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.