O--- FEMALE **work on me**

[Weird name, that's what's on her obituary. Picturing this as she fears for her life.]

Jane clutched her leg and bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain. Her friend, Jessie, was panicked enough without adding four-letter words to the mix. It had been stupid of them to think that they could skip third period without consequence. They had spent weeks planning this day, but deep down Jane knew that they couldn't get away with it. They'd made extensive plans to ensure Jessie's sister's rusty sedan was available for their escapade and its owner far away on a field trip to the city. They'd brought changes of clothes (even their swimsuits, just in case Mother Nature decided to gift them with a preview of summer by the lake). They'd packed enough food to feed half the football team (because who could say for sure which of three sandwiches they'd be craving at the end of their long day). But they hadn't anticipated any broken bones. Nor had they fully considered the double-edged sword of an escape from civilization -- their phones were merely expensive paperweights this far into the woods. As she watched her friend generate new phrases to express her escalating frustration and anxiety, Jane knew that she would have to take matters into her own hands. She winced as she manually extended her injured limb and braced herself for the pain that would come as she dragged herself back to the car -- once their savior from a boring day of school, now the symbol for their failure -- forever linked to torment.

Mallory

She studied her face in the mirror in lieu of more expensive amusements. Why spend half of her paycheck at the movie theater when she could admire her own enviable bone structure for free? Sure, a night at home wouldn’t get her any closer to the pedestal of celebrity, but at her pedestal sink, she could unabashedly pluck stray hairs from her face! She ran her fingertips over the curve of her jaw and lamented her inability to capture its beauty on canvas. Shrugging off what could not be remedied, she loosened the cap of her mascara and began to hum. She stopped the applicator wand midway to her lash pondering the lyrics beneath the tune – What is the hipbone connected to?

Kirsten

The humming from the microphone echoed and Kirsten's shaky legs threatened to give out on her. How was it possible that she could spell twenty-letter diseases and speed through the lexicon of French cuisine yet flub a simple "i before e except after c"? Sweat had already begun to bead up on her forehead when the grating buzzer sounded to signal her failure.

"I'm sorry; that's incorrect." The facilitator stated simply. "You may return to your seat."

Eyes focused on her feet, Kirsten made her way back to her folding chair. Part of her was shocked by the cold of the grey metal seat, but it was buried so far beneath her disappointment that she her body didn't react to the stimulus. How upset her would parents be to R-E-C-E-I-V-E a loser from the bus stop that afternoon!

She struggled to raise her eyes to the imminent spelling champion as he approached the microphone. As he began to spell the word that was to become her terrible legacy at Shady Elm Middle School, he turned a glimmering eye to her and gave a simple wink. "Receipt. R-E-C-I-E-P-T."

The boy turned away from the microphone and began to walk back to Kirsten before the buzzer had even sounded. Kirsten could barely breathe -- he had thrown the game! She didn't know whether to be elated with her renewed chance to win or angered by his actions. What could have been going through his head to motivate this young boy's self-sabotage?

When Gary returned he selected the chair directly behind her own and managed a few words before Kirsten was invited to stand once again: "You're welcome."

Gold Explosions

gold explodes across 

the treeline and my shirt's stripes;

last barbecue this season?

Summer's End

as Summer's heart slows
leaves cling to dying branches.
Live well to the end.


*


summer's end foretold,
strength pools beneath Mother's breast.
sleep and dream of more

*

your crooked smile is
a sapling's bend in a breeze:
unassuming grace.

Dada Cookie

Sometimes I suspect sentences encased in fortune cookies are assembled in the same random way as Dada poetry with the same oracular effect. Wisdom lies in chaos, it seems.

Isobel

On those days the men insisted on planting themselves in front of the television and consuming immeasurable amounts of food from dishes they had no intention of cleaning, she dreamed of life in a zenana where testosterone only pervaded the premises briefly and for good reason. The men might have agreed with such an idea, had she revealed her thoughts to them.

sex and stimulus

i need to go to sleep or do something productive --
like fucking him until i can't think of anything else.
i'm using orgasm to tune out the truth, but which one:
truth for the long-term or just what i choose to see in a moment?
i can't be sure.
does my libido exceed my wisdom?
(i am often distracted by sex and stimulus.)
does the effect of the cause justify the motivation of the motion?
how many times have i posed such questions?
is there any point
or it is only echoes?

