I saw your eyes
those brown eyes
the first, and perhaps
the only ones I've ever loved
my heart leapt into
the ceiling of my ribcage
with a bird-flutter heartbeat
I didn't know could happen
anymore
you led her in by the hand
the woman you love
and all I felt was a sunset-gold
smile creeping across my chest
you and I were so young, so foolish
cliche summer love, late-night kisses
the first boy I broke for
you were so kind, so blind
you taught me my heart had wings
and that flying takes practice
she seems lovely, you know
the woman you chose
I hope she matches you,
fits you and fills you
the way my 16-year-old heart
wanted to
I suppose what I'm trying
to say is
thank you
for being the one that got away
who is worthy of a
poem like this
Sunday, January 8, 2017
Saturday, January 7, 2017
V.
I.
Look your need into me infuse me with your desperation
You know I see you, but I'm the one you don't see
Like a beetle, I'm an exoskeleton of all smiles, laughs and twirling
I am your whirling dervish of mirth
II.
You used to see me, my blood drenching you
Your arms were a fortress for me
I thought you loved my mess
I loved fingerpainting my pain for you
But you think you've graduated me
that your studies in fine art
make my fingerpainting childish
But my thoughts come to me in
violent bursts and vibrant prisms
III.
You ask for my thoughts, but you don't
want them, you want your couch back
But I'm not comfortable like that
I refuse to let you sink into me
with ungrateful familiarity
Baby, your tower's too lofty for my
shiny, beetle existence these days
I think you'll tumble down the stairs
of your cool, dragon-less castle
someday
Today, though, I offer incognito refusal
I'll smile and sing your hipster songs
But I will remain complicated, messy, proud
too much for you and your righteous friends
IV.
I will always adore you naming
stars after your green eyes, and
fruit juices after your sweet laugh
I will always be proud of you
the way you construct crystal sonorance
with your vocal cords or record
silly declarations into the arms of loved ones
You are my palm line, the one that
squiggles from the valley between my
pointer and middle fingers
winding, tantalizing, deep
You are my blood, but right
now you're boiling under the heat
of your own scrutiny, your own frown
V.
Come back, Beloved, when life has
pulled a few punches, I'll be here
Still complicated, messy, proud, adoring you
Ready to be drenched in your blood
To make my arms a fortress for you
To hang the fingerpaintings of your pain
on my fridge and call them fine art
I love you
Come back
I love you
but even if
I love you
you don't
I love you
To every crossroad and back
Sincerely, your beetle
Look your need into me infuse me with your desperation
You know I see you, but I'm the one you don't see
Like a beetle, I'm an exoskeleton of all smiles, laughs and twirling
I am your whirling dervish of mirth
II.
You used to see me, my blood drenching you
Your arms were a fortress for me
I thought you loved my mess
I loved fingerpainting my pain for you
But you think you've graduated me
that your studies in fine art
make my fingerpainting childish
But my thoughts come to me in
violent bursts and vibrant prisms
III.
You ask for my thoughts, but you don't
want them, you want your couch back
But I'm not comfortable like that
I refuse to let you sink into me
with ungrateful familiarity
Baby, your tower's too lofty for my
shiny, beetle existence these days
I think you'll tumble down the stairs
of your cool, dragon-less castle
someday
Today, though, I offer incognito refusal
I'll smile and sing your hipster songs
But I will remain complicated, messy, proud
too much for you and your righteous friends
IV.
I will always adore you naming
stars after your green eyes, and
fruit juices after your sweet laugh
I will always be proud of you
the way you construct crystal sonorance
with your vocal cords or record
silly declarations into the arms of loved ones
You are my palm line, the one that
squiggles from the valley between my
pointer and middle fingers
winding, tantalizing, deep
You are my blood, but right
now you're boiling under the heat
of your own scrutiny, your own frown
V.
