Jimble Jamble

2011-09-02T13:42:00.002-05:00

have you ever noticed,
that after a smoke,
clamminess sets in.

sticky nervous nicotine.

my body, tired
worn out,
sleep encrusted lashes
and thoughts followed by dashes
--they're incomplete.
oh, sleep! sleep.

2011-08-30T00:26:00.003-05:00

And so this love, intangible and yet more real than these hands, this body containing heartbeat and rhythm and exhalation, wells up beyond my bearing.
And in its fullness, brimming, wholeness it sighs. For it longs to be known. It longs for corporeal existence
that expression
that touch
touch making things real, making them known. To be known.
Lacking ability to embody immediate reality it moves restless, moving inside like a rushing and tossing, calm in its confidence.
For though it may not be known in that sense, that longing, it knows.
And that is all that matters.

heat

2011-08-30T00:22:00.002-05:00

There is more to be said for heat than most like to admit. Heavy, heavy, oppressive wet and yet, liberating. Heat makes weakness that you can't fight.
Weakness. Infinite, unwavering, the very essence of humanity and the marrow of our bones. Porcelain, cracked and white, its fragility the basis of its worth.
And so we unwillingly surrender to weakness, the sweat running down our calves like tiny streams of admission. We wilt and relax under the reality of who we are. And we are freed from our pretension, our assumptions, entitlement.
We are weak.

2011-07-11T08:32:00.002-05:00

He was beautiful. Sweet, sweet tow-headed and clear-eyed beauty and skin that loved hard work and sun. Hands growing in strength, size, purpose, voice deepening with the passing of time and an innocent sadness about the two. Man-child.
The other men-children, boisterously arrogant know-it-alls with their hands taking to far less honorable tasks, they cried, "Weak!" At the sight of those salty jewels on his cheek, kneeling near a dead rabbit in the dirt road so sad and lonely, they pelted rocks. And in the eveningtime he would whisper to the sky and hold tight to his honor like a blanket that is warm and only yours. The sky would whisper back, saying, "Sweet little son of mine, I am proud."
And one day those bastards stole his blanket. They shamed his name and took his honor with lies and deceit and words that ran like honey down a rock. Passing through streets and carrying those glances, those whispers and that dirty, dirty, sad pity, he held back vomit and fuck yous and sobs. And that night, laying down and whisper-crying to the sky, he heard the sky answer:
"Sweet little son of mine, I am proud."

copy right

2011-07-10T14:41:00.002-05:00

Suddenly one day everything is blank.
Pages waiting to be filled without a writer in sight.
As in, no one writes.
So they stay blank.

And blank stares accompany my questions,
because since when do pages talk?
I mean, especially pages without words and commas and parenthetical shit.
They just sit
silently.

Here in the development room, I'm waiting,
because they started my character but maybe they got distracted?

I had a name and a job and an outline and really I was self-aware and saying my lines pretty well.
But now....
I'm a skeleton.
A well-put together puzzle of bones but there's nothing hanging on them yet just sitting there without a covering and are they collecting dust?

So while they decide what the hell is going on,
I'll be here watching the white stay white and pulling my hair out,
making outlines of letters with these thin auburn strands on the white white page.

twelve cigarettes later

2011-05-25T11:07:00.002-05:00

I dreamt last night that You came to me.

And the clouds were filled with joy and in their excitement were proud with lightning and pink and greatness.

And the wind blew, trees bowing and shaking and shivering with delight.

Squealing, preening, grinning nature.

I was ready. You see, I felt it. For the first time. That feeling that there isn’t a floor anymore and that someone’s holding one of your vital organs far too tightly and your mind thinks everything is a trick and you can’t really see straight or sleep or eat because nothing makes sense and you’re naked. And then I understood, and I was ready.

Ready to be carried away in Your strong arms,

ready to run as swiftly as a jungle cat after You on hills and plains and mountain peaks.

Ready to make pies with You, fruit pies made from magic and colors I’ve yet to see.

But alas, it was a dream. So I woke this morning and someone was still holding my heart too tightly, and my head hurt from not eating and my eyes were heavy and tired. But don’t worry. I’ll keep waiting.

desk days

2011-04-26T11:49:00.002-05:00

Her voice is jarring, dripping with some warm sticky substance.
And I try not to notice.
Because it's racist of me.
But that voice!

And those babies, the way they congregate.