**HAIKU -- work on me

Dandelion

wisdom lies in chaos --
a fact i've learned by my waning naivete
across the axis of time.
the more trouble i endure,
the less it troubles me.
all things come and go with the wind --
be it light whisper or hurricane --
and all i can do is stand my ground
as it softly whistles in my ear or bursts my eardrums.
am i a sapling, torn from the earth after germination
or am i more invested in the earth i occupy?
i am content, today, to be a dandelion,
giving of myself to enrich the world around me.

**VOCAB** cant -- work on this, review definition

i fear my tendency for flowery speech
often comes across as a cant.
i'll admit to frequent indecision --
i do hail from the lunar court, after all
(as my moods testify) --
but i don't wish to repel others
with a lack of assertiveness.
my inability to assert my needs and desires
to all but my closest friends and family
is detrimental...
it seems my speech fails to encapsulate
the fullness of my written compositions.
what encouraged this disconnect
between text and talk?
it is silly to hide behind the screen of the paper
when spoken words are so much more efficient...
but i can't abandon the introspection
available on the page...

parenthetical

i fear that while my acts are repressible
(reprehensible?)
my feelings cannot be forgotten
(nor forgiven?)
i've broken it.
(can it be fixed?)

Growth and Confidence

some days i feel insecure
self-conscious
flawed
wrong somehow.
other days i get out of bed
and feel like i can do anything
(nothing can break my stride!)
...unless i break that stride myself --
with self criticism
self-doubt
by denying that i am good enough
strong enough
enough.

i am truly and always...
an artist
a writer
a musician
a dreamer...
a hard-worker
a person of integrity
(though -- like anyone --
i've had my stumbles along the way)
but i let others determine my path
all too often.
i let others' uninformed words
affect my outlook on the world
(and subsequent actions).
but time and again,
i reach a point
where i decide
to break off...

despite my failure to plan ahead
my lack of whistling ability
my stage fright (when singing, mind you)
my confusion...
i am optimistic
friendly
generous
honest
loving
understanding
and give of myself deeply
(oftentimes, too much ...
too soon...)
i am working on changing my tendency
to become a mat that's walked all over...
straining to improve myself
as i learn about myself and my inner workings
and the world

Hank

Hank's inadequacies were largely imagined: he had graduated at the top of his class and was rapidly climbing the corporate ladder. Still, his zeigarnik accosted him at least once a day--transporting him back to a time years earlier when his nervous fingers had marred his first piano performance. While his parents had long forgotten the error--if they had even noticed it initially, George would never forgive himself for disrespecting Bach.

butterfly's regression

he loved me...
and i could never make myself feel
anything beyond platonic.
once i cleared the cobwebs
of an (adolescent?) (naive?) idealistic happy-ever-after
i could see that
he was not my prince charming
it was i who charmed him into thinking
that he could play that role
and it was i who opposed his valiant quest
and it was i who played the villain.

now that i've ended things
i feel like i'm inadequate
(and fear that i'll feel the same forever)
because i had this man
and instead of doing the honorable thing
and talking things out with him
and maybe working to fix things
i ran into the arms of another man

but i know deep down
that without this encounter,
i'd never have worked up the resolve
to go through with it.
i learned passion,
i learned...so much about myself already
and i think i've been changing everyday
even though i tried to hide it for years

i think the butterfly i thought
i was becoming a few years ago
was flying on borrowed wings.
but i'm okay -- more than okay --
with being a caterpillar again.

Circumscribe

i try to cripple your strength
by talking circles around you --
talking with my pen
(as my vocal cords cannot compete
with the muscles in my fingers
and those in my mind).

despite my strength of mind and digits,
i cannot confine you to a space.
most days i feel that this intangible fence
has fooled me into ignoring you
just long enough for you
to escape through the barbs
and just long enough for me
to stop caring so much.

but other days,
when noise is insufficient to shut out
the incessant emptiness,
i hear you again.
i know it's not truly you --
just my imagined you --
even so, i am transported
to a place where you are central
and i cannot stop wondering
who you really are
and why you had to leave.