Come back, Beloved, when life has
pulled a few punches, I'll be here
Still complicated, messy, proud, adoring you
Ready to be drenched in your blood
To make my arms a fortress for you
To hang the fingerpaintings of your pain
on my fridge and call them fine art
I love you
Come back
I love you
but even if
I love you
you don't
I love you
To every crossroad and back
Sincerely, your beetle
5.24.16
6 days: The road through the desert
Day 1:
I see the way they cluster,they clot like blood outside the holy places
They cry out in honor of adultery against exquisite truth
Tempests of fury rise up within my depths, and I become destruction
On my sturdy knees, I implore my God to make me a whirlwind that
Decimates any pagan who claims my Lord as his god
Who in his worship freely flaps his lecherous tongue
Day 2:
The sweet flavors of victory hang from my mouth, and I lick my lips
As his blood, un-clotting, runs through the hot streets
His death becomes my glory, every tear proves me of my station
I unroll my wrath like the scrolls that declare him to be defiled
And my arm grows long as I build the sinews of my mind and soul
Making myself un-pressable stone against the seductions of his lies
For I am a blade with the sharpest of edges, one side to the next
I will make my name a bludgeoning defender of my Lord
Day 3:
My eyes, my eyes! Pierced by merciless daggers of light
Every color floods my skull as my sight drowns into darkness
And he asks me why my hands are dripping with his blood
How can he not know I tore open flesh in his name
And fortified my chest with others' bones in his name
I cover my feet night and day with desert dust, a conquest in his name
He asks again, why my hands are dripping with his blood
And I am silent
And I am blind
And I am not hungry anymore
Day 4:
A cold river runs through my riven rib cage
The looters left me with only leaves and quiet
I am emptied and aghast at the residue on the reservoir walls, so small
Was I really full?
Was I really great?
And I am still silent
And I am still blind
And I am still not hungry anymore
Day 5:
A man came today, though his face was hidden
His voice bore authority and was adorned in mourning
And peace; he spoke for my Lord, and I, on my weak knees
Begged forgiveness
My eyes, my eyes, tears pour forth in healing, scales fall
Away, in broken pieces on the earth, my blindness dissolves
Light has been endowed with a new name, love
Color has been left with a new titled, love
Knowledge is now called affection, power is brokenness
Delight is found in emptiness
Hope is found... in me
Day 6:
I live my days outside the holy places, clotting like blood with my brothers
My feet tire by day, raindrops of sweat bury me by night, in torrents
My smile is an involuntary crack in the flesh of my weary face
For on my shoulders I bear a message, a song of
How a treacherous murderer painted cities with death in the name of his Lord
But saw one day, under unforgiving desert sun, that his altar was unto
Only himself, bottomless, voracious, death became his glory, every
Tear made him worthy of his station; lowly, furious, frantic, lost
This murderer is now the hope, bard to foreign tribes of a bright and endless affection
And on the road through the desert, the snake slithered away in fear
I became a man, a paradox, a willing, suffering bearer of light
Now I ask them why their hands are dripping with his blood
And they are silent
I see the way they cluster,they clot like blood outside the holy places
They cry out in honor of adultery against exquisite truth
Tempests of fury rise up within my depths, and I become destruction
On my sturdy knees, I implore my God to make me a whirlwind that
Decimates any pagan who claims my Lord as his god
Who in his worship freely flaps his lecherous tongue
Day 2:
The sweet flavors of victory hang from my mouth, and I lick my lips
As his blood, un-clotting, runs through the hot streets
His death becomes my glory, every tear proves me of my station
I unroll my wrath like the scrolls that declare him to be defiled
And my arm grows long as I build the sinews of my mind and soul
Making myself un-pressable stone against the seductions of his lies
For I am a blade with the sharpest of edges, one side to the next
I will make my name a bludgeoning defender of my Lord
Day 3:
My eyes, my eyes! Pierced by merciless daggers of light
Every color floods my skull as my sight drowns into darkness
And he asks me why my hands are dripping with his blood
How can he not know I tore open flesh in his name
And fortified my chest with others' bones in his name
I cover my feet night and day with desert dust, a conquest in his name
He asks again, why my hands are dripping with his blood
And I am silent
And I am blind
And I am not hungry anymore
Day 4:
A cold river runs through my riven rib cage
The looters left me with only leaves and quiet
I am emptied and aghast at the residue on the reservoir walls, so small
Was I really full?
Was I really great?
