I hate the way poems look when they’re typed.

I was a buried deep
thing in the ground,
asleep, breathing, mute,
inanimate.
Then someone brushed off all that
dirt, unearthed me
cleaned me with peroxide,
ice cold,
Woke me up, splashed water on
my face, warm.
They shook me back to life
wrapped me tight
in words, in that music,
that jump-start-heart
heated music that I’ve come
to love.
That someone became mine,
became you,
came my speech again
a jibber-jabber craze pouring
from my mouth:
green-silver-lightning bolt
crazy, spicy smell throat
burn, bass boom voicebox
in my ear, drunk mouth phone
dialed with half moon nails–
A sweet morning breathed thing
saved me.

i guess i should update more.

march 21
it’s been awhile since
i’ve written a damn thing
and my bones ache bad, feels like
concrete–muscles of my neck
go frozen-like
and i don’t sleep at night
anymore.
i dream that i’m dreaming
i’m awake and i’m losing that
line
and quickly.

///

Dearest Valentine,
Couldst thou not call me thine?

What?

go you and I
into the
question
mark(s) the st-
art
of the pitch for
-word tumbling–windmill
whorling gust of ea(ten)
fingernails and
gut wrench
-ing
what?

choke

It comes out in my stomach,
A trembling colt
Wobb’ling to its mother.

In a whisper, I tounge
“I can’t do this.”

Eulogy for Memory

My fingers know that scar–
As a boy, you fell on glass
And it cut the skin jagged
Above your right eye.
When I met you, it was pink,
And now it’s faded white.

I know the valleys time has etched
Across your face,
Between the brow and about the mouth,
The watermarks its left on your hands,
Speckled like the pebbles in a stream,
Polished, smooth,
Your head beneath my hands,
Whisped over with the spatterings
Of unclaimed hair.
Like foam.
Seafoam.
Your eyes are seafoam green,
And they see me;
But they don’t remember me
Anymore.

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eh…stylistic experiment

The smell of popcorn,
Yeah, popcorn smoke
Ties itself into my braid, like,
Comes out in my breath, like,
It’s oil stains my yellow dress.
(You know, I’m a kernel,
Right?).
And he wafts up to
The counter,
His hair all powdered ash, like,
Posture like a cigarette, yeah,
Burning eyes that set fire
To anything, you know.
A voice that cracks and curls like smoke
Requests popcorn.
And I, yeah, I said
“Would you like to (two)
Make that a combo?”

The first time I died, I was eight.
I knew I was dead when
I fell down
And my pink leggings opened at the knee
To allow a flow of blood that
Filled the ripples in the pavement
And I cried, and no one came–
You can die many times,
But the first time I died, I was eight.

When I was older, I died again.
Silently,
(Silently),
I watched his head bob away
Down the avenue,
Until I never saw that same
Shade of auburn again.
And I choked on all those words
That wouldn’t come,
Downcasted my eyes,
And saw nothing–
That’s how I knew I was dead,
And that you can die many ways.

I saw a man take his life,
A woman shiver and fade like leaf,
But that is not death:
For I died again last night.
Again, when I realized that
My feet stand above
The bones of Judas
(Or does Judas, above me?)
And I laughed,
And that what can’t be set right
Is what matters most
And that those you love
Too, will die–
And once more
When I learned these deaths are not finite,
Because you can die many times.