bingo

This bowl
Of words
Tossed about
Like bingo balls
Blue haired
Guesses
Hoping for
The right one
The winning words
That spell out
The meaning
That frame
The undone
That celebrate
The you
The me
The us
In this lonely little world
I want
The right words
To give to you
To blot out
With your
Giant red marker

my love as the wind

From mountaintops
Snow caps to clouds
Flying under wings
Through talons
Speaking air's language
|
Touching the rays of sun
Beams of moon
Light of stars
Darkness of naught
Hot or cold
|
Rolling over wild vistas
Through tree covered valleys
With a bird's eye view
Gently pushing the tops
Of green crowns
|
My breath
Over and under
Branches and leaves
Caressing wild beasts
As they go about their business
|
Into the echo
Of dry canyons
Painted red boulders
Desert dry heat
Kicking up dust
|
Smoothing the white caps
Of rough seas
Plunging past seaweed and fish
In the deep end
Of blue water
|
Shouted from soap boxes
Sandwich boards
And bus stop miscreants
On urban
Street corners
|
Mixed in the din
Of noisy dirty night clubs
Sticky table bottoms
Sweaty strangers
Bathed in neon
|
Whispered from my lips
To your ear
In quiet naked moments
Out of breath
And with full lungs
|
Anywhere everywhere
Wanting to tell you
Into the empty cup of no return
Still
I love you

excerpt of something bigger

A thousand times over
Buried deep in the sands
The hottest deserts
Under pyramids
Embedded
In the foundations of nomads
I am the earth
Bubbling up to meet you
Each grain
My degree of feeling
Caring
And knowing
You will always
Not be mine
Grains in the hourglass
Ticking away time
Ticking
To the next life
And the next
Knowing
You will always
Not be mine
Separated by lives
Meant to be lived
Numb
Feeling separately
To core
To marrow
To the dawn of existence
Blanketed by stars in the sky
Ticking
I will live happily
This burden
A smile
Joy in my heart
If you could find
Happiness you wholly need
And deserve
Making you peace
Silenced of ghosts and demons
Taking them
To twist and torment
My skin
Crumbled to sand
Leaving yours
Lit by stars and moonlight
I want to hold your face
Look into blue
Taking your pain
You are made of stardust
Perfect
Flawed
Particles as you are
I love you like my best friend
I love you
Knowing
You will always
Not be mine

different love

Filled to capacity
Fast enough beats
I'm pulled
To curl around you
In your watchtower
Wanting to give
Sleepy-eyed contentment
Of a cat
My heart breaks
Not for me

green bottles

Bullet shattered bottle
I hate this feeling
Tiny shards spray
In dust
I am the nothingness
That consumes me
Boot crushed
History layered
Target practice
Being one with myself
Is not
Adding up
Dust panned together
Clearing
For another
Shattered green bottle

you

A few inches from the edge
Then you

I'm going to throw in the towel
Then you

Just when I want to give up
Then you

There's nothing from you
Then you

To pull me in {back}
To keep me sane {quiet}
To hold me here {here}
To let me to choose {the unchoosable}

binary love

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binary love (translated)

I have to tell you
I love you
How can I feel like this
And not love you
I know you
I know your love
Is somewhere else
But every word
From you
Breaks me
A little more
I know
You know
I love you
But it bounces
Within me
Like a beach ball

interpretation

Ellipse
Nervous
Spider
Cynic
Canard
Tideland
It doesn't matter
What I write
You read
What you want
To read

standing

My puzzled box
My work of art
Feels
When it shouldn't

My chambered heart
My uncloaked silhouette
Pushes
The it away

My rationalization
My left sided mind
Says
Run far from it

My emotion
My love
Rides
Every last word of it

My never ending
My ending never
Stands
Holding its ground
.
.
.

sunshine of her love

She scribbled out a note
Lined yellow legal paper
Her signature a rusty blue
Under the salt and pepper shakers
Polished kitchen table

They met in the alley
Behind the gas station
Rotting trash darkness
"How do you want it?"
He asked

"I don't care," came confidently
From between her teeth
"Just don't kill me."
He grabbed her arm
Squeezed and pulled

Flickering neon-washed motel
Corner sales to get high
Bass thumped her chest
From parking lot vultures
He already had a key

Worn rug brown
Cracked sink in the room
"Hang on," he slurred
Tossing her aside
The bedspread was wet

He crossed the room
Turning on the lamp
Light switch hole by the door
Beige and green wallpaper
Breathe decade's old fumes

