annihilation

there is nothing, the airless cold space between
particles of soil
unbearable
and then there is sorrow
deep, warm, coffin lining
unbearable
i am a corpse
i am content this way but for you
the carapaces of beetles are strewn around our house
so full and so empty like a cobwebbed window
am i poetry in your head?
would you know how to tell me?
this is not a language you speak
the tears i shed are yours
you are my skin and i envy the solitude of skeletons
and then i shiver
it’s too much, and it’s not
like knives, but bruises
though i cannot remember the blooming
what beautiful things do i have to offer you?
what left, what found
let me lie in the chill of the earth in the morning
my bones are weary
let them lie

insufferable

I have been a mirror for far too long
Propping myself up, angling, contorting
To ensure that what they see is the proper ghost or glimmer
I have been a basket brimming with bread and fish
A nervous miracle wrought and indebted
Depleted in a quest to satisfy the omnihungry
Worst of all, I have been a self
Self-contained by a fully permeable membrane
Glossing over other's organelles with my thin, unmixed varnish and calling them mine
I have been a pitiful navigator, fretting over what cannot be
Included within the bounds of my single-sheet record
Before I have even bothered to map the interior
The warm forest expanse that holds it all centered
I must start, stop, struggle
Light every candle even as they flicker dark
Push through and past the mist while filling my lungs with it
I may not lash myself to this ship no matter how promising
I have done this before, and been taken over the wrong horizon
No, for now, thin and weak
I must cast myself into the midst of black water and swim

i can tell you how the story goes

you pity the wolf with paw in iron jaws
you weep for the bird in wire cage
but who pines for you, rabbit?

your body bound in the formless
vines of sloth, ache, gluttony, sleeps
not in peace, but in catatonia
surfacing once in a great while with
a new hitch, a fresh fester, like a
lake-leached corpse

your mind is a rotting log,
smothered in cobwebs, melting into
the merciless damp
no footing may be found here
no brooding creature would pick this place
to nurse its vital, squeaking young,
the stagnant air would suffocate them all

and your heart--your heart,
that soft and green thing started
from humble acorn
the mighty seedling that hugged
the soil and drank the heat from gracious sun
that embodiment of eternal hope that
reaches always blindly upward
knowing trusting there is space for
it to go and go and go
is wilting
you have choked it with creepers
of doubt and fear and selfishness
you have tugged its trunk into a twisted
remnant of its former promise

who pines for you, rabbit?
who pities you in this prison you made for yourself, lock and all?

slip the vines.
sink the corpse.
tear open the log, rip off the weight
of everything that burdens you, and
what you cannot loose
you must carry
and you must run
and while you may stumble in the mud
struggle over the stream
you will come, breathless and beating,
to a meadow that sleeps under the sky
you will climb the hill with your
burdens light as ticks
you will make home
beneath the growing roots of an oak
and you will be free in your wholeness

straight up i did not do any of this

I'm going to write you letters
It will be the first secret I've ever kept
Nothing sordid, only
I think I might be able to find myself
In words I cannot say to you
And when I have said them all, perhaps
I will black some of them out and make poetry

fish > people

people are like fishhooks
they catch in your skin
it is awkward, for a moment
then comfortable, being connected to something
having outside yourself
being wanted
then all at once, the ripping
and so much flesh goes with it

may the rain wash this away

I wonder if you feel a measure of blame
Towards me
For quietly, abruptly,
Writing an end to that story.
We made this bed
But I lay down first.
I chose him--
So cliche, as though there was a choice to begin with
(There was, there always is)
--Of course I did.
I had to.
I am that choice.
But since snuggling into that den we made together, alone
I find I have been carving off pieces of myself
And tucking them away for you
To present in a future that may (will, can, should) not be.
No. 
I cannot
Should not
And there is the struggle that plagues.
Me, if not you
I wouldn't know. 
What I have learned: 
Just because you want
Does not mean you deserve
Does not mean you can
Does not mean you get.
I liked myself in that story
Though it was not the kindest
Purest
Goodest
Self I have ever been
But it felt like bliss
And for that I do penance.

not a haiku

you spoke to me in poetry
for that, fuck you
and thank you

this is not a poem this is stupid

Last night I did a spell to find the words to say to you

To fix this liminality, not the thrilling kind, the kind of slow death

Even as I watched the candles burn down, I felt the answer was silence

That the words I needed were empty air

And this morning I understand

I see how I cannot wake with him and walk with you

I see how you have frozen me out in the dying heat of August because it’s what I asked of you

