GaspThere was nolife indanger, butshe pressed herlips to hisand breathedinto himall thesame.
CloudyThere is something worsethan writer's block;it's when the words come inthrough the heat,through the loneliness,or the sheets withwrithing contentment.It's when the words are rightin your headfor paper or someone else,and all I can mutter is thatmy head hurts-and I need to go to sleep.
Ignore AdviceWrite ten bad poems.Write one hundredbad poems.Write profoundly.Write and drink.Keep a notebook with you,write in publicand make sure that othersknow that you are, in fact,writing.Write a love poem,then throw it awaybecause all the good oneshave already been read.Ignore advice,write about the decisioninstead of the feeling.Write one sentence-make indents,say to yourself thatthis is it, THIS is IT.Then delete,and tell yourself that again.
WildYou could never be strangers againin that void of charged spacebetween the eyes and the air.And the other people, who areless than faces in the crowd.Maybe it was a true dream ofdark times, always walking,you are thief protected by glossthat they could breakif only they knew how.The lion at the zoo couldjump the fence, the wolvescould dig beneath the glass.Safety is a mutual ignorance,and it is something to be remindedthrough wilds of the woods,that she has fangsand so do you.
(nothing)Sitting on this bus,I know that I am distinctlyseparate.I am the absence of this bus,and the other passengersas well.There is some sortof truth to this;some sort of credencethat I can'tplace my hands on.(I am not the paper, only the foldsmade by my fingers.I am not the blankets,only the indent left behind.I am not the rain,only the dry spotsmarking the pavement.)Even when I'm standing still,I am not the air.(I can only hold it in.)
ImpatientIf you talk to anyone who waits at red lights or cares about fashion or owns a gun, they'll know a thing or twoabout all of us; all of humanity. We are all flowers, we are all little universes, we are all the underdog future.And maybe this is completely true, and maybe some girl pierced her ear in the 8th grade bathroom, and maybe youhave sand in your shoes from that visit to the beach last week. What does it matter, is this an absolute?We are all pieces of God, we are all forgetting about Heaven, we are all waiting politely for death to break inthrough the bathroom window. You can ask the stains on the sidewalk, the birds who refuse to build nests, thefaded black hair on the barbershop floor. They will tell you that this all does matter, and if you care about yourchildren, it's an absolute, too. Sometimes I run through traffic lights, wear half-unbuttoned flannel and scoffat the glory of firearms, but you can talk to me whenever you grab my shoulder and take a moment to stop s
AgingWhen I walk on the curbsof downtown, I can turn my headand see my reflectionin the glass.In the windows that stand guardagainst the smokeand the rainand the winds.I can see myself,flickering between panesas I move down the streets.I can see myself,wrinklingwiseningwaiting to grow oldand learning how to remember.
AwayThewhiteplasticbagcollapsedon thecurbcirclesupthrough theairand issnatched bya manwhofailstofly.
JumpWe searched every mirrorto find the place wherethe building leaptfromher.
SwirlsThe ice seeps through the bedas dust dances a dust-dancein the early night, pressingtheir little faces against my windowwhere fingerprints have been.Little gylphs of oilthat show where I have been.
XXXXXEven now,part of me(my hands)want topull outthat glassshe lodgedin her neck.Pull it outand drop itinto pieces,or keep itin the back seatof my car.Where it canlay a whileand stare at me.Part of me(my chest)is not afraidof demons.It is far lessdangerousthan girls withhaphazard knivesand othermonsters.
DryingThere is a book of matcheson my floor here,somewhere behind theshelves of paper and wirescoiled in the corners.And it always smells a little bitlike smoke and ink in hereespecially when I open the window;put myself on displayfor a street whereonly strangers walk by.I am an old, tired zoo animaland the kids don't even tapon my glass anymore.
Are You Missing"Are you missinganything?",she sighed-as she watchedthe snow-ghostsat nightwith her handson the frozenglass, leavingfog printsthat pressedand reached.-as he sat quietly,breathing inthat summerrain.
Her Musethese words are not poetryswimming liquid fire through ashesof dead phoenix veins.no, they are rough and callusedwith over use, their own faithless artistsspewing black tar from their lungsin the hopes to one day breathe again.nothing moves her.she would rather scribble her heart outon physical manifestations of her own reality-on skin and bones she worships like a temple. "Write of me," he says, "right here."- planting sun-stricken kisses along the hollow of her burning throat."I want to be where your heart sleeps."