Kinetic

moving moving always moving
my mind more than my limbs
my limbs more than my mind
can i truly move both simultaneously?
i forget what i am to remember
when i move my mind elsewhere
i stumble when i am to dance
when i mistake one foot for another.
i can only prepare for missteps
because they are inevitable
and i cannot anticipate everything
or even the smallest fraction of things.
my admission of flaws is flawless
and i do not omit my tendency to omit
the important nonsense in my life.
can i exhale everything i inhale
or will i always hold back a bit?

Liege to My Heart

how can i be liege to my heart
when its rhythm shifts without warning,
responding to instinctual impulses
that threaten to overcome the established hierarchy?
the collar 'round my tiny finger marks me his,
but is it enough?
any good animal tamer knows
that i a cage or collar need not be too restrictive,
as such means of control establish a monarchy
rather than a mutual agreement based on trust.
my ring is like a spring,
allowing me to look away for a moment
so long as i spring back to where i belong.
he trusts me to return to home when we meet again, 
but do i?
the flesh is weak when prodded by the id revealed;
can i keep my baser self repressed
so as always to base my life around him?
basically, maybe...

but then again

but then again,
perhaps i'm wrong
and we are just me and
another person who doesn't give a shit.
my phantasies don't work
if i can't imagine you in them
but they're only phantasies
because you're not there.

No Fanfare Tonight

lying alone in the hallway
as amber light floats from a single dirty bulb
(but the fixture isn't terrible)
there's a reason to go and a place to be
but i can't move...
tomorrow is crawling ever closer
but i shouldn't let it drift away.

i had the urge to get loftier
and parade around some morals
meant to keep the emotional wellness high
but i'm not done soul-searching
and i have fewer answers than before.
so exit stage right, trumpets:
there'll be no fanfare tonight.

no, tonight i hear a distant trumpet and a bongo once and again
and again
once and again.
and the moon shines high above the world
and it's cold and inviting all at the same time
a lover who turns her cheek but turns her cheek,
her body curving into you
but her beautiful face, lips, eyes, BRAIN pull away.

she's not here:
in this world of stability and predictability.
there's no space for different in a world of same.
and maybe she needs excitement.
yes.
she does.

you can't truly claim her until you occupy her mind
but only as a cohabitant, and one with a smaller room at that!
but her thoughts will brush against yours sometimes
because a memory or mystery included you somehow.
you have to make her think
to make her yours.

were you to have this second option rather than the first
as the owner of the mind:
how content could you be with that arrangement, anyhow?
the good and bad from the mind without the excellent horseplay,
(oh, how she brags about her sexpertise!)
your deal is not ideal either.
surely you'll grow tired of the arrangement one day.

and what will she do when she loses your companionship?
who will she become without your light?
with nothing or no one to propel her forwards,
will she start sliding further back?
at what point will the realization come
that leads her to a tough decision?
how much you mean remains to be seen.

maybe tomorrow,
once these hours finish drifting away.

Gloria

...

Strange, then, that she grew suddenly more confident and sure-footed as she stepped over that intangible boundary in the night, a simple step taking her from reality to dream -- one simple step shifting one into the other. In this new state, she still resisted the rising sun progressing the gradient past her eyelids from dusky grey to something markedly warmer. She still unsuccessfully struggled against the barrage of tasks and responsibilities awaiting her in the dawn. The idyllic silence of slumber was slipping away and she could resist it no longer.

She began her waking sequence, arching her back into the warm, hard body encircling her small frame. A hardness responded in kind, answering the request with a firm "yes". Perhaps there could be a few moments spared before reality -- if that was truly what this was -- crashed in. Her stretch slid into gyrations and she slid her arm down ever further to investigate what needed no further confirmation.

unfulfilled

unfulfilled
tired of being empty
watching the tank drain
and doing nothing to refill it
i can't complain
when i do nothing but complain
i cannot move
if i do not move my feet
i can only blame the external things for so long
before their forces crush my frame
where am i
in this undefined mush

**HAIKU**

tomatoes

thanks for the produce.
the scarlet pulp
and tiny seeds
suggest growth and vitality
but it's all a farce, the whole fruit:
it's been torn from the vine.

Life of Hydration

life is not a babbling brook
or profluent river reaching for the sea;
it is more a waterfall,
splashing upon rocks
and wasting of itself
to drop to lower heights.
it is a rapid,
violently attacking
any who dare cross its path.
it's true:
there are short spans of tranquil waves
where the only ripples are made by
waterbugs on the surface
but nothing is so mutable as
the current of existence.

