Standing Alone

If you give me a reason for talking
about the red of her hair, I will begin
with an explanation. For in her hair
there hides the truth of her past
and future identity. Irish eyes and
pale complexion leave us vulnerable
to sunlight always, for the entirety
of our lives, even when attempting
to burn out genetics with long
strong doses of sunlight. And yet,
you cannot convince her to come
inside, even for a little while.
The hours spent building up
financial stability and the large satisfaction
freckles and tanned skin are little in
comparison to the cancerous skin it
may later produce. And when that
day comes, the money will be gone
and the youth will have fallen;
all left is wrinkled skin and the stock-
pile of memories in the back of my
room. And I’m standing here asking,
as I always do, about everything and
everyone: is it worth it? Are we bound
to live without regret, or will we all
wake up to cold-sweats in the middle of
the night, cursing our previous selves for
every infraction, mistake, sin. I can only
hope we are not bound to such futures
if dissatisfaction, I can only hope those
futures will not find us standing alone.

Taking advantage of the moment of the muse,
I splay across the floor of my bedroom
stretching arms and bending limbs, wondering at
the postures translated into slender strength.
The crickets chirp outside, purely for the
enjoyment of listening to their own voice -
reminding me of summers spent with windows open
at the bottom of mountains in Pennsylvania.
At times we are handed gifts, and although they
often go unrecognized, we carry them with us
always, collected in our boxes of histories to prove where
we were and when, what our lives were like- it’s Proof!
I hold in my hands the necklace of gold flecks concealed in their
small glass orb, the greatest accessory for any hipster,
except that mine comes from a grandmother now passed.
Does it matter that my hands can guide her antiqued
sewing machine, the one she sewed her wedding dress on
at 16, sewed curtains, my mother’s childhood clothes.
Does it remember what her hands felt like,
bending over again to do the work of a determined woman.
I like to think all objects, all spaces, have a memory of
those who once made use of or inhabited them. Like how
I felt the souls, sad or lonely or alive, still existing in my apartment
when I moved in nine months ago. Aftereffect, afterglow, afterwhatever.
On evenings when I find you break the monotony of
repeated sunrise and sunset, pointing them out with a song
about dusk, I cannot help but hold my breath in anticipation;

Nobody but Ourselves

Fingertips

feel the world like hot cold madness

running across our spines and stomaches.

My.

fingertips

gather into circles and take skin

like it's their purpose. Perhaps it is.

The flesh hangs deep and raw,

it holds our guts and chemical existence.

The flesh hurts temporarily,

quick to burn, quick to heal.

My hands are momentary, our hands are infinitely slow

during short lifespans.

The memory is thick and diluted,

like split-pea soup from Italian grandmothers

with more fashion sense than me.

Dipping fingers into thoughts is like adding

poison to the perfect pot, prepared with

care. Let's not spoil the spoon-fulls before

they reach flesh-filled tongues and stomachs.

Behind your eyelids, behind your navel,

behind the fruit flies that love the leftovers of your lunch

there are bags of delicious emotions, tantalizing

thoughts, feelings that are split between days and

nights and times when there is no differentiation

between sleeping and awake.

The dream came from the stomach aches and

fruit filled dessert you ate in the dream

about Alice and her rabbit.

I chased them deep, into the pores of

our existence and placed cannonballs

at the base, to block their progression.

Your face is solid, molded, elastic.

In ten years the stretch of the imagination

will still span your consciousness of existence,

with shrieks and shivers and solidarity peppered and sprinkled

like confections at Christmas time.

We hold our breath and dive,

clasp our hands and grin,

fall asleep above bodies of water

and outside our minds the lights

stretch on; can you touch them?

Once I touched the light and laughed

because someone once told me

I have it; I still don't know what 'it' is.

But 'it' began in our bellies and erupted like

the most devastating volcanoes, the ones we studied

during freshman year of college and pretended

to understand the consequences. What happens

when our lives bubble up and erupt from our eyes

and ears and mouths and noses-

the wold we hide behind layers of clothes

and deny separation of skin and muscle;

the Jazz music brings you a little closer to

the heart of old existences.

The light is laughing with me.

There are no answers to the greatest questions of our lifetime,

but I'm wondering: who is still asking, anyway?

We all need to read a little more and sleep a little less;

join my madhouse, my lock and key apartment,

my made up magnetic surfaces with mystical

animals and mapped out dreams;

we come together, hand-in-hand.

We're all born with the same dreams.

Looking for the Same Things

As the sun rises

we breath in the ashes

of unforgivable mistakes.

