Twenty Six.

I didn't think it was possible for you to still break my heart.

But seeing that picture of you - with him and your son
in that house I don't recognize
in clothes you never would have worn before
with a tight, uncomfortable smile on your face -
I can feel the corners of my chest peeling away
to reveal something raw,
exposed bone and sinew that
aches as I breathe.

I guess a part of me still loves you.

Twenty Five.

Feverish heat
sweeps over muscle and bone
until I'm blind,
pitch black
with white flashes of
the gleam of
your eyes,
the curve of
your shoulder
as you lift me
into your arms.

Twenty Four.

I wish I could scream,
but I swallow it whole,
bitter, boiling bile
swirling low in the swell
of my belly
until I am bulging
with raging fire,
pouring white,
searing light
from my fragile,
wilting pores.
I am symbolically,
metaphorically
drowning in my own rage,
lungs filling with black sludge
that I should spit out
onto the table,
into my plate
(so the waitress doesn't
have to clean up my mess)
but instead I gulp the tar
down my throat
like the water that could save me
but this is poisoning me,
an infection turning septic.

I need to learn how to be more vocal.

Twenty Three.

"Come here, boy." My body bends, arches towards her hum. 

"Come here, boy." That tune is familiar, tugging at a memory hiding deep within.

"Come here, boy." I can't fight the pull of her sounds, her rhythm, her pulse. 

"Come here, boy." I wish I could ask her to stop, even as I beg her to continue.

"Come here, boy." A siren song, the bite of waves nipping at my ankles, undertow claiming my skin like forgotten baggage.

"Come here, boy." I barely hear her now, her melody lost, bouncing somewhere above the twisting sea. 

"Come here, boy."

I'm here. But where are you?

Twenty Two.

These graceful lies
spill from lips that burn
as they graze the skin on my neck
but I can't hear them,
can't detect the mask
that hides your
crooked smile
even as my fingers slide
over razor-sharp edges,
because you're beautiful
and I love you,
and those are blinding words,
denial words
when things get tough,
and I know that
but I can't look you in the eye
because I don't want to know
and have to give you up.

I'd rather keep you here,
feel your warmth,
at least for now,
than force myself
to accept the truth.

Twenty One.

I sit on my living room floor,
apartment walls safely standing,
television screen clearly projecting
destruction,
smoke and glass,
broken homes,
broken bodies of
children
with their entire lives
to lose,
lost, gone,
blinked out
like a star exploding
a million miles away
and it all seems
so
far
away
but it's not.
It's in my house,
it's in my eyes,
it's in my heart now
and it's heartbreaking,
shattering
and wrong, so wrong
that it takes my breath away.
I am speechless
but now is the time to speak.

It's time for someone to speak.

Twenty.

Which came first -
the chicken or the egg?

Better question!
Which came first -
the writer or the idea?

Should be easy answer,
but it isn't
is it?

Do I birth ideas
(therefore, writer first)
or do ideas birth me
(therefore, idea first)?
Would I have been the writer
had the idea not struck me,
or is it that I was born the writer
and later discovered the idea?

Perhaps I am some anomaly
in which neither came first
then second
but simultaneously
as if by divine creation?

Perhaps that was a bit presumptuous.

Nineteen.

I don't know why some things hurt.

Small things,
things without sticks or stones,
things without fangs or knives or claws,
things with no pulse,
things with no words.

You click a button,
I gasp,
breath catching in that sensitive spot
only reached by intended pain,
intended rejection.

You click a button,
I drown,
waves of guilt overwhelming
a clean conscience.

I don't know why some things hurt,
why this hurts,
but it does.

It does.

Maybe the "why?" doesn't matter.

Eighteen.

Beauty is lost in
the cascade of pastel, in
the twist of frame, in
the disappearance
reappearance
disappearance
reappearance
of light.

Beauty is marred by
the flux of brilliance, by
the drone of beads, by
the distance
closeness
distance
closeness
of glass.

But
what
does
beauty
matter
anyway?

Seventeen.

Sometimes, it feels like drowning:
water fighting my lips
filling my mouth
tickling my throat
collapsing my lungs
until stars fall from the sky
and litter my eyes
and shape my vision
and my nose is burning, burning
like acid from the chemistry lab
claiming my skin
and choosing to destroy it,
and my limbs are weightless
numb
unnecessary
and useless,
my heart sputtering
like an engine overheating
pulsing with life
but aching with death.

Sometimes, love feels like drowning.

Sixteen.

In My Dreams
001. Father

In my dreams, I see
father is a bee - buzzing
nuisance, stinging threat.

Fifteen.