Audorable

A fast Audi
runs with the fervor of an antelope,
but not as the one chased --
the prey.
Nay, this one runs toward
inevitable death,
a sure catastrophe
at the end of the long, dark tunnel.

turtle of today

busy busy, always busy
running from point A to C.
what's an oreo without the creme?
or bookends on an empty shelf?
hyperopic eyes focus on the horizon,
never dropping to see the dashes on the road.
reminiscing's fun but regret's widespread
when we will life to take on lunar gravity
demanding it leap when it should crawl.
why can’t we be content with today?
must we always live one step ahead?
there's value in the quotidian,
truth in monotony.
unembellished breaths propel us forward
in ways hyperventilation never could.
put tomorrow’s rabbit out of your head, turtle of today.

Francis

His entrance à cheval suggested a certain familiarity with romance novels. Had he also donned a blonde wig and clutched a tub of butter-alternative, his beloved would have likely fled his overzealousness; but today love drew her forward.

Twelve suns would rise and fall before the mounted hopeless romantic would learn that his equine companion had, in that moment, usurped the heart of the only woman he would ever love.

yes

temptation you are
even if you have no desire to be desired
so you are the same.
your presence plagues me
at the same time that
your absence pains me.
how can i stop that
with no true origin?
you grew hydroponically
despite your lack of traditional nurturing
here you are.
do you know where here is?
i didn't designate a plot for your crop
but you're here all the same,
like a seed whose germination point
lies far from its parent stem.
what do i do now?
you've infiltrated my compound
without any intent to do so.
you've sowed discontent,
although i've never spread your seed.
if you're not involved
if you're not to blame
how can you be involved
how can i make YOU part of the equation
that only involves me + me.
my imagination takes me down many roads
and this time i tread yours
without your permission.
can i make myself turn away
or revert to the true course
or retrace my steps?
you are not part of this.
i am only attempting to enlarge fantasy
without realizing how irrelevant it is to reality.
sigh.

random flow

she stood in shadows like--
like a ghost at high noon.
falling invisible and rising in prestige.

he sat on a hilltop
(the sundial's position means little now)
and waited.

she would spin her wheels
SHE would grind her gears
in the mortal-and-pestle
where humanity is punished.
(or is it?)

when do i figure out where i'm going?
when will i remember where i've been?
this cyclical world that we cycle upon
has lots of pretty parks
and pretty parking lots.
why is sitting sill so much more pleasing to the eye?
(but is it?)

i need to succumb to these biological functions
necessity takes up so much of my time
is today for a purpose?
or does it mean nothing if i don't share?
nothingness: a cave of hidden potential
substance, an misguided misperception

yeah yeah yeah

In other news, I'm feeling pretty open minded right now.
WHY? You ask.
Because this isn't supposed to be poetry
but my truncated lines and unnecessary <br> coding suggests otherwise.

I feel more when my hand is connected to a pen
or a pencil, if just to start
before my consciousness has awakened
(before it begins to wane again)
What am I saying other than nonsense?
Who am I now but Myself?

Music and scents surround me
Taste evades my mind and tongue
You were here once
And still enrapture me now.
But only in the space of a second

I want passion and excitement to fuel my art
Is that as selfish as it sounds?
Maybe emotion is too abrasive for our love
Do I stop this tomfoolery
Or stop this pen?

Misters and Mistresses sauntering around:
Who are you to make me drop to the ground
Who are you to force me to my knees

**HAIKU**

Drink Now of the Deceased!

some say that death mars life
but life surely reciprocates this enmity.
as we wink into existence
we fault death for pain and misery,
blinding ourselves to the truth.

surely such large concepts are common
to matter and antimatter alike!
temporality does not observe the states of being
that we establish to bestow meaning to our days.
time passes: we live; we die.

we fabricate checkpoints to interrupt
the stretch of personal existence --
birth to maturity to matrimony to birth --
and with it another stretch of years
segmented into arbitrary units of time.