My shoulders are sore
and my day is a bore
and I want something more,
perhaps a guided tour
of an ice cream factory, replete with legendary lore
of a snowman who loved sweets to his core,
and so he made ice cream.
(Except snowmen are inanimate.)

Instead of ice cream tours, I watch the congregation of babies.
And I listen to the sticky voice.
And I choose to be nice. Or at least try. Really hard.

watts

2011-02-16T00:18:00.003-06:00

They are boys.
Hearty and funny,
smelly and nose-runny.
And they hold their beers like a child clutches a favorite bear.

My glass empty, they fill it with their hearts.
Pouring out story after story,
ache after ache,
rants and raves and resulting days of no shaves.
They knit dreamy prospects from their minds' yarn,
storing up ideas in a silly, hay-filled barn.

I sit and listen and their words permeate my flesh like the smoke in the bar permeates my hair.

And those words sink into my blood,
my blood carrying them to my heart,
and my heart hurts with their unreality and bitterness.

They don't see me.
I'm one of the boys,
a celibate priest, traveling confessional.
They think I have a dick, and had I, I would tell them to suck it.

But I don't, and I don't.

Instead, as a girl ought, I vacillate between emotions. Because I have them.
A pat on the back,
"You'd make a good wife."
"I can tell you anything."
"Yeah, man, you're not like other girls."
Yeah, man, you're just like all the other boys.

I am a traveling confessional, a celibate priest.
But one day they'll be shocked when they find a bra in my closet.

blank

2011-02-04T04:24:00.002-06:00

It's white all around
all over the ground
and it's taken over sound,
made silent.

And so my mind is left to wander,
over blankets and white ways and sugar.

Made pioneer by necessity I am filled with courage and contemplation.

dearest

2011-01-16T01:56:00.003-06:00

He is small in stature, a boy already an old man,

grumpy and beer-bellied,

world weary and brain-jellied.

Well, maybe not jellied.

But jaded or shaded or tired-er than us.

I love him.

His honestly is clean,

a baby marble with a pearly sheen.

And he is kind and gentle underneath the prickly beard hairs.

His drunken gambol would hint at idiocy, carelessness and hopelessness.

I know because I think these things.

Often.

But with study and affection and thought and care,

one will find this is not the case.

Instead,

cavernous rooms home to suitcases afloat on a Shiner river, suitcases filled with loneliness and simplicity and marriage beds and childish tears,

they fill his heart.

The amber works hard to drown the luggage,

but each morning he wakes to find it unharmed.

Eternal luggage with flood insurance.

He had a marriage bed once.

Arranged from youth, pursued and loved for a time,

then, walking on ground muddied by others, he brought those dirty feet home.

He lay in that bed with those dirty feet,

and night after night, it grew dirtier and dirtier,

and he, being a young little man with a big little head, assumed the worst.

It was her fault, not his—and he took the suitcases with him and left the bride of his youth.

Now, cold nights in empty beds and even dirtier sheets, he is sad.

Sad and lonely,

his face made distraught and homely,

but who can tell?

My darling’s nose is red.

hands

2010-12-29T20:29:00.002-06:00

I just want a hand to hold.

Those waists, they are skinny.
Bony hips not made for child-bearing,
made for arm bearing.
My arm, that is.

Thick hair covering that skin
like carpet in my girlhood bedroom,
when the sun would warm it and I would fall asleep face on ground.

An apple for a throat,
muscles to row the boat,
broad shoulders for that coat.

And talking mustaches.

There is one, and maybe there will be one more.

yolk

2010-11-22T15:20:00.002-06:00

Short and hairy, cross-eyed and grinny,
he loves her.
His countenance mirrors her tone
and he waits for words that fall like crumbs off the dinner table.

We fit together, mixed around
and up and down,
we are one whole.

napmares

2010-11-08T09:33:00.004-06:00

Her head was full of cotton candy. That was the only explanation. She awoke to mindlessness, an overwhelming and sickening sweetness, confusion. Her eyes bounced around, unhindered by whatever muscles used to keep them anchored--they reveled in their new found freedom, and had she a brain to be in pain, it would have been.
Her head was light and it kept trying to float away. She kept one hand atop her tousled locks and stumbled around the house, her feet remembering the way, but her cotton candy remembering a circus tent instead.

living dead

2010-10-18T20:00:00.002-05:00

I am that smoke that you exhale.
Thick and grey,
without weight.
A cloud of hopelessness and death, disease and rotting teeth.
I have no ears, no eyes
no heartbeat or blood.
I am, and I cannot leave, and I cannot stop being.

home

2010-10-08T00:52:00.003-05:00

I've been dreaming of this house since girlhood:
a low stone fence, green shutters and daisies.
I've been sketching and planning, saving and hoping,
and I'm readier and readier by the day.