I see how incapable I am of choosing what fades

Sometimes things just die

Sometimes they will return in new shapes

Sometimes the fight for survival is merely a beating

Tonight I will cast another spell

I will burn thread and whisper a prayer I penned myself

I will let me go in the wavering light of the first sliver of fresh moon

I will let you go too late, as always

I hope you can forgive me

I hope you find a place of peace that spares you much more suffering

I hope somewhere there is one for me

time and time some more

so i sit spinning a stone in my fingers
my body in rebellion
songs ricocheting around my rib cage
and you say that time isn't linear, but it seems
that all the lines have converged at this point
i am both empty and imploding
alone, sans answers
as the mountain goats bray the mantra
i will make it through the year
i will make it through the year
but i may not still be here by the time the snow
has overstayed its welcome
one way or another, the girl at this convergence will be gone
if i can only find a way across this chasm
for now, i sit in silence and wait for the snow
while the heat surrounds and scorches me
of every bridge i've ever known

who do you confess to when you don't believe in god?

I used to think I knew the sight of my soul--
Filmy thin and white,
A dryer sheet
Delicate and quivering, hovering
In the space between either side of my rib cage
I used to feel its horror when I sinned
Could see the flecks of dirt blemish the pale the way asphalt stains the snow
I used to apologize and could feel it nod:  abashed, at the mercy of
One monstrous human person.

As of late, I am not so certain--
There has always been a stronger tug
A ghost behind the sheet, biding
And now, where the forest meets the sea,
Where the high and the hard collide and leave you wretched,
I feel it with tendrils through my chest, in my limbs
Woven through my spine, a thorned morning glory
Nesting around my brain as a cliff bird
Beating its feet on the dirt, grasping onto branches, howling, gasping
A will-o'-the-wisp, a wraith
A mouse, a bear
Vast, so very vast
Thriving, having come so far through the trees
That at last it can taste the sunlight
Just behind the canopy
And trembles with fear and delight.

heavy coastal mind

about the mist
how empty it is, like
a shroud over a body resurrected
you could release all your whispers
in a scream, and have it
rise through the great expanse
invisible immediately
soaring like a crow
like a curse
like a treefall

or is it full
is it heavy, potent
like a field full of bodies covered over
tenderly by the bobbing flowers
all the flaws of thousand lives
become granules in the soil
moist and cold and breathing
we are cold and breathing
the waves fold in on themselves
again, again, again

damn it's been a minute

i was peeling an orange

my whole body shook

how weak have i become,

subsisting on mist—

a dissatisfied triangle

a different kind of misery

Homage to Timor

That is my deepest fear, I think

That the glittering image I’ve so carefully constructed

The giant iron effigy built of passions and aspirations

Is hollow as the sockets of a skull long sucked by worms.

The confidence is cracked like Roman stones

Flaws crammed closed with off-color wax

The whole massive mess of a person crumbles when thunder upsets the sky.

I subtly suspect that I fit the mold most excellently

And lack the strength to break it—

The assumed extra appendages of talent and dreams are common to all

And I have no way to escape this niche in the assembly line.

I’m inclined to believe people are kind, too kind

The kind of kind where they say you sing beautifully

But you know, deep down past your vanity vocal cords

You match pitch to the harmony of Furies.

All I have is contained within this pale and simple frame

And this, my powerful and most pervasive fear: 

That I am made, blood and body and soul, of carbon copies

That nothing real seeps from my mouth or hands

That upon the hour when my soul floats free

The ruins of my counterfeit lifetime will not outlast the roll of the earth
And will disintegrate in likeness of the lost pieces of Pompeii.

When Spring Comes, and Smells

Dear stubborn heart,
I fancy I miss you.
You, like a cinder block
Bully of opinion.
Dear handsome heart
I fancy I misread
Affection in green eyes
For self-satisfaction.
Dear tender heart,
Winter is waning
And with it recollection
Of your scathing flaws.
Dear first heart,
I'll acquiesce this one
The hollow of your chest
Was not so poor a house.

Insurmountable as Pie

A diatribe written for creative writing.  Not poetry, but pretty entertaining (I hope).  And 110% true.

     I invite you, reader, to envision a square brick building on the corner of a downtown street.  Imagine the tinted windows, sporting blazing neon signs proclaiming “open” and “Joe’s”.  Open the door, step just inside, and allow your eyes to adjust to the shady lighting.  The main floor is dotted with black square tables, a checkerboard where all the white spaces have been grimed over with red linoleum.  The walls are brick inside, too, and have been improved by several layers of patron graffiti, in various colors, but predominantly in white. 

     I want you to picture the far corner of the room.  Two of the geometric tables have been brought together in civil union for the sake of a larger party, who are seated around and unevenly spaced; laughing, conversing, leaning slightly forward in anticipation of the meal to come.  And just when it seems they have been waiting on the verge of forever, when all conversations have encompassed the phrase “where’s the food?” at least once, the waitress with her hair up comes shuffling over in her black apron, and with flourish sets her oven-fresh burden in the center of the party. 