(astronauts' observations confirm
the calendar's dependence on orbits,
but they're of little import to
those of us relegated to lives
on these hunks of orbiting rock.)

but death is mankind's only landmark:
eras and dynasties divided with scarlet.
the hourglass runneth over with blood!
yesterday's carafe has been refilled
drink now of the deceased.

there is great wisdom in death.
(yet how inadequate the time afforded us
to peruse the funereal guidebooks!)
subsume their wisdom into your vessel,
enhancing its flavor with that already inside.

life is forever accompanied by death --
ignorance of this partnership marks a fool.
yet allowing death to shadow life marks an imbecile.
live well, die well
and breathe for the space between.

See-saw

no chains hold me here
but i appertain to you all the same.
by signing our names side-by-side,
we've both agreed
to share ourselves with one another.
you are my keeper and i, as yours,
plan to push you toward your dreams
(but not too hard)
and pull when i need you close
(but not so often you 're forever exiled from solitude).
a see-saw,
giving and taking through ups and downs,
i hope to share the work and the play
for all time.

matemáticas

i asked you once to cook for me
you probably don't remember
such a minor conversation
but i do.
and you did.
let's put significance where it doesn't belong
like a cheesy romance
and pretend it means something
when it's just sustenance
but isn't hope the same thing?
and isn't faith just confidence that things will be ok?
and they are.
we're not an entity;
we'd never have added up right.

besides, i've already used my plus-sign.
(and multiplication is imminent)

perhaps the division was necessary for a while
because now the shavings of graphite have blown away,
but i can't handle subtraction with you.

Revolution 179

when nature holds her breath
the skins upon the mast fall flaccid,
their tapestries' richness untold -
words withheld to punish
her unshared whispers.

Nothing given, nothing shared.

homicidal waves shore simple rafts
unprepared to leave an ordered existence,
unprepared to float away as driftwood.
how can one hold onto herself
without trunks beside to bestow meaning?

Mutability of form veils similitude of locomotion.

you left your oars in a boathouse on the mainland;
mine were lost along the way
along with my rebellious spirit.
scarlet flames fizzled as they fell overboard,
fiery fingers never fated to reach the Red blaze.

My revolution became intangible at 179 degrees.

i smuggled a glowing ember onto an imagined isle.
i cannot bring myself to extinguish its life.
it promises a future laden with violence and heartache,
whose progression i should halt with vigor
but must i discard the scraps of memory?

Cookie-cutter philosophy leaves the territory outside its borders unexplored.

were we to smash doughy remnants together
would they remember having been divided
and focus on differences?
or would they recognize their similarities
and acquiesce to homogeneity?

Rhetorical questions cultivate algebraic wastelands.

we stand on separate strips of land
divided by azure complications.
nature's lifeblood invigorates the division,
sharpening the taste of treachery.
i savor the wrongness.

Eleanor

Her soiled spoon rattles against ceramic emptiness. She mourns the loss of flavor the same way she will mourn him two days later when she allows herself to accept that he's gone.

She twirls her finger through the remnants of the meal and licks her finger clean in hopes that stimulating her tastebuds will numb her sense of shame. Shame for allowing herself to succumb to his charms, shame for accepting less than her due, shame for tolerating behavior she wouldn't have accepted from her teenage son. 

But all she can taste is his memory.

He isn't right for her; never was. Contrary to her own good sense, she'd put off clipping his vine -- instead inviting him to envelop her and blot out her sunlight. Carnal hungers sated, she slipped into a world where her needs outside the bedroom were irrelevant.

She had broken the one rule of one-night stands. But something about the way his fingers brushed against her neck made her dream of more. She told herself that she didn't mind his intrusion, but in chasing this one dream she had removed the possibility of any other.

She grabs a bottle of red wine, fills a glass halfway, and tries to see something other than emptiness.

addicted

why does my body hold you
when my mind named you an obstacle
before your hurdle was laid in my path?
i know you're unnecessary --
an expansion pack I don't need --
yet you still linger in my cells
(like a dormant pathogen)
after all this time.

 it's been a year almost
and your mystique still enchants me
and i hope without Hope's blessing
that my essence sleeps
in your subconscious too.
awakening when you least expect it
and impeding your momentum
when forward is the only option.

we hold each other stagnant;
by clinging to the hypothetical
we distance ourselves from the plausible.
our coloring sheets were never intended
to be more than black-and-white.
why do i cling to the possibility of nothingness
that "us" entails?
i'm addicted to you though i've never partaken.

hunger strikes

hunger's open mouth
devours all self control.
succumb to more cake.