Footsteps at fifteen through the streets

of Nagasaki.

Ten years later,

shadows remain in the pages

of your mind.

I'll pass you ten papers

to extract how much

you hate and love

this place.

Carolina summers,

I'll take my peace with the rain

and mix it with our sorrows

and quit playing the game.

If you knew how I gasp

at the little insignificances of

a four year old's dreams,

or how I laugh when falling off swings;

if you knew how deep I dive

or how frantically I search for the other half,

I doubt you'd stay here.

I'm breathing in the ashes of

the past eight months, handling the

elements of disappointments and

inconsistencies; I'm blowing away

the fluffs of dandelions and laughing out

loud at our existence in aviators,

my survival on creamsicles.

And my determination to taste

another means of living.

I nod, you nod. We nod together.

On a rock above the Eno, we can't

help but watch the delicate cranes and

the light refracted off the surface.

The tips of trees tickled my consciousness

and whispered summer secrets to

my ever-listening soul.

Give us Thunder, or give us Snow.

We're all lonely, even when we're together.

Give me the bottom of the river

in the palm of your hand, presented

with sticky theories of living and

papers on dead war heroes.

Their horses are trudging on without

masters, skeletons chatter and clatter

like sticks on bones in the pits of France.

Sometimes we live it like we

write it, and sometimes I take that

inspiration and record it for

a later date.

Memory of you will fade,

but words last forever.

Painting

When the rain comes,

it's not enough to drown out

the sound of our constantly

beating hearts.

I began writing you letters

in my mind while sitting behind

Bohemian curtains and painting

lines on canvas to pass the time.

Days blended together and evenings

came during which I realize

I hadn't been painting at all;

there were piles of empty mugs,

unwashed clothes strewn across my world.

When I got dressed that morning

the calendar revealed the months

that quickly passed, exes on calendars,

counting back as I lived in my solitary room;

where had I been?

The rain comes when least expected,

dripping patterns on tin roofs

with the hush of rushing water;

we are rejuvenated in morning dew

and monsoon weather, in waves

of liquid foaming blue.

Let's take a trip to the ocean.

When we enter Bedrooms

I admire your living,

in your five bedroom house and

a Manhatten Exhibition room mate.

Burnt orange and a sacrificial

seat topped with a skull,

black and red meet in the middle to

make his name, on Manhatten moving trucks.

I was born to feel and breath in the empty

spaces, to pace and count and struggle,

even in the dead of night;

we came here for a reason.

I stand at your doorway marveling at

ancient hardwood floors and giant

kitchens that can't possibly belong to

five boys in a peculiar house.

It is your space for such a short time to come,

and I cringe as we ascend stairways already

familiar, and yet already gone;

they will be lost when the time comes,

why become familiar with them today?

We count on moments, on conversations,

on time shared in gardens of roses that

neither of us can name, even if they aren't yellow;

the magnolia tree lent branches to my bare feet

and your determined adventurous side.

I can't hang from the branches long enough

to let myself slip in to our conversation,

looking down makes me shake and I

take your hand for a moment.

I'm sifting through the miscommunication,

the place where I pushed the buttons and you

pushed back, clashing determinations.

Our courage comes not from knowing there

is future, but from knowing there

could be a history; it's already written,

it's in your eyes - they exist separate

and infinitely honest.

I fall in quickly, holding my breath,

pouring out through pupils and my own

green lenses, intimidating you and laughing.

Is it a woman we are seeking, under the

canopy of evening light?

She was hidden for far too long,

holding her breath while waiting for

an escape from the years of suppression,

nights of wondering, holding onto, desperation.

We've lost it all on paths under moonlight,

on twin sized mattresses, in between concerts

and a few more drinks that go around,

slipping through crowds and groups of fingers.

I rise in the morning wondering, can I explain

this one away, put words to fleeting emotions,

open doorways and look behind them with

courage and determination?

We'll find it swimming in the deepest lakes,

when the chill comes anyway, and we hold

onto the rocks along the edges.

Everything comes out deep green and blue,

your tannest skin and the lack of space

between me and you.

I See You

Words are forming on lips that hesitate,

quivering in anticipation - cringing;

lack of substance take our hands here anyway,

just because we can.

Slipping into sedentary life again,

giving leave to words taken from thin air,

taking breaths under blankets in the spring.

We will be painting walls together in

the future, ensuring multicolored layers of

proof of our existence in shitty houses

and apartments across this land.