He's helping me, you see,
and there's no help like he.
He whispers measurements by night
and keeps me safe in his sight.

He's a master builder, strong and sure,
a beautiful man, no doubt.

But with that knowledge,
that beauty and ability,
comes a price.

Those stones for my fence?
Patience and dollars and trust and cents.
The lumber and nails?
Wisdom and work and sweat and snails.
Those daisies by the front?
We water them with my tears.

I've hired out help in an attempt to save time,
precious time, and precious money,
but they never fail to fail.

There are days when I sob,
"How much longer must I wait?"
I only want to lie in my bed,
to eat food off my plate.
In the house.

His whispers are soft, intentional and low:
"I know you're weary daughter, but there's not too much left to go."

I will lay my hammer down,
dust the dirt off my jeans,
and I will fall into the builder's arms,
because I know just what he means.

grip

2010-09-07T22:47:00.002-05:00

Pale on pale, red on red,
hard on soft.
Rough intertwined with smooth, pulsing and pulsing.

Tied neatly, moss green ribbon bows,
her heart
for him.

Large hands that gently deal
hold that heart in tender grip

Cradled together, in the grass and wheat and earth, sighing.

toddlers

2010-08-07T23:44:00.002-05:00

I can't be a person anymore.
It's funny, how they all assume it's not a choice, some role you're stuck with for the rest of your life. Funny, and so false--it's all choice.
They button their shirts (one button after another), slip on their shoes, part their hair, drink their bourbon (it's crystal, you know). Words tumble out of lips like troll toddlers falling down a hill, and their laughs try to catch them. (They can't.)
So I don't button my shirt. I unbutton it (one button after another), slipping off my shoes and out of my skirt, my pale flesh softly glowing in the lamplight. I lay down, ignoring the bourbon--it's waiting for me--and turn my back to their laughter.
I do all this because, well, I can't be a person anymore.

Belly

2010-07-05T01:48:00.000-05:00

I am alone in this house, swallowed whole.
My list grows longer than my hair, flowing from brain to ears, down past my shoulders and onto the floor.
Yet, I stay.
I linger and longer and long.
Longing for the world outside this belly, sunburn and that sand under nails, pavement burns and sirens, shaded roots and warm flesh.
My impatience, an overripe avocado, festers and swells—fevers.
But as quickly as it grew, the fever breaks, and I am resigned.
Resigned to walk over these creaking boards,
to experience freedom vicariously,
to wait my turn.
Turns that don’t always turn out to be real.

That this house would grow sick of me, rejecting me like a prophet of old.

matter matters

2010-05-19T14:10:00.004-05:00

"Do you know those days? Those days that follow, one after another, marching into months?
I know those days.
They fill me with an emptiness, some sort of scientific anomaly, being filled with emptiness. But it happens, really.
I know this because I can feel it happening. It's like a cavern being born in my stomach, swallowing my lungs and my ribs and eventually my heart. I'm afraid that one day it won't stop, and it will swallow all of me, and I'll be a black hole, large, black and pulsing. Empty."

(secret love letter)

2010-04-12T08:56:00.002-05:00

You don't know it, but were we black and white, I would swoon at your approach.
Were we burgundy and powder blue, you'd steady me as I stepped into my coach.
If we were orange, and we are, aren't we?, I would quiver under my grandfather's sweater,
and you would be you, and none could do better.
"I lurve you. I loave you. I luff you with two f's."

la barba roja de mi amor

2010-04-08T13:35:00.002-05:00

"Art"
is said to be an expression of something solid, ephemeral,
something simple, complex.
If that is true, and A is equaling B, B equaling C, and so on and so forth, then this is what I know of him.

His giant form conceals a meek and gentle heart.
(This heart, feeling lonely and unhealthily pale, peeks its head during "art.")
The orange conceals a far too active mind, whose movements far too often throw his balance, and whose pomp and circumstance far too often rob other extremities of their due celebration.
This mind, and this heart, they seamlessly merge during "art."
I often picture Daniel Smith's stitching holding felt versions together,
the cotton within ebbing and flowing in stop-action beauty.
(His physical movements in the light of "art" mimic this ebb and flow.)
He is lost in the union, as are those consummating a marriage,
and "art" benefits.
But "art" doesn't really exist. "Art" is simply a name for that cotton stuffing,

and by any other name it would stuff as well.