*

enhance your days with
salt, pepper, garlic, thyme, sage.
settle not for bland.

*

closed eyes, open mouth --
there is joy in the unseen.
tastebuds, awaken!

Ostrich

Too afraid to stand and fight;
Too much pride to fly away.
Cowardice: immobilize
Egos lacking skill to play!
Games of conflict can’t be played
By those afraid to deal a hand.
Flightless birds avoid their call
Ostriching heads in the sand.

Pyknic

i fear my inactivity will result in a pyknic future self
a self who would rather indulge in calories and sedentary life
does this path begin with mental atrophy?
after graduation, the grey matter is rarely challenged
we get into "habits" of doing things
and employment is never varied enough
to prevent atrophy of the body and mind
and once the limbs are devoid of muscle
and the mind free of stimulation
it all becomes automatic
and we eat whatever is placed before us
i fear my adulthood is that of a robot
whose abilities are stripped of meaning
because change has no place in a rigid box
no longer a maze, this life of mine

before

is this the same as before?
the same torrential waterfall of heat and emotions?
nothing stopped me before --
i hopped on that horse and rode into a sunset that quickly rose to high noon.
i walked away from that duel back then, unconcerned with the outcome
but could it be that the bullet hit me and i've been bleeding ever since?
has my subconscious maneuvering to staunch the flow
led me down the very same path?

i don't want another shootout...

Pondering Yesterdays

i did a whole lot of nothing yesterday
cleaned my face and teeth
put on pajamas
set my mind to no uncompleted goals
so we sat
devoid of pretense
(aside from whatever we bring to the table naturally)
the morning and early afternoon passed
without incident
but the air we exhaled
was rich with meaning
what does it mean
that there's an invisible string
and it feels so natural
to behave unnaturally
who are you to me
i haven't decided

Doug

Twenty minutes into the exam, nature was screaming into Doug's face. A childhood full of terrestrial ferries between the pond in his backyard to the Great Lakes in his grandparents' had developed his ability to endure eight-hour stints between trickling streams, but the waterfall of caffeinated drinks from the previous night's cram session (not to mention the Writer's soppy sponge of metaphors) had stripped him of all restraint. The professor's irrefrangible policy against any interruption of testing sessions must be violated, else Noah's ark need be summoned to save the devout from the amber deluge.

Thirsty Darkness

She 

stood aloof

nothing stood in the way of her purpose.

buffeted by the cool winter breeze,

nothing stood but

She

had watched others fall to the whirr

or tumble into thirsty darkness

but she refused to let the world assign her pain.

Her pain was her own.

She

stands calmly, patiently awaiting tomorrow.

will it bring an end or another beginning?

what use in new predictions?

tomorrow we chase the yesterdays

we did not catch today. 

(again.)

She

will herald the end to nothingness

by giving in to it

and tumbling into thirsty darkness

as winter blows itself away

Pillow Talk

ease your tired mind:
i will erase your troubles
if you close your eyes.

*

counting sheep is hard
when the pillow under you
died six months ago.

mystery has no map

getting lost in the unknown is bittersweet:
the quest unfolding into deep oblivion,
its marvels expanding the mind
at the expense of momentum.
will i rise to the mystery
or delve into the dirt?

Grouse

do i grouse about work
because i hate it?
because i hate my coworkers?
because i hate my customers?
because i hate stagnation.
because i hate not living up to my potential
by accepting mediocrity.
i realize that most people are average
and to be a part of this crowd is no shame,
but i -- like the ginger mermaid --
want more for myself.
curiosity will not kill me
as it did the poor feline.
on the contrary, it keeps me alive.
keeps electricity surging through my nerves.
sameness and stability,
while good in ways,
are not satisfying.
i need to dare to risk failure
in order to truly succeed.
i must risk crashing to the ground
if i wish to soar.

Tonight

the chill outside pales
in comparison with the icebox of us.
a vacuum pulls you to me --
no, it's not gravity:
you won't stay forever.

but will you stay tonight?
will you stay tonight?

there's heat enough between us
to become arsonists --
just how notorious is up to you.
ashes, ashes
we all fall down.

but will we die tonight?
will we die tonight?

silence stretches across yawning crevices.
(how is it nothingness can echo so loud?)
your matter-of-fact demeanor
cuts me deeper
than we'd ever dreamed.

but will we speak again tonight?
will we speak again tonight?

