(i am good bye and yet,you think only of romanticrues)i am the moon.i am the crescentpearl,looking dead--and dead altogether,i still die.
twoofcupspress.wordpress.com/c…I heard through the grapevine that their editor, Leigh Anne Hornfeldt, is still looking for more work