My head is full of cotton, my mouth is full of ears.

2010-03-15T15:09:00.002-05:00

I am cold. It's my hands--they're always cold, and their chill spreads to the rest of my body, like spilled milk.
He was married. They always are. So handsome and bearded, and married. Both of them, actually--both handsome, bearded and married.
Then came the Smile... and my grin was quick to follow.
Last night, though, well, my head was full of cotton. Really! Cotton, honest. And we all danced, and we were sweaty and he said those vulgar things, and we kept dancing. And I knew they might be watching, and I knew I might be killing them, but I kept on. It's not fair, you know, that I should change who I am for someone else.
(This is the part where you-know-who tells me you-know-what. And he's right. As usual.)
Why does the piper love the lord?
And why don't I?
They are falsities, all. Little dentures gnawing at my leg, begging for attention. I refuse you, old people teeth, I refuse to look at you.
Until one day, I will find that they were in my mouth all along, and the real ones were at my feet.

Yes....

2010-02-20T18:59:00.002-06:00

Is life real.
Is life real?
Is life real!
Is life real....

Joel is real. His love for his family, his love for '90s decor and mediocre art. His words and thoughts and spasmodic fingers that materialize what would otherwise stay intangible. And he loves God, for real.
Jacki is real. Her laugh, the way she wrinkles her nose, her worn and loved Bible.
The man with tattoos behind the bar is real. His pain is real, his submission and his victory--they are all real.
But am I real?
My hair is short. A product of rebellion, anger and confusion.
My thighs are thick, though thinning, and my love handles are full of affection. All a product of emotional eating, crying and spilling my guts to a chocolate chip psychiatrist. (He is only licensed to practice in three states.)
My mouth? A warm, wet cave inhabited by whispers of hatred, bitterness and gossip. They knock on my lips, requesting to be released. I oblige, quite willingly.
My eyes wander across bodies, faces and clothes, rolling and crossing and sending messages to my brain: worthless! subpar! inconsequential! ugly!
And then, my brain. Oh that brain. Neon green. And rude. It soliloquizes nonstop, spewing smartness and pride all over anyone unfortunate enough to listen. Then, it takes a break, pictures legs straddled over strength, heaving and general tackiness. I think the worst part is, limited in sex, it dares to push fake morals, insult and stare.
I am real.
I wish I weren't, though, now that I know.

Pages

2009-12-15T15:15:00.002-06:00

You and I should run away.

Hands clasped,
lying in the warmth of a wrinkle in time,
folded over and pulsing.

Rolling down hills of a songscape,
our backs covered in dry grass,
our breath warm with heartbeats and wind.

We should run away.

On my grey porch

2009-11-17T17:06:00.002-06:00

On my grey porch.
My cold, grey porch.
I sit.
I think.
I drink.

The windows are dirty, one is broken.
But I can still see, the garden and the alley,
the tree and the grass.

Winter is coming!
Wind howls,
shouts.

Grass buckles under her strong, cold voice.
Passersby shudder,
huddle closer and stay low.

Winter sits and watches and preens.
He is ready.
And I am, too.

My room with a view

2009-11-10T16:34:00.001-06:00

The cold kept her in bed. More than sleepiness, more than dreaminess—it was the cold. She had kicked Grandma’s quilt off her bed again (some would call this “telling”; they might have a point), and she moved to grab the corner, pulling, then turning over like a little leaf.

She woke, for the final time, ten minutes later. Perhaps if that bird hadn’t been so loud she would have felt more rested? She had cursed at it, half-dreamed of shooting it. The thought, when considered in the light of day, seemed rather absurd, and humorous.

A little while later she was standing in the kitchen, cleaning up oatmeal that had overflowed in the microwave.

The house could hear her move, softly to and fro, upon its wooden belly. The planks creaked on occasion, calling for some attention. They were beautiful planks, not unlike the house in its entirety—built before most could remember.

Finally, she sat down. Hot tea and oatmeal, the Bible and Salinger, Dylan and Bach. A beautiful morning.

Theo

2009-11-04T15:50:00.001-06:00

It was caught, squirming and wriggling, and Theodore held tight. Its skin was translucent and veiny, like Grandmother’s legs.

