december 2007

disposable teens

we are writing ourselves
in thick black ink
on the surface of life,
beating tattoos
of our legacies
on the face of the earth;

we are moving poetry:

and toss us into the street.


ojala que…

i would kiss your heart,
if i thought its imprint might make my words sweeter,
a little more palatable to the deaf, perhaps:
little sweaters to wear on snow nights beside the fire
instead of barbs to impale the unsuspecting.

i would kiss your eyes
if i thought their imprint might open my own
to more than they see,
the simple things– not less darkness
but more richness in the black:
new color
new light,
new life.

i would kiss your hands
if i thought their imprint might touch the hard places in me
and make them tender;
teach me to stroke light, like your fingertips–
to weave sound
maneuver wind,
caress rain just right so it sings in nighttime
rather than frightening the children in their beds;

i would,
but i would kiss your mouth
only for the pleasure of tasting your essence–

secrets and butterflies

i have a little white-wing
resting on my tongue
wild and white and whispering
he sits,

inside him are the tools we need
to take the world by storm–
and bring it stone by tripping stone
to lay upon our feet.

i have a little white-wing
always at my side,
soft and safe and subtle, he
brushes my heels at times–

when in danger i stand upon
the world as we both know;
reveal and perish is the rule,
so mum’s the sacred word.

i have a little white-wing,
resting on my tongue,
awaiting his moment to burst the dam
and flood/search/destroy.

careful, careful, tippy-toe
around the words not said.
mum’s the word, my love.

burning notes

i said,
you are eighteen years old
and already a black and white photograph:
rich with value/poor of hue.

i watched you kiss the rose i dropped
into your lap–
hesitant to touch your fingers,
lest you trade my colors
(however sparse)
for your shades,
and make of me a sham
in the eyes of rainbows–

but i would give you my spectrum
to make up for the times i dented your frame

tomorrow maybe

says him to her, you know— i did try.
it’s not so much giving up
as deciding it’s not worth it anymore.

and what about your gift, she asked twiddling her thumbs, what about
the way you were
(in childish glee painting pictures with words on paper
i guess you had too much light we couldn’t see past your lunacy,
thought you were plumb nuts, but)
you seemed so happy then.

he gave her a stoic glance scowled for a minute thinking
what was i before i don’t remember.rainbows?coloredbulbs?fireworks?
well, he said, i lost my lunacy.
i’m perfectly (in)sane now [i lost my color actually and i don’t have anymore paint, you know, the store ran out last eternity]…
just forget about it okay?

she twirled her hair around her finger,
but what about your words? she pleaded
words what words, I was bullshitting you. he rolled his eyes.
you knew that, everyone said so.
after all if enough people say something isn’t it true? there’s a bit of truth in every rumor you know–

–so you’re saying you give up because they told you to?
yes. that’s exactly what i’m saying.
he picked up his briefcase and opened it, thrust a palette
three paintbrushes seven canvases a couple nickels a painted seashell and the words “I am not a quitter” into her chest,
so that she stumbled with their weightlessness.

it doesn’t matter anymore–
now i’m leaving, he told her and put on his holey hat.
she hesitated–
but what about me?

he said,
you never existed–

and she found looking down at her shoes that she was only a drawing he’d ripped to shreds and slowly she was burning back the way she came

brainiac blur

sometimes i feel like this:

he is running racing along invisible track lines on someone else’s skin vicariously absorbing a high running too fast the sky is not there the trees are not earth and all is blur; blur              watch carefully tripping over what should be roots he is sprawled-upon the-earthenware plate
and slow turning it’s burning his hair is singed but where is the feeling?
where is the pain?

lost sensation is pedaling its wares along the corners of his fingertips they stroke and stroke and never touch the tips of the hairs on your arm (tickle tickle) so careful he lifts a great feather big white feather, run quietly up the side of your throat though you shiver he is looking over yourself, not through you, for even his eyes are blind in the daytime

seven secrets lay stripped in a row,
and six feet are trampling their stomachs.

feel a thing

the entire point of this experiment is to restore some semblance of normalcy but instead he is only the numbness you attempted to drive away and even crying over spilled milk is beyond his capacity what are you going to do with him?
(anything you love can and will be associated with pain. your lawyer will agree.)

and even tho’ he witnessed his own renaissance it was only the birth of
he is only a sheet of  [                    paper                          ]
in search of a pen that dried out years ago on the desk of the forefathers who chose to drool instead and oh, how sad-
they left a blot where his mouth was supposed to be.