In My Grandmother's House

In my grandmother's house,
plastic soldiers
guarded the base
on linoleum tile.

They shot me dead.
I was five years old,
wearing my mother's apron
"kiss the chef!"

Kiss the specks of black on my reflection

Nothing could balance out that pain.
not the sparrow's beak,
from ghost-speckled forests,
or the sound of
polite rain.

And then there is this lonely dialogue,
and the pieces from their maps
did not fit, but covered my body
as I fell.

The youth I trailed like a comet
on the alabaster floor

Figure 8

They are banging pipes in cellar bathrooms
and by the begrimed curve of the road,
The wasted and unversed spirits awaken--
cradling glass at kitchen stoves.

I observe them from the window,
and see the clock's tiny hand stretch itself past 7.
and their perpetuation, like a figure 8,
is a menagerie of tongues unspoken.

Daffodil eyes ripen their lackluster grins,
And they fold their skin with dry, heated breath
I am aware of the innocuous, blind waking ghost
clutching plastic bottles to the curve of his chest.

The awry faces stare from the rusted window,
And smoke rips from the doorway with a fleeting leap
a stagnant expression is hung in the aura,
and it dissipates as I hear the static on TV

In the Cabin

In the cold, isolated cabin
with your hands underneath
my skeleton fingers,
we find bliss in the smooth, sinful snow.
And in the fire that reflects our passion,
we adorn our bodies with nothing
but the icy touch of our once
forlorn existence.
I observe a fawn,
gallop across and make the snow
fall from the leaves, gently,
like soft seeds blowing through
the air of spring.
And in this season, the amphibians
are buried in the litter of leaf
and mud, hidden beneath the earth.
As we are, the past, now
burried under the crisp, dead leaves,
that covered the ground in
shameless Autumn.

I'm a swirling ray of abstract colors filling in the gray matter I project. It suspends itself in forms of silence.

I do not have control of this absence.

In the stairway of my unfolding conscious,
I find you touching my tiny hands,
(I forgot to wave goodbye on the last day
we were formally together.)

Chimerical

One seed is opened;
the chimerical plainness of that art
is found within the wrinkles
of leaves that shed their skeletons.
Basked in Sunday air,
with wisps of sultry dirt,
the realization of how you belong
with that poetry
unveils itself among the leafless pages.
Alive with the gloomy bark,
and the adoration for the way
you would hate them like me,
is the fragile insect
looking for its lost skin.
And although yours is still intact,
I admire your indignation
and the way you make your place
among the ivory scene.

We cut flowers from our throats
and hold their limbs
in the palms of our hands--
We cradle such naive beauty
that wilts before the morning's end.

Midnight Rain

The sky is black, and I can't sleep;
chasing senseless dreams with despair,
the tick-tick-ticking in my room,
somewhere near,
perpetuates the silence so clear.
Outside is life's commotion
it drags on in molasses motion,
falling on the pavement;
midnight rain.

Little Fruit Fly

Little fruit fly,
you graze the pear
so smoothly
like skates upon ice;
Little fruit fly,
They told me I would get wings,
and now I stare,
this rotten fruit;
shoelaces untied;
I am going nowhere.
Little fruit fly,
will you fly through my window, please?
Mother says you can't be here.
But you're the only living thing I see.

The Pear Tree

Rain drips smoothly down,
and fills up the indentions of
dog paws on concrete.
Like one of those memories,
now lost among the pear trees.
Those my father cut down one April day;
I was getting lost in the leaves.
He said, "Come down, or you will become a branch on that tree!"
So, I did. And now, I pace the world,
this stigma hanging from my neck:
square-celled albatross.
Oh! And they all laugh,
As the bark pinches my skin
and sap spills into my veins,
and flowers begin to blossom
on the cheeks of my face.

Only in Parking Lots

Between the parallel lines,
and the thick concrete,
In the vehicle with a junk-yard purpose,
we find the subtle sentiments
once buried in the rubble of forgotten hope.
Among the lies of the world,
and the sun-ripened seats,
we hold our hands against the universe;
a poltergeist love
moving us with invisible fingers;
a fate unheard of;
two lost souls,
At last, in perfect harmony.

The Artist

By the old drawn farm houses,
by the straw-thatched river,
whose pale yellow arms reach into the day,
art succeeds beyond the canvas,
the splintered piece
hanging on a wooden frame.
From the edge of the water,
where colors bleed into one another,
trailing off the surface itself;
there rests underneath that canvas,
her hands wrinkled and stunned.
Although those fingernails
are gray from mixtures of paint,
she consumes the image.
So, one morning,
when the birds happen to sing
the song of childhood harmony,
she may paint the landscape
in which she dreams;
neglect and reticent
to the metal machines
and burgundy sheets.

It was one of those nights...

It was one of those nights:
My father took me by the hand
and we stared upon the absent Halloween lights,
with flickering glass bulbs and tinsel
contrasted against the starless horizon.
How I remember those nights,
when reality was a hovering mist
in a clear autumn morning.
And in the following afternoon,
there I was--buried among the auburn leaves,
with the crispy smell of winter
surfacing, breathing, gasping
in the veins of their aging skin.