And I am still silent
And I am still blind
And I am still not hungry anymore
Day 5:
A man came today, though his face was hidden
His voice bore authority and was adorned in mourning
And peace; he spoke for my Lord, and I, on my weak knees
Begged forgiveness
My eyes, my eyes, tears pour forth in healing, scales fall
Away, in broken pieces on the earth, my blindness dissolves
Light has been endowed with a new name, love
Color has been left with a new titled, love
Knowledge is now called affection, power is brokenness
Delight is found in emptiness
Hope is found... in me
Day 6:
I live my days outside the holy places, clotting like blood with my brothers
My feet tire by day, raindrops of sweat bury me by night, in torrents
My smile is an involuntary crack in the flesh of my weary face
For on my shoulders I bear a message, a song of
How a treacherous murderer painted cities with death in the name of his Lord
But saw one day, under unforgiving desert sun, that his altar was unto
Only himself, bottomless, voracious, death became his glory, every
Tear made him worthy of his station; lowly, furious, frantic, lost
This murderer is now the hope, bard to foreign tribes of a bright and endless affection
And on the road through the desert, the snake slithered away in fear
I became a man, a paradox, a willing, suffering bearer of light
Now I ask them why their hands are dripping with his blood
And they are silent
06/16
Virulent
When will my poems stop being
so violent with virulent images
marching across stricken, sleepless
eyeballs?
What does virulent mean? I forget
It sounds intriguing, it's a sharp word
and would pair nicely with
"slice" "pierce" or "shards"
like steak with dry red wine
And here I go again, wanting
to make things bleed
If I was a famous artist I would
use a paint-roller to spread crimson
paint across a blank canvas and
I'd sell the painting for $23 mil
And say, "This piece was wrenched
from my veins, like life and love...
This piece was painted with the
pulsing pieces of my confetti cardiac muscles
And someone will buy it for
$23 mil plus tax and hang it
on the white walls of his house
calling my suffering art
I'll laugh at him 'cause that
paint cost me $10 at Lowe's, but
it's red so he'll use it to tame
the bulls, but after a while
the blood will make him crazy
because he'll be able to smell it
in the dust of the plaza del toros
But to be honest, I'd much
rather set shit on fire than
make it bleed because fire
is so majestic, romantic even
And it demolishes. Everything.
Definition: Virulent (adj.)
1. (of a disease or poison) extremely severe or harmful in its effects
2. bitterly hostile
3. my affection
4. what I think love is
so violent with virulent images
marching across stricken, sleepless
eyeballs?
What does virulent mean? I forget
It sounds intriguing, it's a sharp word
and would pair nicely with
"slice" "pierce" or "shards"
like steak with dry red wine
And here I go again, wanting
to make things bleed
If I was a famous artist I would
use a paint-roller to spread crimson
paint across a blank canvas and
I'd sell the painting for $23 mil
And say, "This piece was wrenched
from my veins, like life and love...
This piece was painted with the
pulsing pieces of my confetti cardiac muscles
And someone will buy it for
$23 mil plus tax and hang it
on the white walls of his house
calling my suffering art
I'll laugh at him 'cause that
paint cost me $10 at Lowe's, but
it's red so he'll use it to tame
the bulls, but after a while
the blood will make him crazy
because he'll be able to smell it
in the dust of the plaza del toros
But to be honest, I'd much
rather set shit on fire than
make it bleed because fire
is so majestic, romantic even
And it demolishes. Everything.
Definition: Virulent (adj.)
1. (of a disease or poison) extremely severe or harmful in its effects
2. bitterly hostile
3. my affection
4. what I think love is
6.7.16
Our Baby Girl & P.S.
It's a great irony that I write poems to forget you
Because my poetry is a piece of me
It's like giving birth to your child but she is born hating you
and she will grow past her daddy issues to become
Breathtaking. Magnificent. Powerful.
For every wound you donated to me
she will heal someone else's
Your most kind and productive offspring
is the one that shows your ugliness
The Beauty whose kiss makes you into the Beast
And I will love her unapologetically
'cause I'm sure you'll never apologize
I will be fine. I will be seen. I will be loved.
I'm already fine.
I'm already seen.
I'm already loved.
And our Baby girl, born of grief
will grow wings
and wear crowns of leaves and
With a wink she'll be swept up in the wind
And I'll finally let her go
Because it's time to move on
And this time I believe it's true that
you are not worth the effort
P.S.