Clone

duplicated self:

we do not share the same improprieties.

to ignore and set aside darker desires,

to bury discordant feelings

to disobey urges of the id:

these are my duties.

but these sanctions and prohibitions 

are not your own.

pursue your urgent urges

chase him down dark alleys

and bring him the light --

your light.

sate unsanctioned appetites

because no duties and responsibilities

hold you down.

darker, ever darker.

yes, i know this is no way to live

but i need to live vicariously,
then let you fade away.

not even the worst version of myself

could survive on darkness alone.

who's the darker one of us

if i'm content to let you kill yourself off?

but the truth is...

without the sanctions

without the broken commitments

you would be happy and free

to pursue your acceptable urges

and make him your own.

and i would be forever barred

from breaking and disobeying

and pursuing my own darkness.

you would keep me from myself

so you will remain the impossibility you are.

i refuse to give you life

because it would mean death to my fantasies

and i cannot see them wane.

so i am content to let my mind travel through possibilities

and dark alleys.

my imagined self allows my true self to thrive.

Callie

Her soiled spoon rattles against ceramic emptiness. She mourns the loss of flavor the same way she will mourn him two days later when she allows herself to accept that he's gone.
She twirls her finger through the remnants of the meal and licks her finger clean in hopes that stimulating her tastebuds will numb her sense of shame. Shame for allowing herself to succumb to his charms, shame for accepting less than her due, shame for tolerating behavior she wouldn't have accepted from her teenage son. 
But all she can taste is his memory.
He isn't right for her; never was. Contrary to her own good sense, she'd put off clipping his vine -- instead inviting him to envelop her and blot out her sunlight. Carnal hungers sated, she slipped into a world where her needs outside the bedroom were irrelevant.
She had broken the one rule of one-night stands. But something about the way his fingers brushed against her neck made her dream of more. She told herself that she didn't mind his intrusion, but in chasing this one dream she had removed the possibility of any other.

She grabs a bottle of red wine, fills a glass halfway, and tries to see something other than emptiness.

Okay

the sun one day
will fade away
the moon's
already on its way
but i have got you
here with me
so that's okay

as darkness spreads
across the sky
and living things
lie down to die
i'll keep you here
right by my side
so that's okay

the tears in my eyes
carry us away
the blood in my heart
will feed us for days
i'll hold you so tight
while evil things play
and that's okay
that's okay

[soaring violin solo]

the tears in my eyes
carry us away
the blood in my heart
will feed us for days
i'll hold you so tight
while evil things play
and that's okay
that's okay

was supposed to

who have i hented this life from?
surely it was not meant for me.
i was supposed to be traveling the world
and writing novels
and money was supposed to be irrelevent
at the same time it was to be in ready supply.
instead i struggle to connect the ends
instead i work on a sponge i must wring joy from
(when i dreamed of a place where joy overflowed its cup)
what choice do i have but to follow the path
though i realize i can create a fork with some work
i dare not step off the path into the brush
for i have too many responsibilities
and too many ropes tying me to the ground
i will wring the joy out of work
and soak in the joy of play
until that day when play and work are one.

Rebirth

pleasure trumps pain
but pain lets me know i'm still alive.
dulling a blade
only makes it harder to use.
twenty smiles blend into one over time
but i still feel every stab.
Slice me open
and let me live again.

living tangentially

i have the wind to spruik
but do my words hold meaning?
i often become lost in my own embellishments,
never coming to the X on the map.
do i live tangentially,
never fated to collide with my point?
i float in a universe of stars
eluding their gravitational pulls.
it's a peaceful life
but what good does it serve?
an astronaut's birthplace becomes irrelevant
when home is light years away.
do i need to reconnect with myself
to disconnect from myself?
or would a step backwards lead to a pit?
surely i cannot stand still
or if i do i will green as a sloth.
i like green but not that kind.

i already am

i want to reach out
but can't
if i plan to make the point
i set out to make.
i can't let you control me
by growing dependent
on your approval
but my thoughts prove
i already am.

one day,
too soon,
i will cave
and invite you back
into my caverns.
spelunking is a funny word
but magnetism is only science
and physics are only funny
if your glasses are thicker than mine.

who is this girl
...trying to explain chemicals,
...trying to deny pheremones' pull,
...trying to be something other than
the positive to your negative?
why deny the undeniable?
pushing what pulls you only keeps you still
pull me close and push against my walls
until they tumble down.