You have the right to remain silent.


Stop that. I know you are just trying to scare me. Or make me laugh. Either way, you are failing.

Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.

I have heard this all before. On television. When perps are arrested by cops with plastic badges and cotton suits. You can't really be arresting me.

You have the right to an attorney.


Okay, the gig is up. Who paid you to do this? To slap these child cuffs on my wrists and drag me out of this bar?

If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you.


Who are you? I know you aren't a real officer. Are you an actor looking for any chance to perform for pay? And why won't these handcuffs unlatch, like all the other pairs I've bought from Walmart do?

Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?


No, I don't! What the hell is going on? Where did you get the car with the twinkling lights - red, white, blue, like a jumbled American flag - and the wailing siren and the bulletproof screen meant to protect you from me?  What did I do?

You know what you did. And I need you to sign this Miranda card.


Actually, I don't know. And I'm not signing anything as long as these silver rings hold my wrists behind my back.

Fourteen.

Shutting everything off,
shutting everything down.

There is peace in these bones
and it courses through my fingers
as words tumble,
cartwheel, pirouette
across blank pages.

No sound can
unravel me,
no smile can
distract me,
no flash can
unnerve me,
no pain can
disturb me.

There is peace in these bones
that wait to be useful,
wait to have purpose, meaning,
wait for thoughts to flow
and flood and drown, drown, drown.

Shutting everything off,
shutting everything down.

Thirteen.

What I wouldn't do for

a
       glimmer                    of                  
                                                             brilliance,
a
       shimmer                   of                  
                                                             genius,
a
       flicker                      of                
                                                             creativity.

I mean,
I wouldn't do some things,
like kill
or steal
or erase
precious
memories
with my
family.

Maybe I should have started with
what I would do.

Twelve.

I would drown myself in a salty sea
if it meant I would become a mermaid.

I dream of strange, scaly skin
and unexplained breathing organs
and knotted tendrils of course hair
and brine-resistant eyes
and infinite, dangerous space to explore.

I don't care for my two legs
(too many limbs to trip me up)
and I have no need for fashion
or oxygen.

I think I'd be a better friend to the anemones
than these awkward humans
I don't understand.

As long as I had my books
and my words
and my wonderful husband,
I wouldn't mind
leaving this corrupting species
behind
to destroy the earth some more.

Eleven.

Niceties have long been forgotten -
only defenses, shields remain.
Perhaps if you had listened to my concerns
an agreement could have been reached.

Since you have ignored me,
only one option seems legitimate,
possible - fight back, fight hard
and demand that you reconsider

what freedom really means.

Because you aren't fighting piracy anymore -
you're fighting art,
you're fighting innovation,
you're fighting creation,
you're fighting liberty.

And are you really ready
to bear the responsibility
of trying to destroy those
things?

Ten.

Nine.

Observation of a Slam Poet


Self-deprecating fidgeter
caffeine-based adrenaline
fueling nervous sentences
that calm as he transforms
poet to performer
in a matter of seconds
part dancer, part musician,
part lovestruck,
wholly talented

Perform, perform,
pause, applause
sip sip
coffee's gone, quickly consumed,
and the water bottle cap is elusive
when crazy energy rattles his extremities

He answers challenging questions
with an eccentric grace and
child-like exuberance.
Each word he speaks
is laced with impenetrable,
irrefutable passion
that infects every
single
person
who listens to him,
regardless of age or
understanding of poetry.

There is magic in the way he
moves,
spins stories,
harnesses words -
an alchemy
I won't forget.

Eight.

At YAK yesterday, I attended a poetry workshop/reading hosted by Colin R. Gilbert. He asked us to pick three-five words off of the YAK program, and then instructed us to write a poem using them. I have highlighted my five words, though you could probably guess at least one of them. Thank you, Colin, for the awesome session!

At four in the morning, I often consult Sasquatch
because innovation is a two-way mirror
and I'm on the wrong side of the glass.

When Sassy speaks, ideas begin to tingle
behind my eyes, and I am suddenly speculative,
contemplative, percolating.

Seven.

Bare your teeth,
your needle tongue

pierce my skin and lips
and steal life from me.

There!
My final exhale,
a soft whisper,
your name


because it has always been you,
even when I wasn't sure,
pretended I didn't know.

The last thing I know is death,
a cold breeze that sweeps
my broken bones away,

and then I sense my awakening,
feel my body regaining shape,
straining to reassemble.

Before my eyes I see them, 

our coming days, a collage 

of blood and running wild, 

feeding and winter picnics, 

graveyard family reunions.

I never believed in afterlife

until I saw it for myself.