We promise ourselves again,

just as every other time,

that we won't let it pass like this.

Trees and photographs and buttons

and shards of discarded mirrors and

scratched cd's all remnants of

remembered yesterdays, today's

junk piling in closets, its contents

never changing with the days.

I forgot to write it down again,

in notebooks too fragile for keeping.

The miles seem to multiply; will

there be infinite drives to see

each other's faces in the future?

Caramel lips

wrap me up

and take me in.

Some nights

I just don't care

if there is no

tomorrow for this

or a pause for

today; we are infinite.

Twice in one week.

Asking why won't bring us any closer

to the how of loving it anyway.

A different kind of yellow flowers

decorate my kitchen table.

The petals fall in a rhythm,

with our exhale and

inhale and relief as

we test waters, laugh loudly,

watch movies until 3am.

Roses should always be this color.

April.

I paste up invisible boundaries

like cement walls between me

and where you stand.

Although I've come to know you

I reestablish lines and webs

and barriers for you to cross

or not cross.

Conversations in star-lit pastures

won't amount to much when you're

leaving quickly anyway,

because it seems like they

and you and everyone

is always leaving,

for where we never know.

What words will we trust anyway.

Words Spilling down pages,

like hands running down my back

and across my spine, melting

away and gripping, re-gripping

who we've become.

Drive Across Oceans

The one who makes your heart race

is usually worth your time.

The Results of August

I could not have found

a more perfect dress

for wearing in the middle

of March.

How do we measure

the significance of your

swift steps in the evening

as you return home.

A home where you will

undress me, slowly removing

layers, revealing skin,

producing my naked body

in the bed where we find time

to explore the magic of

skin on skin.

I am yet standing on the

opposite side of the world,

wondering about food and

bombs and how your eyes met

mine when I last saw you,

how I can fast-forward a year,

how there might be no hope anyway.

I can not give you anything.

I can not stand for anyone but myself

when pits are evolving in my stomach.

Clock

I took a hammer to the back room, behind the

strings of laundry on the clothesline, with a

determination to kill the clock.

For a moment, I held time in my hands; I

owned it, tracing the rounded edge, feeling

its shudder as it tick-ticked.

I'll kiss you in the moonlight if I have to,

if you've lost all hope of meeting the sunlight;

I'll hold you in the evening after light's warmth

has left us, knowing we're fleeting and trite.

You've been gone long enough for me

to miss you, and it hits me like a few pounds

of bricks thrown against my chest unexpectedly.

Lines

I kiss away the

trail of frights

that draw lines

down your face.

Fire Again

I held my hand out, past the stream of

running water and the trickles of sand

that measure up and gather momentarily

in cupped leaky palms.

It's always a pitty when you can't see

past the end of your own over-egotistical nose,

even for a moment long enough to ask

how I've been, where I've traveled,

who I've loved and when.

I can't stand how the driveway looks,

curving to the left as though it owns

the road that follows- you walk up

and down it waiting for the signal

that will never come, because it was

burned in the fire years ago.

Penthouse Preoccupations

Paying in lifetimes, in volumes of unread classics,
in the deepest indigo of secret Chinese silk while
collecting your coins from a less than admirable business.
Your body ages with an air of apathy, accepting its
wages in due time, old crows walking upon foreheads and eyes.
The oceans open up and swallow us whole.

Healer

Give us your fists and your cups,
pressed tight like hands saving drips for drinking.
Parched lips press against fingers, peeling flesh gracing
present situations. Your dehydration comes at such
inconvenient times; quench it and taste nothing.
Chemically cleaning ourselves, removing impurities
with pills and berries eaten by the starvation of Africa;
trendy cups of tea from bushes redder than bleeding hands
come to the lips, away from the lips
again, again - suppression and inhalation-
lungs expand and compress as we feed our bulging bellies.
Perhaps day old dregs in assuming mugs on counters
hold keys to lifetimes of bliss.

The metal tastes sweet in my mouth.

Agents aren't really Secret.

The street lamp's pale glow revealed a figure
in the alleyway next to his shop;
he wasn't expected home for hours, but he'd been
pacing just outside in some small hope that he might
see his shadow pass through the threshold without
having to commit to the act. Returning to family,
a knife held in mother's sister's lover's hands.
Transactions gone awry.

I throw up in the bathroom, in every symbolic toilet
that is often labeled London, an aquarium,
a breeding ground of insanity.
The sacrifice and division, dancing condescension
in the stripped furniture of our living room.
Naked mahogany glares at our indecision, our every
uncertain step- our frantic systemic search party
to find the other side.
The toilet flushes, again it's gone.
Porcelain, just like doll's skin and our
volumes of discarded contents flow into
plumbing systems, saving us from our own
most human activities.

