Hollow

We have
a corner table,
two bottles
to ourselves,
and a pile of
curbside quarters
to feed
the jukebox.

The beginning
is my favorite part,
when we
are all pretending
to be
whatever it is
we think
is romantic.

Our eyes blur,
and I say
something like,
“I never
do things like this,”
when really

I come here
every night,
racking balls
at the pool tables
just so you’ll
watch me bend over.

So you’ll
order a beer
and tip it my way,
“let’s do
this again sometime.”
And I
always do.

I need a good flood.
A real
end-of-the-world,
wrath-of-the-gods
obliteration –
to wash me
out of this
gutter.

Advertisements

The impossible happens once…

There is a sprawling city
of sepia-toned memories,
cobwebbed in
the back of my mind,
so easy to miss.

If any ghosts still walk there,
drunk and laughing –
no more than
thin maples
embedded in the concrete.

I remember
the muted snow,
the sound of our steps,
and all that ice melted at once —

My flushed cheeks
and squinting blue eyes—
greater somehow,
remembered.

All those doorways
on cobbled streets,
and you might
knock on mine.

That is how magic works.

Not so Black and White

Only today
you realized you are drowning
in this mess
of an apartment
with linoleum you hate
and a too-small balcony
you dream of
leaping from;
and this mess of
a marriage
inhabited now
only by malignant silence.

You get by on
purchased
slow-motion love,
like shutter clicks
in your mind
she beckons you closer
and offers you
escape – euphoria
and explains
that it feels like
she imagines
the afterlife would.

Pure white powder
(like on mountain tops)
color-blindness
is a side-effect of
the drug –
nausea,
that tick-tocking rhythm
of pain just behind
your left eye
and fat onion tears
pouring out
over dinner.

You fight to breathe
or fight
just for the hell of
feeling passionate
about something
while some poor sap
writes
a love letter
that will never be answered.

Word Games

I wish for succulent
juice – between fingers
(wet) yes wet
and crumbs
in our distant eyes,
giant moons – pulsing.
Oh, night
forever and ever
and ever endeavor (for)
sickly – new.
She’s fragile
and broken, (splintered)
molting fur in autumn
drips.
The dusty lips set warm
on the highest notch;
it tocks ticks,
counting
beer bottles on fences,
blowing songs – murmurs of
(faded) love.
Stringing words
of jumbled
nonsense escaping.
I distance myself; retracting
like window blinds –
vertical, plasticized
moans.

Aftermath

I have
a bleeding heart
that spreads its
rot
through my veins
to my mouth,
and I ooze
false-truths
and
self-destruction.

There’s an
expiration date
on this love
of mine
and you smell it
turning sour,
leaking
noxious gas
to spontaneous combustion.

My
rubbed-red eyes
and shaking hands,
they know
what’s coming
before my mind
catches on,
tectonic shifting
and deconstruction.

There’s a
boiling point
where my
ears ring numb
and the
truth of us
comes spilling
out,
covering us all
with a
flaming eruption.

I take in
the chaos and
this ravaged body,
emotional wreckage
a small
price to pay.
My head beats
red,
my bones
bleed corruption.

There’s dust
that settles
and nerves that fight
to twist themselves
together,
my lungs that
ache for
clarity,
instruction.

The buzzing stops
and the smoke
dissipates,
and here in
the rubble
is you. is me.
We fight for
our lives.
A re-introduction.

Natural Disaster

I bloom
beneath the warmth
of your hands
like magnolias
in this august heat:
full-bodied, fragrant
and bursting.

The sun slants
in sideways
and lights your eyes
up like melting ice –
burning and
brilliant;
a flame that eats
the oxygen straight
from my lungs.

And there was the
center of the galaxy
orbiting your
irises,
pulling me in
on myself
like gravity.

Your lips move
deliberately;
two rounded halves
of a ripened peach.
They bleed truth
and the idea
that kissing them
just might
paralyze me.

Old love

Timeless_Books

There are several poems and books that attract me like some powerful magnet, that I just keep coming back to. I have books sitting on my shelves that don’t stay there quite long enough to gather dust: the old classics like Shakespeare or Bukowski, and the more obscure works like ‘Confessions of Max Tivoli’ or Sandra Hochman.
There are plenty that I read and donate immediately afterwards, knowing I will never pick them up again, but these books; these staples I feel are almost a part of me. My fingerprints surely embedded in the well-worn pages by now.
Today I couldn’t find anything new to wring out of my brain and I don’t feel like posting anything old either, so I will share one of my favorite poems, by EE Cummings. What are some of the books or poems that you just keep reading again and again?

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

this is not an admission of guilt

CVmsK4Q

I am a huge fan of poetry: writing it, reading it, speaking it. I am also a huge fan of AMC’s Breaking Bad: the characters, the plot, the chaos. Knowing this, there is not much better than a combination of those two things. Several months ago I came across a found poetry contest that required me to create a found poem using the script of Breaking Bad’s pilot episode. If you have seen the show, or even if you haven’t, I recommend reading this. The way it is written adds so much to the show and really allows you to see how it was imagined, and then (watching the actual episode) how that came to life. I didn’t win or anything, but here is my found poem from this contest:

Deep blue sky overhead,
fat, scuddy clouds.
A bit out of place, to say the least.
A rooster tail of red dirt
spraying –
glinting hard in the sun.
70’s era Winnebago with
chalky white paint and Bondo spots –
its paint peels off like sunburned skin.

They cycle. Solution, dissolution, over and over.
It’s a lonesome tableau;
she blows smoke toward the ceiling,
he drops his eyes first.
It’s way down deep, but it glows inside him
a beat,
wide greenbets and dark magnolias,
not at all noteworthy.

There are tiny curls of red smoke,
rising thick and dark,
swollen like a balloon –
you. You and me.
No adulterants. No baby formula.
No chili powder.
His mask fogs up until finally he can’t see
realizing more and more,
he likes it –
chemistry: the study of change.

It’s probably absolutely nothing.
Best case scenario – another two years
it’s just
you’ve got mustard on your…
there.
Long, pregnant silence –
a vast and complex concrete knot,
as if being swallowed.

Slow Burn

20140520-132601-48361029.jpg

Your mouth was at war
with your heart
when you found me there –
under the flame trees,
bright white and burning leaves.
And I might have decayed
in your garden –
nude as stones,
untangling myself at the root.

You were an endless anomaly
mouthing almost-perfect lies
in perfect strings –
just a shadow dancing up the walls
making tents of our fingertips
and puddles below our feet.

And all at once you arrives
like the summer berries
ripe, alive, and bursting –
at the peak of the season,
and all at once you were gone.
Nothing left
but a violet bruise spidering out
over shriveled seeds.

Photo credit: creative-diver on deviantart

Forest Fires

20140515-140324.jpg

I have, ’till now,
borne in silence
a being as base as you are,
and so unsuitable to me.

The sky shot through with light
and I felt in my body
what my eyes could not grasp.

How pale you would be,
and startling –
but your curves
would spring upward.

You would waver,
and relapse, and tremble,
watching.

You came to me with evergreens
in your palms
and oh, how luminously
they expand.

And no one knows
(I am sure of this)
and yet I think I could bear
your beauty
unshaded.

Photo Credit: Alvor