     Eyes light up, nostrils flare in response to the stimulus of cheese and tomato sauce melted together.  Pepperoni sit like toadstools upon a pale, gooey lake; mushrooms like toads are captured fat and lazy in between.  Olives and peppers are stones and seaweed, and now that the apex predators are brushing off the table space before them, the ecosystem is complete. 

     But take note, my eager ecologists.  Look deeper upon this scene.  For there, at the corner of the table, I sit, and my expression is woefully lacking in awe.  In fact I am quite unimpressed by the creation that has just been deposited at our double-wide checkerboard table.  As abhorrent sounds of palatable delight rise up from the company and meld with the street jazz wafting over the crowd, I sullenly reach for a breadstick.  You see, this scene holds no magic for me.  The captivating atmosphere of an artificial New York backstreet is deadened by the scent of oregano and tomatoes.  For I loathe pizza, in all its forms, and have for several years, and will for the duration of my foreseeable future. 

     The immediate reaction to this proclamation is always the same:  shock and sheer horror.  Jaws drop, and I smile.  Indignant gasps are uttered, and I shrug.  “That’s not even American!”  “You aren’t even human!”  “How can you not like pizza?”  My answer is well-rehearsed. 

     “Because,” I say in simplicity, disinterested, “I don’t like tomatoes or melted cheese.” 

     “But she likes grilled cheese,” my friends are quick to offer.  “And tomato soup.”  And they glare at me as though I have some explanation I have withheld from them previous. 

     But they are left wanting, for I feel no need to defend my finicky palate.  Pizza, its grease and congealed muddle of ingredients, its inevitable mess and unease of eating, never has appealed to me in all my years. 

     Well, that is false.  There was a time, before the rational portion of my brain had fully developed, when I stuffed my face with stuffed crust with no thought to the red sauce that marred my cheeks.  When I was young, one or two, mind you, I shared the same love of pizza that plagues the majority of the nation.  But at some point, between baby and toddler, the Italy-tinged mist dissipated from my eyes, and I saw pizza for what it was:  repulsive.  I can cite no scarring experience, no monumental change of heart.  My tastes simply shifted, and found the change to be most satisfying.  While growing up, I recall at most two occasions when I was pressured into tasting the foul concoction, little more than a mouthful, spaced across several years.  Both times the forced consumption did nothing but cement my resolve.  I would not eat it. 

     Eventually my kin grew accustomed to my “special circumstances”, and Friday night dinner was supplemented with McDonald’s or Wendy’s chicken and French fries for me, Little Caesar’s for everyone else.  My freakish preferences grew to become common knowledge.  My closest friends rarely threw a pizza-exclusive party; my sleek delivery of the line “I already ate” was Shakespeare-caliber for the times when they did.  Eventually, after much resistance, I concede I did warm to breadsticks, breaking my association of garlic with pizza, and thus making those uncomfortable pizza party situations easier on myself.  The infamy of pizza-hating was not mine alone; my best friend herself was not overly fond of pizza.  However, she had the excuse of a painfully delicate constitution, whereas I was merely picky.  Always I was the oddity, and my revelation never failed to elicit a reaction. 

     In truth, I see this aversion of mine as nothing but beneficial.  Pizza is notoriously unhealthy and promotes lazy, dispassionate eating.  I consume enough empty, salty, sugary calories of my own accord without those additionally supplied by pizza.  Furthermore, when pizza is the chosen fare of any gathering, the subtraction of my mouth from those clamoring for one more piece means more for the rest of the group.  In terms of basic mathematics, my presence actually results in more food.  It follows along this line of reasoning that my abhorrence of pizza is an asset. 

     There will be those who continue to try and coerce me to try it, just one more time.  I do not know what secret ingredient possesses people to make my appetite their evening quest.  Something about my resignation to the foregone reaction combines the heat of Italian pride and brashness of American patriotism and turns everyone into a crusader for this overindulged dietary staple.  But I skillfully deflect even their best efforts, refusing to taste or even touch the thing.  It is no matter of popularity, nor people-pleasing; but rather pride, and above all, pickiness.  I will not place pizza on a pedestal, and not even Little Caesar himself could convince me otherwise.  

Love Poem to the Broken Year

Love poem for creative writing.

Start to finish, it was a falling out

A great grievous slipping of tight-clasped hands

Set to the blare of a marching band

A transplant to where we are now

Hobbling towards the finish line

Of a decade spent in synchronized minutes

Something seeping poisonous in it

Something negating the value of time

Have you ever seen a small thing die?

