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
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.
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 You did not even bother to returnand search for your unpublished work anywayas I never bothered to know anything further.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
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.
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.
pigshrunken bones tangled in pinkaccumulating—choking me;a day or two and there'snot much blood to provethe practice of moderationas mud makes a homein our veins—pithing in groups
There's a Good Chance of Noautophobic eyes in searchfor the light--delightin termsof acquiantances:we, carbon-based bases,avoid sharp turnsof the tongue and possibly,long hours of feeton the ground--coffee or tea,will not make it any better.autophobic eyes in search fordelight--the lightin maintenanceof the used-bookstore books,(possibly) positively building an anxiousnest fromcarbon-based copiesof us--coffee nortea will not suffice.
I Ate the Moonwith stoic indifference towardsromanticism,the night seems to tolerate mypresence further.breathing in-fading out;sodden bluemixing with the black,the sky is a wasteland with itscatatonic ratsstarvedto twinkling deaths.breathing in...digestinghow-
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.
poet, breathe now. you are the
if you need help making it through the dayremember:there areflowers growingin guttersand pavementcracks wherenobody plantedthem.
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.
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
what love is not.it was a s l o p p y first kiss wheremy drunk lips fumbled against yours.the dull thwack of my heart,locked behind curved ribscleared my groggy brain, clouded with lustful premonitions.it was an e l e c t r i f y i n g first kiss whereyou entwined your hands in my hair.your mouth encompassed mine andmy breath became lost in the steadyrise&fallof your chest.it was a s h y first kiss wherei pulled away before you could explore.your tongue grazed my teeth, searching for a way past the ivory gates.i dug my finger into the stubble along your jaw,my nail lulling your carnal desires.it was my first kiss with 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
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.
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."
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.
Dead ZoneWe met on an art website—you, me, and the Sprout.Thing is, the Sprout and I didn't really care about art. Only you did. But when I looked online for a school art project and found you two bickering about something pointless in the comments of a picture that had nothing to do with any of us, I signed up for the site solely for the purpose of telling you two to shut up and take it to someone who cares.So you sent me your Skype contact.I expected you to start the conversation with arguments or even flirtation, but instead you just asked me how my day had been, as if we'd always been friends and you were just greeting me on a lonely Tuesday night. When the Sprout joined us a few minutes later, haven taken a bit more time to accept contact with the guy who he had been arguing with earlier, his first words consisted of telling you that you typed slower than his three-year-old niece and brought the conversation to the comfortable squabbling that had taken up most of our relationship.
Tanka # 2affection transcendsseraph or adversary.a fallen angelis preferable to none -doubtless even devils love.
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.starting anew from the flutterand the sputter of lungs.a vacant sea filled with feathersand tumultuous clatter,ribs in a treacherous patternresembling exiting rungs.i want to wrestle the angels,your tendency is the ladder.ii.involved with full indiscretion,trading lazy for lace.unspool the curse of the long-itudinally inflected.limbs in a languorous flexionultimately misplaced;i like the stab of the ankles,you need the curves intersected.iii.opting to cull my extentswith trans-dimensional vigor.spent my dysphoric correctionson reconnecting lax ends.lips in a spurious accentfeign a passionate rigor.i tie myself to the anchor,you extricate and ascend.
Seeking Your StarMarch 20, 2014Some stars burn so brightly, they burst before they see the cosmos unfold. You shared the warmth of your glow with as many as you could before you rose too high for the sky to handle and scattered sacred stardust across it. Your legacy is seen in constellations.A few days laterMom called me to the window today to show me a lone star in a cloudless sky. She said she thought of you.Mother's Day, 2014Nana told me at lunch today that she heard footsteps in the room where she keeps your urn. She went upstairs to greet Papa several times, thinking the footsteps were his, but found him sleeping. Our waitress gave each woman at our booth a carnation. Outside, sunlight adorned our skin and held us.I could have sworn I felt you holding us, too.June 21, 2014I took a plane out of Chicago to get back home. The sun set mid-flight, tie-dying the sky in orange and red. As we rose over the clouds, my jetlagged eyes rested upon a lone star pinned against
[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