Teenage Damsel

Teenage damsel, with your short dresses and
pixie-cut hair--you were stealing melodies
from the vernacular of the grave,
where evenings passed between the setting sun
and the glow of blushing twilight.
Classic tongue--Latin fledgling,
soaring through the misty folk
barely a feather touching
the vibrations from your peer's windows.
Oh, those shallow idols
with their popped collars
and worn, black, leather sandals--
They imbibe too much sun!
So, take your pen, Sleeping Beauty,
and write of the Holy City's streets,
the people, the parties, the empty feeling
that is regurgitated each time
you drift into a quibbling sleep.

My First Resolution

My first resolution--
hanging onto her childhood emblem,
Gwen! You spoke sweetly in her teenage ear,
like Ivan's dream,
You were the devil in black sheets,
whispering inklings of death.
In the house,
a sword was discovered
and it was wondered how long ago the rust
began to climb,
Or if it was used to murder union soldiers.
Here in the south,
we lie scortched under clear skies.
How easy it was to be someone else!
How the stage was home--escape from reality,
the two pillars where I'd wrap my arms around
to feel comfort on their ivory torso.
Mother! Mother! Why the tears?
Will she be sent off?
Mother! Where is the key?
We are famished again.
And Father snores loudly
from his poisoned liver.

My first resolution--
shrieking glass from the cupboard door.
There were plenty of times I could
have killed her.
Foil halo around her crown,
Shoving tissue between the spaces of our rooms;
Up, down, up down,
all those steps
keeping the ring black
until it was consumed by the drain.
Hearing the infant wail,
and the adults scream.
In just two years,
the cycle of life was expedited.
In just two years,
the flowers I left out were
sought for mourning.

I am Alone

I am alone;
and the post officer in his uniform,
the lady with her business skirt,
the man who obsessively checks his wrist,
are alone, too.
And so I watch across the water,
on top of a bridge
where traffic flows in simple patterns,
headlights beam the way.
He was an angel-headed hipster,
And I, a shell among the sand.

Crustaceans

Crusty crustaceans of the chilly sea,
in the shallow waters they rest;
stagnant like the coral reef,
do they observe the ocean's roar?
Or the waves over-laping jade green waters?
No, they simply breathe
in layers of dampened sand.

Lonely Beggar

Lonely beggar, your dejection is liquid on streets--
stained on sidewalk concrete like insidious lines
that lead into a crooked crevice:
schizophrenic smile--oh, just dream of dandelion fields,
Where warmth and joy are spread evenly among the sky.
and drink up your last bottle--
let the poison shine,
for underneath your naked image,
there you lie,
there you lie.

November, how I miss you

November, how I miss you.
Once filled to the brim with
beautiful conversations (digital words of suppressed solitude)--after months of
expected silence--you now rest between the bridges of my palms.

For in August
I met my heart in the dreary
prison of conformed education,
(of flag-pole worship, of "Breaking Dawn")
and months of words, of subtle gestures,
rang loudly like scheduled bells.

With passing themes: innocence and experience,
how compelling the poems--
that nuzzled themselves in my brain.
(beauty and truth, is what it sang)

But I had to bury you,
Cover you with secrecy,
(the inevitable tragic end)
like a thin blanket,
coiled around my delicate hand.

Pocket Watch

The gold kept in your pocket,
the engraving with my voice,
how it will remain unbroken,
how its ticking and elaborate structure
is like our existence--
each morning, over and over,
the eerie sound beneath my ear,
each night, the thoughts that perpetually carve me--
how they are like a labyrinth!
resulting in restless sleep.

I Shall Descend

I shall descend into the pit of humanity,
unbutton my coat, let down my hair,
and call upon you, oh, broken promise of the wasted earth,
you dragged my body through the garden where wilted flowers
stuck to the fabric of my stockings.
And now I step toward the grave,
moving closer to the cracked stony slate;
it rattles, and screams
like a banshee in some sordid night.
No, it does not speak softly,
like the airy voice of death.
Instead, it beckons both amphibian and
violet flower--we were born from this dirt,
and now we must die beneath its polluted soil.

To Live Upon the Shore

To live upon the shore and be conscious
Of the breathing creatures beneath the sand
And dark, solemn waves
crashing against the rocks
in some ordained fashion.
Like Freudian psychology--
something buried deep beneath those waters,
like the synapse between your eyes.
To be aware,
Of the seagull's habit,
his cigar hanging loosely from his beak--
a basket of feathers,
balancing on razor-sharp air.

They say...

They say love will transform you, will make you see the world in a different light. I think
about the love people say they have. It seems almost bitter, with one party controlling the other. And one day they will drift away...the continents will diverge. Yes, lovers are seashells on the shores of time, one day they will be washed into the sea to be among the glass and dead crustaceans. I'm usure where love will take me, whether it will be the bottom of the ocean, or if I will fly along the skyline like an adolescent hawk. Shall I just glide like paper planes in humid summer days, when the earth is on fire? Or will emotion push me off the edge? Will I be struggling in the dreary days that pass and fill the space between youth and age?Should I recall the poems of innocence and experience, and oh, how my childhood was swept away.I should have been the thread to sew the seams of the heart; I should have been among the other fawns; I should have murdered that feeling of indignation and rage.
My body is uprooted every morning. My reflection stares back at me, and I can remember the childish gaze I had when I was still a fledgling. But now I am swan; the epitome ofbeauty and grace. So dead is my face and the copper hair that falls upon my shoulders. If your mind only teemed with the thoughts mine did. If only you should think what I think; maybe you would think twice. All this sweetness I seem to display is just a scratch upon my character. My countenance is just that-- nothing more.