Emaciated wood-creature, tiny paws

Quivering limbs and clicking jaws

So was the struggle of she and I

Him, he was a half-blind and desperate lunge

The impossible, hidden in after-school hours

Pretending this locker hall stereotype was ours

While I made eyes at a different one

And them, they were the lifelong type

The ears and feet and dancing nights and laughing days

Until cap-throw and close, and separate ways

Promises made, made thin and trite

And you, the prompter of this verse

The matter-of-time wave overshadowing shore

Always reaching, retreating for a little bit more

My reticence made it so much the worse

A blessing, you, though I your vice

Scraping for minutes in cold back rooms

Keeping a secret which everyone knew

Until final Friday night, when we both cried

This broken year, this chapter close

Was a search for something not easy to find

Claiming what is rightly mine

Was harsh and hard, but so it goes

I see myself now something new

Closer to that willow-wisp goal

This broken year was beautiful

For that I thank you, you, you, and you.

Poems from a Train

When I die, I hope
My heaven is a train
Where I can sit at the window
Like an elegant lady
Poised, and watch
The lives and houses scroll past.
Perhaps let me step off
Every few stops
Just to wander around a while
Just until the next train comes.
I hope that in heaven
The train is bright and fast
Warm and clean and murmuring
With its wheels over cirrus tracks
"So much to see, so much to see."


A volunteer art teacher once told me
"There are no curved lines.
Even circles are made of straight lines
If you look small enough."
I didn't agree with her then.
Now, as I gaze at the sag
Of the telephone wires
The bend and bob of marsh rushes
The hump of the mountains and
The sweep of the half-frozen river
I still cannot conceive
That she was right.


I saw an airplane soar
And strike the moon.
The aircraft wobbled, but
Staid its course.
The moon, however
Is missing a few teeth.

Leaves are parading down the street

Leaves are parading down the street

Shaking and rattling an out-of-season Mardi Gras

The wind has settled over the valley

Congealed into an oppressive chill

The sidewalk has become cold as the heart

Of a planet shelled in city foundations

So when we step outside, let me stand on your shoes

To preserve my naked toes from the creeping cold

And perhaps, while I am so incredibly close

I will clench my fingers in your shirt

And give you a warm winter kiss

Many Wild Places Across the West

Place poem written for creative writing (and for my dad).

The morning, the wet gray bright morning,

Ice on the tips of my nose and ears, while body is warm in the hollow log

Of a sleeping bag, forest green;

Limbs coiled about themselves like tree roots

Made it through the solid cold of the night like dark, soggy soil.

The ground is hard, tooth marks in my back

From the one malicious stone squashed beneath layers of body and canvas.

Too cold for waking, too cold to draw back into sleep

Best to pretend for two minutes that feel like fifteen

Until the other little ones cannot stand it longer, and

Pop from their bags like wildflowers at mention of spring.

And then there is no shady chance of sleeping.

The day has begun ahead of time, right on schedule.

When I was a little one, I woke later

My father was gone, and his footsteps muttered of dust and sticks and gravel outside the tent.

I would worm from my sleeping bag after a brief hibernation,

Slough it off like a snakeskin charged with static

Teeter past the rectangle homesteads belonging to brothers and sisters, half-waking;

My little sock feet made the canvas crinkle loud.

I sat at the foot of my mother’s bed and pulled on my shoes, hasty, meticulous,

Then coaxed the flimsy zipper up to greet the fresh day.

I remember camp chairs, log seats, and cold metal benches

Orange morning fire throwing sparky sleep from its eyes

Such warmth, such unimaginable warmth

Thank you, Dad, every time.

Every time I would sit, knees and ankles huddled together

Sucking the heat from hot chocolate and fire pit

I watched him pick chopped logs from the stack and hand them to the fire

Watched him unload from the car the breakfast things

Watched him in his coat, black or navy blue

Marveled at how he knew things, packing things and fire things and tent things and sleeping bag things

Wondered how he warmed the hot chocolate and built the fire, every time, with no one

But the freshly split morning outside the tent to greet him.

First Kitchen, Assigned

Yellow floor, fake tile

Sticky, shiny clean.

Deep brown paneling that looked like wood

Yet smooth to the touch, artificial.

Hard-edged counters,

My head knew that.

All the way around the island

A big island in a puddle of a sea

I crawled, played

Watched my mother’s back,

And steam rise from the

Big silver pot on the stove.

The white corner wall was blank on one side.

We built a paper fireplace every winter

For mine and Santa’s sake.

There’s a picture of me, asleep

Curled like a tiny creature with a tough shell

With Lovie, my soft friend;

All the hard toys at rest

Somewhere adrift in a tiny sea

Bullseyed by a big yellow island.