I hope a woman stronger than me
draws you in to the quagmire of her eyes
and leaves you there to languish
I hope you never learn so that
she will inhabit different shapes
and drown you over and over
and I hope she does it just
because she's bored
and you're an asshole
Because my poetry is a piece of me
It's like giving birth to your child but she is born hating you
and she will grow past her daddy issues to become
Breathtaking. Magnificent. Powerful.
For every wound you donated to me
she will heal someone else's
Your most kind and productive offspring
is the one that shows your ugliness
The Beauty whose kiss makes you into the Beast
And I will love her unapologetically
'cause I'm sure you'll never apologize
I will be fine. I will be seen. I will be loved.
I'm already fine.
I'm already seen.
I'm already loved.
And our Baby girl, born of grief
will grow wings
and wear crowns of leaves and
With a wink she'll be swept up in the wind
And I'll finally let her go
Because it's time to move on
And this time I believe it's true that
you are not worth the effort
P.S.
I hope a woman stronger than me
draws you in to the quagmire of her eyes
and leaves you there to languish
I hope you never learn so that
she will inhabit different shapes
and drown you over and over
and I hope she does it just
because she's bored
and you're an asshole
06/16
Our Men
Muted majesty, powerful men amble outside
Their steps are heavy and slow, cigarettes hanging famliarly from their
Sticky lips, their conversations held in low grumbles of laughter
Eyes that have seen so much twinkle with practiced mischief
Breaths full or beer and mirth rise from their belly
They talk of hard times, what their daddy did, what they did
They talk about the earth, they talk about the railroads
Telling of the rocks and mines and metal that forge their blood
My family, my kin, these are our men, they kiss their women, leathery cheeks
Adding extra vowels to their doting nicknames, drawling
"Honey"s and "baby"s sink into my ears and my heart and I know
These are our men, broken and earnest, passionate and reckless,
Gentle and growing older
Their steps are heavy and slow, cigarettes hanging famliarly from their
Sticky lips, their conversations held in low grumbles of laughter
Eyes that have seen so much twinkle with practiced mischief
Breaths full or beer and mirth rise from their belly
They talk of hard times, what their daddy did, what they did
They talk about the earth, they talk about the railroads
Telling of the rocks and mines and metal that forge their blood
My family, my kin, these are our men, they kiss their women, leathery cheeks
Adding extra vowels to their doting nicknames, drawling
"Honey"s and "baby"s sink into my ears and my heart and I know
These are our men, broken and earnest, passionate and reckless,
Gentle and growing older
Our Women
I tell you what, they know deep
My aunties, they wrap their firm, old arms 'round every neck
Sowing kisses like seeds and heartache, and I tell you what
For every name they recall like catechism they know stories
Like honey and vinegar, sepia photos and tales
Of deep mountain moonlit mischief & how Grandmaw used to make cornbread
And how Grandmaw stopped making cornbread when her memory abandoned
Her life stretching into thinner threads of flashing snapshots til they snapped
And she was gone
The decadence of the soil of our home and how it's not our home anymore
Our women carry heritage in their bones and playfulness in their grins
They are broken and brave, stubborn and kind, our women are the bards
Who burden their backs with the aches of yesterday and the glories of tomorrow
I tell you what, my aunties, they know deep
Exploring catacombs and mine shafts with the lights burning in their eyes
And I tell you what, I know where my blood comes from
I know where my pride comes from
Because I am our women now.
My aunties, they wrap their firm, old arms 'round every neck
Sowing kisses like seeds and heartache, and I tell you what
For every name they recall like catechism they know stories
Like honey and vinegar, sepia photos and tales
Of deep mountain moonlit mischief & how Grandmaw used to make cornbread
And how Grandmaw stopped making cornbread when her memory abandoned
Her life stretching into thinner threads of flashing snapshots til they snapped
And she was gone
The decadence of the soil of our home and how it's not our home anymore
Our women carry heritage in their bones and playfulness in their grins
They are broken and brave, stubborn and kind, our women are the bards
Who burden their backs with the aches of yesterday and the glories of tomorrow
I tell you what, my aunties, they know deep
Exploring catacombs and mine shafts with the lights burning in their eyes
And I tell you what, I know where my blood comes from
I know where my pride comes from
Because I am our women now.
06/16
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