Still gripping his new friend firmly, little legs carried him to tug on Mother’s apron.

Its red and white picnic cloth stretched reluctantly with each pull, groaning under sticky fingers.
“I got him this time.”
“Got who?”
Her tired arms kept stirring, and her tired mind kept straying.
“Vincent.”

He had placed Vincent snugly in Samantha’s bed. She hated lizards, and he hated her—it worked out nicely.

Theodore lay in bed, counting the tiny mountains and volcanoes on the ceiling. The highest he had ever gotten was 42, and for a five-year old, that was quite an accomplishment. After losing count at 29, he rolled over and faced the wall. Its paint was chipped and dirt filled the amoeba shapes that made an inconsistent pattern.

Once, when he was four and a half, he had thrown an epic tantrum. He couldn’t recall the details, but he did remember how he had kicked the wall for a good ten minutes after Mother put him to bed early. That was probably why the wall looked so bad.

Theodore saw an amoeba shaped like a bear.

Theodore was riding a lion when Samantha’s shriek woke him. He grinned, and fell back asleep.

"That was not an illogical question."

2009-10-21T09:19:00.003-05:00

His words stand a stark contrast to those around him.
boyfriend friday homework wasted like um yeah

waves of imbecility.

He pauses, shifts his weight, exhales smoke.
There is boyish residue beneath his beard,
trying to break through with every grin.

shy glances
soft smiles
olive skin
and many miles

Once a little sapling,
mama's tiny oak.
He is growing and bowing
and trying not to get broke.

And though I love him with most of my heart, I am not the answer.
Even so, it is not an illogical question.

2009-10-05T11:29:00.002-05:00

We would wear pretty dresses,
tie ribbons in our tresses,
frolic tight-calved and gay,
tambourines in hand.

Plaid flannel and strong denim,
full beards and manly frame.
Muscled arms and fragile banjos,
if I had it my way.

Jesus would lead the parade,
so strong and handsome, a voice like honey,
honey that attracts flies.
(Us.)

We would give Marian a run for her money.

And bears would fall in line,
golden maned lions skipping behind,
brown hands clasping porcelain,
small ones swallowed in giants'.

My chest would fill with sweet, sweet air,
and trees would sway and buckle and chuckle
if I had it my way.

Nathan’s red beard would shine in the sun
And he would love everyone.
Especially Jesus.

And I would cry rivers full of fish,
Because I love him.
And especially Jesus.

For Esme´

2009-09-29T10:27:00.002-05:00

He was small--scrawny.
His brown leather jacket swallowed him whole,
a sacrifice to the gods of
admiration.

He's a man now,
tan and lean.

He's a boy now,
rash and proud.

He strips down, baring muscle and status,
and takes a dip.
Through streams of fermented meaning
admirable logic
physical satisfaction.

He calls to himself from the shore,
yelling reminders of chains
and brains
and stains,
stains that only one can remove.

But he doesn't listen.
He'll call back for awhile,
carry on cordial conversation.
Then he stops,
and continues.

Those sirens stroke and satisfy,
they lick and lie.

So his body calls louder than the shore,
and he stays out for more.

What if one day he tires of dizziness and falsity,
what if he tires of swimming and soring?
For those muscles are sore from growing stronger,
and while his looks continually improve
his faculties.
They weaken.

When he tires of temporal lovers
and liars,
we will be waiting,
he and I on the shore,
waiting for him to come home.

Autumn

2009-09-29T10:18:00.003-05:00

The hills are green and brown,
the sky a hazy gray.
Geese honk and leaves float,
and it all feels like home.

But it isn't my memory,
and it's one of my favorites.

The trees, taupe and crisp,
are strangers.
The ground, muddy, soft,
I haven't touched.
But sometimes I remember loving those trees,
I remember laying on that ground.

My sigh is like the breeze I felt,
that breeze that never touched my face.

And my auburn hair is filled with the scent of fall when I wake.

invisible words

2009-09-09T15:18:00.000-05:00

"My arms are so sore from working out."
Obviously. Not.
"Save a life!"
Giving money to frat boys does not save lives.

I hope I'm not going to have to kill anyone.

Ha, I wonder if anyone saw that.
His beard!
He's so nice.
Will he use his handkerchief?
Oh, his shoe.
"Thanks!"
His eyes!

Is he working? Does he ever remember me?
Obviously not...
I guess he's not that cute...
oh, but he is nice.

