Going to university
to get my degree
BeliefI believe in myself,
my love, God, and flowers,
in no particular order,
for I love myself as she loves me
and I love her as she loves herself
she is a flower, dew-dropped,
she holds my hands and wears flower-prints
as we walk through holy gardens
and God is all around and in,
and the flowers let me feel it,
like her skin pressed to my palm,
like her soul, holy, inwoven into mine,
like God, holy, inwoven to the all
our love, holy, inwoven into all …
Love is a Sketchlove
is actually a sketch,
of the textured painting,
not the painting itself
is actually a skeleton
like the ones
hidden in closets,
giving you depth
is actually your hand,
not in mine,
the shape, size, curvature,
the act of
A Poem to a Lady I KnowThe world has torn you down my dear,
but I can see beneath your eyes, wherein your heart lies
a renaissance of mind and you hardly notice,
tis the sad part, for the dark clouds rolled in some time ago,
and so went with it the light that once shined so openly
oh just open your eyes to me!
For a single moment let said glimmer shine through,
like sunlight through overcast, casting down in thin rays,
visible in afternoon, peeking through the leaves of trees.
(I know I should not say a single thing of what I think,
and I know you cannot respond to this;
for professional and private lives are at stake,
and these things have been made ever so important
in modern minds and lives )
But your beauty! Oh there I see it!
The radiant, bu
Out the Grey I've never met someone
who could pull me out the Grey,
but she can—
making the world unblur, the lines return,
the colours and refracting light, the day from out the night
I've never met someone
who could pull me out the Grey,
but she can—
turning ravens into bluebirds, to nest within my tree
pulling me up by heartstrings, when I'm brought unto my knees
I've never met someone
who could pull me out the Grey,
but she can—
like a giant peach pulled out the ocean, barely afloat,
before the sharks can devour the fruit, and sink the holy boat …
Piano Playerthe piano is a tomb
in its silence,
afraid to wake the neighbors...
those keys are not smiling
now white planks
the player is not smiling
with eyes out window
thinking of a day
he used to play
to hell with the neighbors...
Love Can Be A Lot of Thingsyou know, love can be a lot of things,
it can be universal, mystical, mythical, wonderful,
it can be cooking dinner or walking in the rain,
it could be staying in your pyjamas, smoking weed, watching wrestling,
and wrestling later, laughing and laughing,
it can be Ella Fitzgerald on a breezy afternoon,
the wind creeping through attic window open diagonal,
it can be train rides in tubes running under the city,
it could be walking close streets to get ice cream before shop close—
it can be the simple fact that someone exists,
the fact that you know that they're there—somewhere,
it can be the sound of their voice on the air, their smile,
something simple—yeah—the way that they wear their hair,
it can be the tear in your eye as you think of these things,
that feeling that rests in the chest and the joy that it brings,
yeah, love can be an awful lot of things,
love can be a lot of thin
Tightrope I decided now that I am a dare-devil, a risk-taker, someone who loves to look a challenge in the eye. There's a large chance that it is because of my pride that I cannot pass up any type of provocation, or it may just be a way for me to inject some excitement into a previously dull life.
I know now that the greatest challenge I ever took on was you. You were dangerous and extreme, throwing sparks off into a black, boring scene, and being with you was like foolishly walking over a tightrope with no past experience. Never knowing how much danger there truly is until, looking down, the world is so many feet below. With you, the adrenaline was always present- the sparks that you so easily threw off became fireworks when we were together.
I understand now why we could never be happy together. A person can never truly trust that they are not going to fall off the tightrope, and in the same way, I could not trust you. You blazed through my life, spout
Two Pennies and a DimeTwo pennies and a dime sit at the bottom of the wishing well. The well was an ordinary well, until the pair decided this should not be so.
She declared that she had never visited a wishing well and that logic insisted all unclaimed wells were to become wishing wells, and he was inclined to agree. It was decided that only very important wishes should be wished at the well, lest the power of the wishing well be drained (for who knows how much power a previously unclaimed well holds?).
They went about their chores, homework, and other such experiences, and never once forgot about the wishing well. It was a full year, to the day-and-a-half, before the first wish was thrown into the well, and he was informed that he must stand at least twenty-three feet away while she made the wish, because if anyone but the well heard the wish go in, it might never be granted. The same secretive process occurred six-and-three-quarters years later, and he stood quietly behin
HopeThe steamy water
Pours down and hides
The tears I shed
Theyre tears of sadness
Tears of rage
But also hope of
Turning the page
The tear thats different
From the rest
A bird escaping
From the nest
But its little wings are
Much too weak
I watch it plummet
I cant speak
But you can hear
My silent cry
Catch the tear before it
Leaves my eye
And as hope is saved,
Bird takes flight,
The tear reflects the
Your smile lifts me
You touch my hand
I feel a chill
Then the warmth of you
And I know youll never
Let me fall
Off Dean Street, On Harry.He reminds you of the Autumn
after Summer never came.