Happier as Ones

my parents didn't trust him
because i met him online
and perhaps i shouldn't have either
but that is looking back...
and looking forward to our potential future
there was no room for fear,
no time to hold back

so he took me from the safety of my home
to a pool hall (of all places)
a dark haven for dark things.
the setting should have been my first clue --
but i was seventeen and hadn't yet tasted the world,
so its shadows intrigued me
and our flirtation kept me from thinking too hard

i can't remember where we went from there --
a movie theater?
a room underground
where sunlight couldn't penetrate the walls? --
but the next few years tried to steal my light
(and almost succeeded).
but he wasn't for me.

i was bitter when things ended,
blamed him for changing me
and for refusing to change himself.
but i see now we both behaved badly,
cursing one another
for being too different.
two different: we're happier as ones.

Byron

He thought that a paper crane would probably be a nice gift, if just because he could fake some deep feeling and make an experience out of the gift giving. "The crane is significant because..." he would explain, the words elevating his reputation with the recipient. The return on investment was dazzling: a mere three-dollars-worth of origami paper and about ten minutes of executing Googled folding instructions and voila!

Fake affection if you really feel it's a good idea.

fortress of excuses

excuses pile upon
e x c u s e s
as the days fly by,
as i fritter the moments away.
the garbage man comes
but i'm not ready to part with
all my excuses --
come back another day!

the walls i build make me feel
safe and secure.
a delusion, i know,
but i can't accept myself for who i am
so i lean on the external world
to define my self-worth.
why can't i bring myself to remove
this mask of weakness
when i see its outline clearly in the mirror?
why am i content to settle for easy
when a little work would change my world?

Chase the Mystery

It's Haiku Hump Day!

learn to cherish life's
beautiful fragility.
beautiful, too: death.

*

embrace the unknown,
respect the unknowable,
chase the mystery.

*

obsess not over
a temporal permanence.
live life and accept.

*

live in the moment,
do not fear tomorrow's ire,
cherish yesterday.

graverobber

sometimes
you get me.
you get me like nobody else.
ferreting out secrets and impulses
i've hidden even from myself.

you'll dig up a skeleton one of these days
something i buried lifetimes ago
before i'd learned
just how long the dead go on living.

but how long will it take you
to recognize those bones
as your own?

will tomorrow be our last day of lies
or our first day of truth?

life or death: you decide.

path to sanity

i am a ventose ventriloquist at times:
i blow wind through others' tracheas
and move their mouths like muppets.
my imagination served me well in childhood
but these days it's just as likely to betray me.
obviously there are other gears in motion
though i'm not sure if mental illness
or hormonal disturbance is to blame.
i suppose the pills for one cause the other --
so who's to say which side of the bridge i began on?
there are so many planks missing between the banks
that a photographer from a higher altitude
might develop an advertisement for a dentist
(the "before" picture, of course) .
who's to say how i got here?
but i'm here now and i've got to
find another path to sanity
since neither side of this bridge lands there.

Tickish-Tockish

who has time to consider
     collateral damage when
  the catastrophe's already
             unfolding?

... Who has time to think on
   future & consequence
when present circumstance is
so much more compelling?

It's Time

It's time to stop
interpreting silence.
Magnifying nothingness
to find imagined significance
gets us nowhere.

It's time to stop
chasing every echo.
What lived here yesterday
left a residue to scrub away.
Scrub it away

Alex

She'd built up this idealized expectation, this idea that dramatic moments in life grew into the same opuses that they did in films. So it is regrettable, then, that her attempt to create a poignant visual "moment" fell flat without the requisite filmmaker's entourage. Sally's scene, as it were (within her head), saw her taking up scissors in a shaky hand and taking bold strokes with the least possible boldness. Her hand wavered and carefully cut her hair -- its color unimportant -- at the same length, best she could tell.

the allure of chaos

I want you.
Not just in spite of,
but because of
the chaos you promise.
you're a hurricane i follow
for the chance to stand
in your calm eye.