Yeshua

2009-08-31T09:23:00.000-05:00

He called me on the phone.
He spoke to my father, quickly--nervous and confident.
He wouldn't take no for an answer, and I said,
"I'll go."

He walked me home.
He spotted green glass and cleared a path
for me.

He kissed me and he held me.
He spoke tenderly to me,
he wrote me a blue letter.

He looks at me like I'm more,
and he talks to me with purpose.
He goes with me wherever I go--
I can't hide from him, and I'm glad.

Zipped

2009-08-21T00:30:00.001-05:00

I want to unzip my skin and walk away.
I hate it and I hate it and I'm tired.
My nose is stuffed full, purple tears.
It would fall like a winter coat, fur.
Underneath you would find

my high-waisted bikini,
purple, green, gold mustard and silver,
freckled knees and painted toes,
hips full.

And I would

float

away.

the Beetle King

2009-08-19T22:15:00.000-05:00

Steven told me to write about anything,
anything that stuck out and seemed possible.
And every once in awhile I get in these moods,
I get in these grooves,
I get in these tunes,
and I have to write.

I have to scribble on purple paper
and watch documentaries
and dream of that boy who helps me with those boxes
and listens to those fleet foxes
and makes my knees go knocking--
one day he'll come.

Then I sit and watch those words arrive,
like distant relatives come to say hi.

They surprise me with their speed,
with the speed we get comfortable again
and how we can talk and laugh and giggle,
our toes, oh how they wiggle
when me and Auntie sizzle,
mainly because we're so hot.

I love you words
and I love your maker
and I love myself
and my future man,
my lover with a plan
to make love to me, it will be so grand
and he'll father my child.

And this is life,
life abundant
because I know its purpose,
and one day it will all make sense
and I'll get to know my better prince
and we'll have tea and cookies and wine and lint.
One day.

Perseid

2009-08-13T09:43:00.000-05:00

On the concrete you told me of your hugeness. My denim belt loops pressed hard into my back, and a coolness came and went despite the still warm driveway. It was funny, because everyone was talking and singing and laughing, and I was so angry. I wanted earplugs to block everyone out and a spaceship so I could really see these so-called stars. I could see the meteors--they streaked so Hollywood perfectly, and yet, they weren't real. I mean, they were. But they didn't seem real. I felt like I was on a field trip to the Environmental Science Building again. Were they really so far away, so stellar and fiery and ridiculous? You reminded me that they were, and that you are too.
Then, on the couch, you promised me again. You said that if I was thirsty I could drink, and I could buy food and be satisfied, even without money. And you promised me those hands in the trees, and my poofy and girlish dress, pine cones and joy. You told me that you always accomplish what you set out to do. And I leaned on my friend's warm body while he sang, and I cried.
And even though I usually hate it, I wanted to stay at the coffee house and listen to that music and really feel what they feel about you. And I missed you and needed you again. And we listened to our song and you told me that there is a design to what you've done. Even though I know it's true, I also hope it is.

Weighted with love

2009-08-06T11:43:00.000-05:00

Oh, that you were the lion.
Golden, strong, tangible and real,
muscled and firm.

That you would walk to me on padded feet,
head held high,
and speak.

I would fall down, weighted with love.
Afraid for my life,
and yet,
more certain of it than ever before.

I would hang onto your neck
and bury my tear-streaked face in your mane.

I would love you.

La barba

2009-08-06T11:40:00.000-05:00

And though you tell me,
I plug my ears.
I hum and jabber and press,
all the while feigning cooperation.

But you see my fingers.

I called you, felt board and all,
and requested you work.
I weakened at the sight of you,
grew angry at the sound of your voice.

You are firm
and, you tell me, gentle.
Yet I feel no gentle touch,
only strength, power and a stern hand.

You are shaving my beard,
cutting my pride and, on occasion, my skin.
You claim the end result will be smoother, less rough.
A clean-cut, soft face.

We'll see.

LSD

2009-08-06T11:37:00.000-05:00

Lucy is in the sky,
dazzling me with diamonds,
hard and rough.
Sparkling.

Her breath is cool and fresh
and her speech is like a fine wine,
drowsing and charming me.
She calls me to her maker,
and bids me come and cry.

I am going to meet her.