Off Dean St. and on Harry.
Harry O' you can't spell
his pseudonym. All that
sanitised insanity, in too deep,
in-depth profanity, faux
vitamin vitality. Our life
Indian ink and more substance
to the fantasy. All you need
someone into your reality. So
what's in a name?
Love worn like his ill-fitting shirt.
Love like forgotten house keys
When you know you're locked out
but scrabble and claw
desperately hoping to find them.
Love like watching fruit hit
with a hammer in slow motion.
Implode to explode.
He tells you
we're an anomaly and that ours
is the inexperienced,angry
love meant for the elderly.
InheritanceHe plucks a bitter C note
on a two hundred year old violin
that belonged to his mother,
and her grandmother.
The strings have never fallen flat before.
i am not the one to save yousometimes when i see you i have to fight the urge to slap you awake from a girl-induced stupor and make you see that i am a girl, too, that i am susceptible to the things you say.
in truth, i am more susceptible to the things you dont say.
but even as the thought swims through layers of dust to my mouth, i realise that my voice is derelict with loss and i see how selfish it is to want to make you look where it is dark to you, to hurt your eyes when i am seeing in another spectrum and you are all but colourblind.
and then i am disturbed by how like you i have become.
i can speak with my eyes, but you never listen.
all my life i have hated washing my hair because when the soap gets in my eyes, it stings and it draws the tears out till theyre wounds salted with sorrow and i have to reach for a towel. i am a shaking sigmoid on the floor of my shower and i cannot see because my hair is leftover strands of night clinging to sallow skin so i can pretend i am drownin
I have your number, SeabirdHis bathroom is small and bleak. The mirror
shows your reflection in seven colors which
haven't been named on the red-blue-yellow
spectrum. Your eyes are shaking like eggs
and he hasn't said your name in a year. You
think of everything he calls you: Jay, Jaybird,
Rose if he's playful. He told you particles of
every man he's slept with are in the carpet
when he pulled your head back to look into
your pupils. Your eyes are black. They run,
raw and rotten from fluorescence overhead.
He told you the shrooms weren't the same.
If you don't like LSD, you might feel better
trying something more natural. It grows
like marijuana: from the ground. But so does
every poison you can think of. You're natural,
bare with shades you can't begin to fathom.
Something like sulfur is in your nostrils. You
touch the furry rug and think of Vishnu. He
has so many arms to carry you. Jesus only has
two. The church was broad and heavy. It sleeps
in Chicago, beside a park that smells like piss.
He opens the door,
it's all it tookI'm not an asshole, most of the time.
My fingers trace where your hand used to lay
to the left of my stomach. Oh how it aches,
a slush of shadows
lulling around, you tried to say you love me,
you tried to say I pull funny faces
before I sneeze, you tried to say
ohidontknowiwasscared. I felt nauseated.
I got up to smoke.
There was shrink wrap around my legs,
There were mushrooms in my basement,
there was a smell coming from somewhere
behind my bed. You would have laid there forever
if I didn't mention it,
but I did,
and then my fingers cried
when they could not find anything.
living on opposite endsshe mouths Rilke
the way angels
speak to god
perspires the culture
writers die for
is not finished
without her eyes
the only scan
my hours pass
of her voice
tangling with mine
see; children playing footsy
see; Bukowski and Martinelli
see; her words in my mouth
see; America and China
eating steamed bread
and fulfilling her dreams
when I'm asleep
when I'm trying
to discover mine
of the desire
the minor details
PerfectionI don't need wings to feel free.
All I need is a pencil in my hand,
A song in my heart,
And you, right here beside me.
Suffer "Oh! Woe is me, that thy piggy friends did insult me with such fervor!" Milo declared dramatically, throwing a hand in the air, the other placed over his heart. The girl sitting on the bed in front of him did not look amused, however, her pretty face anxious instead.
As people went, these two were as different as could possibly be. Where Milo was ever the dramatic one with his erratic behavior, Ann preferred to blend into the crowd, letting only those who were close to her know how different she truly was from the norm. His friends thought she was boring- her friends thought he was childish and annoying. Ann thought Milo was unique, with a contagious and sweet personality- Milo thought Ann was mysterious and alluring, and altogether perfect.
"I'm so sorry about that," Ann said sincerely but softly, eyes on the floor and a guilty expression on her face, "My friends- they're terrible." Milo looked over at her, and, noticing the tears in her eyes, padded over
I wake, swollen with noon heat.
Half dressed, I stumble,
elbows and toes catching
on the clawed feet of chairs,
the blunt holes of open cupboards.
I sometimes forget my name.
In the kitchen, I pepper the rice
instead of salt. Black flecks surface
in the boiling water,
sea turtles migrating.
If I knew where you went,
I would follow. But all you left behind
was an old sweater, an empty notebook,
complete and infinite
as the space around a closed fist.