She opened the window
Letting in the sound
Of outside
Silencing any intimacies
That might escape

"Take them off"
He said picking at her blouse
She did
One layer at a time
Bloodshot eyes

She noticed a bleach bottle
In the corner
Bent over, taking her shoes off
Heel to toe
Feet from Gideon's Bible

Cash placed on the night stand
Bundled of green
"What we agreed," she said
He nodded his long crusted face
Moving in

She slid in
Stiff cold sheets
Laid on her side
Window faced, pillow bound
Her eyes closed

His feet came around the bed
Dropped mattress with his weight
She hears the slide of metal
Long like nails on a chalkboard
And he inhales her last breath
.
.
.

new flight

Freckles
Constellations
On pasted hide
Shooting stars
Through
Night's skylight

Light lingered
Milled to dust
Endless orbit
From fingertips breath
To transparent space
Burning to earth

I am made of stars
Stream grounded
By ceremony
Trance-like ritual
Crater held
Like a bowl of cherries

Wind swept skin
Exhaling lungs
Blow me to horizons
Untouched by silver star dust
Mixed with life unexpected
Given new flight
.
.
.

my people

My morning face
Steamed mirror echoed
Touching skin
Wanting to hide
What I see

Hot breath
Blurs my likeness
Numbing obscurity
Into the world
Eyeless recognition

Quiet motion and
Deafening spectacles
Of people
Moving
In their own space

Looking
Anonymous feet
Plugged in
Bumper cars
Without laughter

Hand holding
Hypocrisy
Smiling facades
Reflect the sun
Veiling ripened plagues

From the womb
To another black hole
Societal suffocation
With
And without
.
.
.

touchstone

Read measurements
In finger widths
Leveled horizon
To galaxy's soft center

Aged by hand
From backhand
To closed fist
And many shades of blue

Veiled patterns
Create unseen scars
With aged fermentation
Wine soaked disappointment

Sunset rides west
As I turn gray
Skin's touchstone
Bludgeoned to compliance
.
.
.

blueberry patch

Waking in a dream
My hands lie in the
Chill of blueberry leaves
Hillside in brief dusk
Staring at a sky that once
Held me close

Earth-stained
I'm marked in silence
Heartbeats between my ears
Native tracker
Listening to the stampede
Of oncoming horses

Sweet smell of blue
Is sickening
If I didn't know what it was
I'd smell the fruits of fall
Or tender love against my skin
I know what it is

Trampling hooves
Ever closer
I fell in love
Windswept hyperbole
Steamed nostrils
Of equine exhaustion

Raping myself
With words, over and over
Plunged into used eye sockets
Red and green
Blur to an ugly yellow
I didn't heed

Here I am
Watching the sky and sea
Foreign landscapes
Touch each other
I collect the rain
Not the sun

I can't look away
Each glance
A thrusting stab into
Newly formed muscle
Decapitating every thought

All the backwards things
--The absolutes
--Erased by maybe
The flickering light
That was never extinguished

I've never felt this love before
I love this love
I love him
But I have to let it go
Because he doesn't love me

Rising from the patch
Crawling to the path
To my feet
Ice cold wind thumps my shoulders
Blueberries on my fingers
Red streaks on my swollen gullible face

I want to look back
I want to look back
I want to look back
.
.
.

this haunted past

Full-bodied apparition
Screaming across rooms
Wasting space in
History-filled
Splintered wood
Pitched knots
Eat time

Transparent mists tangle
Opaque shadows
Watched by silhouettes
Sucked out of mud

Flickering flames
Out of nowhere
In murdered darkness
Stretched necks
And slippery red floors

This haunted past
Is my presently lived
One disembodied moan
At a time
.
.
.

irish hymn (him)

Taobh istigh de phulsanna sé dom
Cosúil le fuil i doimhneachtaí te
Éirí Amach do gaile
Smaointe ag imeacht

Smaoineamh ar gorm
deireadh domhain ar uiscí
Bíonn sé mo anáil
Feiceann sé dom lé

Fillte i scamaill
Atá suite i féir
blúmáin fómharaíochta
Is tú mo ghrá

Na focail ciúin labhraíonn sé
Cosain dom ó pian
Braithim mé cheana
Labhraíonn sé léi agus bhfaighidh mé bás

Tá súil Shealbhaíochta
I dtearmann mo lámh
Fásann an tine beag
Ó mo chéadfaí dona féin