Untouched BooksDirty fingerprints crust the pagesOf the books of forgotten loreThat have laid here before all agesUntouched from before-Unconcerned with reason or rhyme,Longing for those finger-shaped prints,They have waited all this time,To be imprinted with darkened tintsBut all that meets them is the chilly air,And the quiet whispers of phantoms past;And still they wait with silent flair,To be marked with fingers again at last
InsectThat manat thecornerdoes notwatch thelight-instead,he smashesa bugwho hadsomewhereto go.
OhFingers in front ofyour eyes,laced in light.The arid, shiftingdesert of your palms.Sand in the beachgrass,dancing.Listen to the shell:it will teachwhat is alive.Tell your children it was the ocean.The whole worldcan hear you breathe.Are you innocent yet?Fishnet stockingsand long, dark hair.That emptymoment.May she never hear the namethat you whisper through the dark.
PeakShirtless in bed,on a lonelysaturday night.An impatient manwrites impatientpoetry.
hey boy, I'm bleeding without youI guess you could say I've been infatuated with death,but I'm even more consumed by youin the deadliest way possible.
SnowLet's lose our faces tonightChemical anxiety and paper highsThrown to the curb by something stronger, small and whiteWhile stars burn out their insides; Prometheus in the sky.I always thought you were a lie:Stinking pop culture curling bright around my eyeBut now I wonder if your treasure is something I could findLeaping from the bass lines into my frenzied, eager mind.
frozen/headlightsI am nervousunsettled, unpreparedimpressed to the point ofintoxicationperhaps I am playing the part ofa girlchild, reincarnated from something stripedhands-shaking, violin bones (high-strung)perhaps it is/has been/will beyouis it cliché to make comparisons tokryptonite, toan envelope delivered with awhite settling ofanthrax? your smile tangles with thehalf-poetry you breathe out instinctively, sharp andwinteredyou are surprising likefrostbite. the soft teeth of morningfreeze; and I, dull, wordless,naive and lightning-struckI am nervous
Stepping Over LeavesAnd so I tried to hold your lettersthe way you used to hold my hand;fingers spaced between torn edges andaround undotted i's.Guiding me awayfrom those gentle autumn leaves thatI had loved to crunchso very much.But instead, I stepped against the sunspotsof every promise you had brokentrying just to pull some meaning from a sentenceending with "goodbye".And when my eyes began to slide over the words you had misspelled,I closed your noteand tore it into nothing.Nothing but a sad reminder that once again you had crackedlike those gentle autumn leavesthat I had lovedso very much.
upsmokewhen thinking of youi like a smoke or sixdrive a poisonstickdeep into my lungsrot might reach my brainerase our wheezing laughsnights of nicotine hazesmog mixing with sweatyou're fumes of a cigwispy, wonderful whirlsabsorbed into cornersnever to be seen againsmelling of burnt skini'm pulled from nostalgiaand light another match
I dreamt of a flood and you were the waterLight bulb eyes,burning through me likeelectric currents,Your wavescrash into meas I dream,your ocean spits me outthrough seaweed teeth,and I love you,but you blink lightand breathe water,so not only am I blind,I am drowning.
InkShe looked around the box she was trapped inAs she took the knife and cut open her chestAll that was left of importance to her was her broken penBreathing in and out, slowlyHer box was filling with ink...It was time...She jabbed the pen in her chestHer wishes skimmed the last of her sanityTrying to remember when the world was brightInstead of covered with darkInkHer blood turned blackStill obbsessing with her story book dreamsOf taking her pathetic thoughts of insanityAnd making her pen drip poetrySo she grabbed her notebookHer fake reality in stazasAs the snake slithered out of her chestHer fingers shook as she used her own darknessHer inky soul to write her last wordsFor the power of the penPoisoned her on the insideMade her sanity spin out racing thoughtsAnd pooling ink in the hidden corners of her mindUntilUntil her breaths slowly filled with inkTurning the coners of her mouths upAs the ink rose in her boxFor her eyes cried ink when the gash was madeAs
Shake It OffSelective collective - coagulating -regret accumulating against you.Re - living it was the easy part.No way. There was no light.Cellophane whispersthe glow of a ghost.- heart murmurs -I paused to savor the expansion of blood in my arteries.A declaration of demons - monstrosity -impressionable weaponry.But honestly, I was just like them. I just wanted my pound of flesh._____________________
Sometimes, you enjoyed being blind.Over 1,000 letters have found their wayto the pulsating heart of my wastebasket.Until you.You carried them away saying, "I'll use theseto fill the empty spaces of my universe."You proceeded to tape them to your eyelids,wear them like Augusts leaves along your limbs."I will be your voice and I will sing your words to the trees."Slender spider fingers prancing across my misspelled scrawl.
Ghost StoryWhat is thison the next horizonholding strong against the wind,it is a figment,it is an oil stain,it is somethingless than a blurand more than a photograph.