The bomb, you blew it up- the boy and the bottle too,
caps twisting and untwisting while Professors obsess
over not obsessing, detonating his own resilience in
a worn out overcoat upon his weary frame.
He hadn't eaten in days. They ate all the time.
Your anarchy grows old in my sick stomach-
his remains were strewn across the street and
Shoveled up, with Gravel, to what end.
Velvet jackets,
addresses, Agents gone awry.

Chanting: Give us, give us give us
Hope, give us words, give us strength.
Buying or repaying, selling bodies or wares and
information pouring like sweat from overworked pores-
acrid, oily, collecting dust upon our foreheads, saving remnants
of daily wars and packages purchased under the pretense of
replacing them the following day. We never really do.

Lifting up and throwing down our own humanity,
as if it were replaceable.

Lines About Life

It seems I always hear
about sudden deaths of
past acquantences from
friends abroad in London.

It's always London,

and I always wonder why

I am so far away in America.

I feel safe within

these four walls, even when

the heat isn't on and

the noise from outside

passes through reach me.

Sometimes I breathe

and exhale in the frigid air

just to see my breath

come out like smoke.

I sat at breakfast with an old friend,

whom I barely recognized after

the years of ignoring and running

and car crashes.

He doesn't deal with things

anymore, he doesn't

believe in himself any more.

We ate waffles and biscuits

anyway, and I listened to how

she's going abroad, just like

every other affectually

romanticized person of college age.

I saw another historic lover's face

in my dream last night;

he held me in his arms,

just because he could and

for a moment I wondered

why I refused to let it happen.

And I saw how the daffodils

came and then died, and remembered

how they will be coming again,

but he will be gone in another country,

just like the rest of them.

What was it like when
I wasn't in America?

Setting sail, taking flight,

running across oceans to

see other countries,

pastries and beer and

good music and dance.

And that sense of yearning,

to be there and be held,

to be traveling and be living

must translate into your

conscience, into your action,

in to your words and thoughts

and emotions that never end.

I have technicolor emotions

that pour out like rainbows

on fresh white canvas.

And blushes that turn

my cheeks crimson,

erasing untouched innosence.

Or maybe I SHARED myself long ago.

Street lamps are still guiding me,

only now there is a hill

instead of pebbles wandering

into other worlds.

Well, still pebbles,

just more of them sliding

down the slope, into the road below.

Escaping flowers, protected stalks,

bitter dead friendships that

I miss despite myself.

Some days all I want to do

is go to Spain and sit on the

street corners with you.

We could live on bread

and orange juice, and take

the long way when walking

home from the latest movie.

Sometimes things just tumble,

like waves over packed sand

and I wonder if the moon will

be full at night;

I saw a shadow cast from

your body at 2am on

our walk home.

Writing on brand new fences

with sharpies, or throwing

snow into faces and running

like five year olds after

doing the things that we do.

I'll share this smoke and

drink this drink and please

let's share our tarot readings.

I'll laugh at how right or how

wrong it is that the devil

showed up in my history.

How incredible it is that I've

never met you before, and yet

you're beautiful and sensational

and I think we might be friends.

I often wonder where you were

while I was in the mountains chasing

around the tumbles of odd dreams,

or hording all the chocolate I could find.

I sometimes travel back to that labarynth,

back to the place we first walked in awkward

circles and you read from hand-written

sheets copied from the internet.

The things I read seep into my mind

and I take them for what they are,

and sometimes for what they are not.

It said female empowerment;

I answered yes, please.

And what does it mean that you are

a white female in middle class America?

Who really is paying for this education,

and why don't the children understand

why reading is so great?

And I still love the sunrise,

and I still wonder why it is that

the only time I met you, you were

raving drunk with a pint in our hand

and a look of determination;

you weren't letting go of your vices

for all the gold in the world,

or questioning why you

needed them in the first place.

Sober up, let's watch the sunrise

and remember what it means

to love the daylight.

And another, there are so many,

he is in Georgia taking photographs

of God knows what, hopefully finding

the truth emerge among his works,

without regret for the past.

And hopefully he remembers me

in a few years, when he comes to

a point of division in his life.

And where are all the great

women in my life?

Why doesn't she care that she

hasn't got a chance at making it

without a man?

I'd given up on hoping

for anything more.