Timfhilleadh mo chraiceann ina
Análaithe isteach chugam
Agus mé i mo chónaí
Is tú mo ghrá

Díol dom
Chun teacht ar choimeád sa
's sé go hálainn
Cosúil le réaltaí an ghealach

Bá ina farraige de spás
dtiocfaidh sé mo réaltacht
Ata craiceann a ionsú
Tá tú i mo fola

Teaghráin strung thart ar mo sciatháin
Bunaithe ar a chuid dromchla
Tá sé mo eitilte
Is breá liom tú fós

irish hymn (him)

Inside me he pulses
Like blood in hot depths
Rising to steam
Of disappearing thoughts

Contemplating blue
Deep end of bottomless waters
He takes my breath
Seeing me skyclad

Wrapped in clouds
Lying in grasses
Harvesting blooms
I love him

The stillness of his words
Protect me from pain
I already feel
He speaks to her and I die

Holding hope
In the palm of my hand
A tiny fire nurtured
From my own wet depravity

I wrap my skin in him
Breathing warmth into me
And I live
I love him

Selling myself
To keep him in reach
Beautiful him
Like stars to the moon

Drowning in his sea of space
He's become my reality
Swollen absorbing flesh
I adore him

Strings strung around my wings
Grounded to his surface
He holds my flight
I love him still

moonlit love

Dog bait
Wrist strapped
Body trapped
Duct tape for screaming
Caged beasts
Jumping from hundreds
Of hind legs
Deafening howls
And growls in unison
Pavlov's experiment
Salivating anticipation
Less than hungry
Released primal instinct
Drool on flesh
The perfect agreement
Before the puncture
Ripping skin
Hair
Sweat
Tears
Blood on asphalt
Each tooth
Through wet
Restrained tissue
The crush of bone
Looking down
The throats of
Strange dogs
In moonlight
Seering white
Then
Nothing
.
.
.

my truth

I can let you go
Now
You're still here
Sacred words
Warm new roots
Single vision
Set free
Inch by inch
I back away
(inches)
*
You
Tell
Me
Not
To
(Feel)
Love
For
You
*
I want
To punctuate the lulls
Of our conversation
With the frozen
Words of lovers
Curling you up
Softening the sharp pains
Of the levels of Hell
Thinking about you
By the minute
You burn in my skin
Twist me in knots
Echoes of all the words
You said
Pad my heart
With each beat
My emotions
Swarm like bees
stinging to protect
making honey
*
See...
So
I guess
I do love you
Adore you
every time
I talk to you
lies drip
from my core
Clearly I can
Handle it
I don't love you
I can never love you

i am the nothing

Peeled layers
Each covering
The last
Uncovering
Buried
Walls that
Buried walls
Down to
Wretched
Skeletal remains
Not seen
For decades
Clanking bones
An addiction
Stripping
Meat from marrow
Slow
Carving pain
I see who
I am
Tiny
Next to the
Steaming pile of
Skin
That once
Protected and
Repelled
Now
I am the nothing
To be reconstructed
.
.
.

pressurized

The heels of my hands
Hold my eyes in their sockets
Fractals wrap my head
In a dozen colors
Dizzying me

Compromising that leads
Never following
Breaks down into starlight
And screaming
Restlessness without cure

Independent tears
Breakaway from skin
With more salt
Than ocean's concentrate
Dabbed at with a paper napkin

I was caught today
Falling backwards on blue rug
Hiding from the spectacle of me
Listened and heard
Secured in blinded offices

Sometimes there's too much
In my head
I have to apply pressure
Keeping it all in
Sometimes I need a little help

the transience of circus people

The three ringed circus
This variety show
My novelty act
Has come to a close

I thought I was
Trapeze girl
Swinging with wings
Not my own

Settled...
Sword swallowing
For applause
When the audience arrived

I spoke into mirrors
Thinking angels were
Listening
...listening

Sleeping with caged tigers
Feeding elephants
Begging on back legs
Sad dusty gray cement

Sweated fingers slip
I fall to empty space
Without a net
He has his own angel

I saw him, still seeing him
But without a country
The tent falls
His caravan moves on

i am not

What is the fight
I need to fight
Each battle a war
Fought with thought
I am not love anymore

Untouchable intangible
Water slips through fingers
Relating as waves relate
Crashing out to nowhere
I am not the sea anymore

Never skin together
Daydreams tease and taunt
This useless brain
Useless skin
I am not a lover anymore