Independent

2009-07-31T11:35:00.000-05:00

All of the pictures are so intentional, tea-stained and Polaroid and accidental. Only we both know they're not accidental at all, actually carefully planned and executed. Your glasses, so thick and hip, amuse and exasperate me. I want a pair of what I hate. I hate a pair of what I want.
Your beards and smiles and plaid and cloves. The smoke is sweet and I love making shapes and clouds, but the smell that stays on my fingers is nauseous. Your Indian smokes are the silliest thing I've seen since fourth grade when Donnie Maye tried to kiss Sallie Kirschner.
And your tall glasses of that strange amber-tinged brew. Smooth and ticklish, smelly. The god to whom we pay homage at least a few times a week, monetary offerings and lauding with tongues and lapping with tongues. I want a beer.

Lamp

2009-07-01T23:17:00.000-05:00

Six toes, six fingers,
lit up and stony.

They ache to dance.

I can see it in their pale, hard faces.
We ache to dance.

The music touches them,
teases like a school girl lover,
"Come and play!"

They feign indifference, when really each one thinks,
I ache to dance.

Stone

2009-06-16T14:56:00.000-05:00

I dreamt I was stone, cold and like vinegar,
vinegar on the knee scraped.
Harsh and heavy, my language one dead,
scholars scrambling to make sense of it.

I crushed people.
In an intentional rock slide,
my body rolling down a hill,
muscles propelling my weight faster
and faster
faster.

Bitter on a sponge, old, pink,
holy.

Then I woke

and realized I had never been asleep at all.

Shapham

2009-05-28T22:41:00.000-05:00

Long white hair on one side of his head,
a long, white rabbit ear on the other,
always filling Shapham with a heavy, heavy dread.

Teeth needing trimming,
a twitch that won't go away,
yet human heart, beating and sinning.

"Rabbit-man, rabbit-man!"
Children cruelly teasing.
Shapham wishing he had the power of a prophet,
a gargantuan carrot at his command,
devouring the young bodies,
stained with orange,
orange stained with red.

And then, he would repent,
crying softly for mercy.
Praying next for his cousin in Searcy,
the living good luck charm.

Prude

2009-05-19T16:13:00.000-05:00

The little girl in me
wants the motorcycle man in you.
Oh irony, why must you iron me?

So I sit.
And wait.
Waiting,
prudely.

Prude motorcycle man
you don't exist.

Nor do I.
Oh, nor do I never
ever.
Only patience and small.
Impatience and tall.

Muscle

2009-05-18T16:26:00.000-05:00

Tall and small,
fair and field-warmed.

Sinewy rope, soft and supple bosom.
Hunger.
Affection.

Instinctual motion rapid fire thoughts shortness of breath breathing again.
Planned, thoughtful, smooth and slow, soft and near.

Golden grain and windswept plain,
warm earth.

Jimmy

2009-05-13T14:36:00.000-05:00

Our green was similar to others’, yes. But different, too—darker than the grass’s green, lighter than the pine’s. And it wasn’t just different, either; it was better. The light shone through it, making it the Veggie Giant’s translucent skin, hot and heavy, heaving and ready.
Ready for his lover, perhaps? That’s what I always thought, but Jim said he was ready for war. I suppose the two are really the same, anyway.
“Catch it!” I squealed. “Aw, shut up, will ya?” The baseball bounced once it hit the dirt, the thumping mimicking the punching noises I imagined. Jim crouched over, black-eyed and fresh. We sat down and shared a Camel, though, seeing as I’m pretty forgiving. Or maybe just forgetful.
We lay in the hammock, eyes darting back, and forth, trying to catch the fleeting green. A shooting star among impostors. “A god among ants,” Jim once said. I just about guffawed at that, but caught myself in time. He probably wouldn’t have appreciated my smart-alecks.
I wish the green could have stayed with us longer… but I suppose it had to move on eventually. Jim hates me. I’m not surprised.

2009-04-13T17:43:00.000-05:00

You.
And me.
Walking, hands clasping flesh clasping hand,
on pebbles.
Pebbles that you made,
rather easily, in fact.

Pebbles the color of wine
and the color of sage,
the dried sage in my kitchen cabinet.
Pebbles the color of the water that laps over them.

Your grip is firm, and comforting and warm.
I know your words without speech.
You know my response without words.

Your coat keeps me
and it smells of cigars and honeysuckle,
purely because you know me.
Oh, how you know me.

As we sit, and watch the waves' whites,
you remind me.
Of all that is to come,
of greenery and bark, bare feet and tea,
your banjo and your knee.

Joy.