But the man that comes

to tame us all must remember

not to step on our toes.

I don't think of you much anymore,

except when I lay in my bed alone

and remember those nights when

we squeezed onto a twin sized mattress

and shared the world together.

It's still odd to me that I might

often meet the most interesting

people with a drink in hand,

trashing all the latest parties

and hiding what lies behind

the facade of apathy.

And I love the phone calls that

come at random moments

from the very people I thought

were dead; they dial without

hesitation to tell me about Ohio

or Mississippi.

And sometimes we find

a conversation that's been

fated to occur, on some late

evening in early February,

some conversation that was

inevitable- and I see you

for the first time, even if

you're hours away.

What if I walked there,

just for this conversation?

What if we walked for a while

in the snow, and then passed

out from exhaustion under

a street light and weren't found

until the sunrise?

I love the sunrise, even if I

haven't seen it in years.

Making Up Memory.

In the morning I woke to the ring

of the yellow antique phone,

vibrating on my night stand

as if to announce the sunrise.

We bought it at the same

table where you

bought the ring that

encircles my thumb.

You didn't knock before entering,

but I was not bothered;

you fill my nights anyway.

You open the door,

shut the door, then

open it again.

A red mug of coffee

appeared by at my side,

steam rising slowly with

the Sunday morning drowsiness.

You sat next to me for a while,

leg pressing against my thigh,

blankets trapping me.

We went to breakfast,

after I pulled myself from bed,

and we sat in the restaurant

wondering where the rest

of the world was.

The comics in the newspaper

were not funny, as usual,

incurring a laughter that

grew in my throat and

erupted, anyway.

Dry humor is always hilarious.

Out the window,

it lightly began to snow

and I sighed at the prospect

of doing anything that day.

I Wear

My femininity

In the form of

A purple flower

That rests on top

Of my head.

Driving in Red Cars

If there were a reason

Why I've written about your eyes

A million times, then maybe

I would quit writing about you at all.

An ocean passed through your mind and

I knew because you squinted and they turned blue.

The mast of the sailboat rotated and turned south, towards

Who knows, towards your life. Your eyes said

It all and then you were traveling through

Another country and I couldn't see it anymore,

Even though you were still standing before me.

You left and returned, hurried hello

And passionate goodbye every

Fifteen minutes, like if you didn't you

Might forget to chase that dream.

And then we'd park beneath street lights and

You'd see the continents glimmer in my eyes and

The map unfold in my hands and across my arms,

Into my palms and across my chest; there was

No stopping your hungry hands, gathering limbs

And smoothing over skin, nurturing body, making

Baths for my tired bones. Under the street light

You tasted this and that for a while,

Matched my clavicle to the curve of Tierra del Fuego

To discover El Fin del Mundo in the crevices,

Even just for a while.

You said you'd never get there, you'd never

Get anywhere with your vacant optimism.
But the curve of your chin and the ocean in our eyes

Always told me otherwise.

The Anarchist

The anarchist painted red and black

Across the walls of my mind.

She was ravenous, disgruntled,

Disheveled

And Lost.

A black t-shirt fitted to her waist and hips

With words in white scrawled across

Her heaving chest: "Let us Rise"

Her point was evident to me,

Tonight or any night, and she

Once again began hacking around

About our government, all the lost

Places we could be determining our

Own lives, as the black barre slid from her

Chestnut hair to the floor.

The Indignity.

I met her on a cold Sunday afternoon

Sitting in a coffee shop, wishing they would

Change the music as I watched an artist

Recreate the galaxy in a corner.

I had just laid down my book,

Its red cover glaring up at me

As though scrutinizing my existence-

Or apathy. Sometimes red books make

You think the world is ending-

An idea or possible fact that few are willing

To acknowledge.

She walked up, pointing accusingly at my book

As words tumbled from her mouth about

Lost government, and her mother's corner cabinet.

It was apparently filled with red-covered books,

Hundreds of pages consumed by her malleable mind.

She was looking for answers, she was demanding

To know why they had been written.

I blinked at her blankly, unsure of how to

React to her stream of personal experience.

TBC.

Because We Know No Other

We try our hands at

Different frequencies-

Paling pitches and

Stirring stagnant air,

If only to add significance

To its existence.

We take night walks in

Different spaces-

Pacing perpetually and

Sustaining strides on pavement,

If only to breath cold air

Life into lungs.

We watch the sky from

Different angles-

Proportioning preferences and

Succinct Seductions in blue,

If only to view incessant

Starlit existences.

Endurance coincides with creation.