Looking to the sky
Black as death now
Darkness emptied
Star sucked infinity
I am not space anymore

Caring to my core
For inanimation
Spinning with no one catching
Against my will
I am not friend anymore

I want to fight
Not knowing how
Or what else I can do
My love
I am not going to fight anymore

writing

It’s Friday morning and I’m gathering all my homework and books for a meeting with my teacher. I attend an independent high school, and I meet with the teacher for one hour a week to review the work I’ve done and to plan on what homework I will do.
This is my first and only year here. Last year, in regular public high school, I was failing all my classes and missed more than half my school days by going to friends’ houses and hanging out at the library. My school counselor told me, straight to my face, there was no hope for me. No hope. He sat behind his oversized brown oak desk, wagging his yellow number two between his right hand fingers and adjusting his the reading glasses that were propped on top of his head with his left hand. He spoke casually, like he was ordering a pizza over the phone.
I volunteer at a local human needs center as a crisis line operator and a child care attendant. At night I work at an international import store stocking dusty shelves with wicker baskets and stinking scented candles. I’ve been volunteering since last fall; it’s required to attend this high school and I work because I have to help my mom pay our bills. I do it all with minimal complaints because this is the first time I feel responsible and in control of my life.
I’ll graduate next month with a 3.89 grade point average.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I was one of the seven Blues. We were the second graders who couldn’t keep up with the rest of the thirty-three students in our class. Some were class clowns, some dyslexic, one’s English is his second language and I was apparently slow. Too slow.
It was the class after recess. Quiet time for everyone, almost everyone. It was the class that Sister Bernadette would read from a tattered, well-read Golden Book or everyone would take turns reading from the assigned second-grade textbook. The Blue Group was never included.
Everyone would settle into their polished wooden desks, tiny hands folded with interlocking fingers and waiting for instruction. Everyone was well behaved because they knew this was the period to catch up on extra sleep, do homework that was due for the next period or write notes to their best friends.
Sister Bernadette got up from behind her olive drab metal desk that was almost as tall as her and directed the Blue Group to go with Sister Nancy. She pointed to the door with her wrinkled and Holy index finger.
We followed Sister Nancy through the open cement courtyard. All eight classrooms surrounded us as we walked to the opposite end. Sixteen footsteps echoed and bounced off the windows that caged the peering older faces.
Sister Nancy escorted the heavy pumpkin orange door into the large windowless multi-purpose room and flipped the three light switches upward. The room was always cold, and more than that, it was always yellow. Big rectangular fluorescent lights flickered and churned and finally, with their familiar hum, became light. The long brown fold out tables absorbed the sharp yellow and seemed that much more brown. Beneath my required dark colored tennis shoes and blue knee socks, the pale linoleum with little flecks of black reflected the naked walls, the lights, the tables, and at last, my shoes in its recently buffed wax.
This was Blue Groups permanent impromptu classroom. Our reading and writing classroom for the next five school years.
Blue Group was never serious. We all understood that we were the not-so-bright future of America so we spent a lot of time making each other laugh and kicking each other under those temporary tables.
As we sat down facing each other, Sister Nancy gave us our special reading books. Most of the time, we would read out loud into the circle of Blue. When my turn came to read, the words tripped over my lips and fell to the floor, one syllable at a time. Halting and with such irregularity, whiplash felt imminent. Sister Nancy would chime in every now and then telling me to sound the word out or ruthlessly spat it out for me. When I was done, the next reader would continue the almost unrecognizable story and with the same broken flow.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The magazine with my essay in it has arrived. I am published.
I open the post office box and there it sits. Unfamiliar to me at first, but then, as my mind sorts out the picture, I know exactly what it is.
My fingers release the keys dangling from the door and I reach for the bent magazine stuffed sideways in my box. Outstretched arm - twisting, fingers grasping. It’s really here. Slick magazine paper marred with black postal fingerprints blind my view of utility bills and postcards.
Holding the spine with my left hand, I leaf through the pages with my right. I see my words. My words in a magazine. This is bigger than a journal entry or a letter to my mom. This is bigger than a class paper or a cover letter to vie for a job. This is my words being read by possibly thousands of people. I’m self-conscious of what the world might think but delirious that I’m given the opportunity.
I work hard with this lifelong struggle with words and am pleased to have this grand reward. I’ve always wished for something to be good at. Something that is comprehensive and can be worked to a fine art. Something that’s deserving of green stares and jagged comments. Now I seem to have it but who knew it would be writing?