Sitting at a table with people she has no regard for
nor the subjects they go on about
a conversation which seems endless
and the pain of an unanswered call strikes
in the shape of leftovers.
Communication
A girl making hand gestures signifying game
in front of a small screen
the eyebrows on the other, hitting puberty
on a plane, off to the beach
this other boy murmurs a song
which sounds like nothing I’ve ever heard before.
Hunger
Press my skull
give body to my center
not with tenderness but terror and delight
press my face, magnificent beast
into the unknown tenure of dusk
to collide between words
your stare and this elated node
paradis perdu - the cutthroat stasis of an understanding about hunger
I’ll carry yours instead,
pomegranate, beaten to a pulp.
An image of John
It is one throughout the years. For each thumb of mine he displays
a scenery of worry seeking comfort. Back full of freckles, twin of the sky.
When I say I talk to God I don’t mean it like he’s by my side. Instead there is this man
who resembles my father. Not the baby boy. The one who makes me flinch
and moan. No amount of salted water, noise or fury
will peel the imprint of rules set so long ago I came by default.
John left. I had to stop him and type this down.
Before the church
Before death, before the church
there is a road.
Before the road there is a bridge you must cross,
and before the crossing there is a chair
waiting for you to sit on it.
Truth is stunning
Truth is stunning
and it goes without saying
like him shutting the door.
A bird caged
One must not cage a bird
even if it is not a bird
nor a cage
we are talking about.
Sundae blues
The impossibility of turning back
to that street
a blank space without your face
my parents house and the picket fence,
lie, we never had one, we did however stuck to appearances,
tick TOC,
seasons greetings and never complained
about seeing his eyes turn wild by the sight of her
the nuances of self destruction
habits ready made
bound to bleach
a restless soul,
a crier
an empath
whatever works
little more
than a variation
in hormones or lack of understanding
lunacy, I didn’t mind the gap,
instead
why we can’t go back
even if there is enough
to drink
to soothe
or drown
to swallow, snort
(and even enlighten)
our sorrows
we have it all, the so called love,
the cherry past Sunday
to laugh amidst the field of dying lilies
us
of one more week past thirty,
near the void
us
to dance untampered
us
calling out loud for an angel
send me optimism
or
a kiss goodbye.
I get everyone but myself
A recovering addict
so easy, tricky
yes instead of no
gulp, guilt
every single second
every waking hour
angst
now silky smooth
warm, fuzzy
drunk
a single drink or sniff
any thing
that might
make things
actually worse
but now I can talk, feel, look and walk down the stairs
to that human lobby
a lobbyist
thinking of everyone else ahead
of her time
so,
no complete self
nor stoic
freaky fragile nerves
wait, I haven’t had a single drink (or sniff) in seven days and every hour feels like
shouldn’t couldn’t why wouldn’t I? anything that might get me off this heavy body
this heavy life, stone
easy talk easy walk, I get you living on the streets,
I really do
what I don’t
is staying sober.
I can write poetry
I don’t need no landscape or rainbows
no wailing sirens, an ambulance, the freak accident
or voluptuous muse,
I might as well be walking through hell
or cooking breakfast for my husband
I don’t need no sunshine or moonlight
to wirthe at all,
I rather the searing knife of everyday life.