Poetry

for the grass there is no companion 

for the blade is not my friend 

dripping, let’s 

go to them-

wait.

these rain boots miss the puddles

company

in the depth is there no remembering?

we let it take us 

down

numbers lost again

the outcome will be what we make of it

if we let the inside in

where the grass keeps souls company

and my soles out from under me

these solid words miss receiver’s mouths

but the blade is not my friend,

who listens where it comes from-

guitar speaks of a dying breed deep in the gums of the inside 

i like the way my teeth fit into each other

but these rain boots miss spring 

the sole is not my friend dripping from the temple

go

in.

When I was five the grasses

Brushed my legs

And we

Flew 

Down the hill.

I went sledding on sheets of ice and it

Didn't even hurt

When the snowballs hit

Too hard

At six the black cats

Fell asleep in 

door frames.

The cardboard box was never quite

Enough

To hold the rabbits,

Fruitless attempts to save a 

Life,

though the tears

Never came.

on the west coast of anything we can sit around a table eating grapes

what was that thing you said earlier?

we whisper through the lessening vine, eating into the night 

an act of giving from one loser to another

fifteen years ago

you have lived long enough to say that easily but I was barely alive

the sun dips down over the horizon

the only ones left are too soft

the table has strong legs

it can carry us

crying over mountains 

holding hands rolling down

spinning in unison, dancing in circles

singing sad songs with wide smiles

knowing you're more than halfway there

in the front seat looking west

driving along a forgotten coast to a nameless beach

laughing on a full stomach

i think i love you

what was that thing you said earlier?

if you never expect the unexpected-

signs passing by on the left

we are looking for something, somewhere

we are not only giving to get 

catching glimpses of family in new light

dancing in circles by the front door at night 

leaving everything unlocked

on the west coast of anything, we can expect the sunset 

we can whisper through the grate 

we can give and give and give

take i love you for instance, what a thing

i love you for reasons in everything 

we recall earlier 

eating our love

the table has strong legs

to carry us

36 white horses

my sister left me scribbled 

on the neon closing sign

don’t come in here

don’t come in here

on the neon warning sign

she sticks to me like chewing gum in all my weakest moments 

scratching at the door

let me in

let me in

she doesn’t answer anymore

don’t come in here

don’t come in here

she says, without having to

move lips

click teeth

swelling gums i hope don’t bleed

little castles to the hand, the weapon

we don’t fight 

we don’t fight

but we’re losing 

we let in

what used to be normal but shouldn’t be now

it shouldn’t be how

we work

sugar in your milk

the counter is moving; you are moving

away into the hall

corridors of light cut through the off-white wall

the marble stays awake while you were off 

doing other things

pouring other pleasures onto an angels’ wings

but in cuba you’d take sugar with your milk

spices in the microwave;

you are turning 

into the hall

cutting away at the white of the wall

until it’s only off,

on the countertop 

sits an angel,

moving.

i have faith in you; you have faith in me

will kill art for money

hung on the wall by the shoulders

i’ve been spraining my neck

i get lost in the patterns of strangers 

and inside of my head

there are walls in the far back that stay up

i keep curiosity there

i keep running for things that i wont miss

what makes me happy 

when am i happiest 

Sky Girl falls down on me sleeping

she looks like screaming 

she looks alive

i pull the covers over her

i let her stay

and i wonder why i feel lightheaded

there are real people too

who make me unhappy 

and still keep a space in my room

grabbed by the shoulders and hung up on something nobody will admit

there is no point in mouths 

there is no point in lips

there will be voice no matter what

there always is

there will be words whenever 

i let them stick

and still i let the unhappy people in 

the women of fast moving things will come to ail your splintered thoughts

as the frame you once fit sits stationary on your shoulders 

carry the weight as long as you can; for soon you will pray for wind

something to blow you off balance, something starts again

nature tries its best to force us to fit in

it sends the youngest up

pushing through the pavement until the tiniest blade of sunlight can cut through 

leaving cracks in the stability you were raised on

leaving no questions to be asked 

mother tries to paint me green and stick me to the walls

hoping the ivy will follow, but it never does

mother prays for wind to come and whip me off my feet

she prays for the house to fall and for only dirt to be left

standing amidst a very loud solitude 

face to face with all children 

but mother prays there will be none left

and the women of fast moving things will die out 

and the frame will crack and splinter 

I dream of her often. 

Always in a flurry of ribbons - greens and golds, blues and yellows. 

Like the majesty of sun-kissed rice terraces

Carved on the face of immense mountains. 

Her every step is the story in a rhythmic dance 

That never misses a beat, never faltering or falling.

And though we share the same face and fast beating heart,

There is a space between our margins,

A rift between our worlds.

That seems insurmountable.

The unparalleled beauty of these great green stairs

Is sacrosanct.

But not out of reach. 

With steadfast determination to ascend each terrace step,

The gulf between desire and reality narrows,

And the dream’s footfalls that were once the lightest of raindrops

Now thunder through the storm. 

Until one day, the distance from one mountaintop to the brink of sunrise,

Will be from my fingertip to the edge of her pulse