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
We are endless
Young ocean interlocked her foamy fingers with another
Her rough, clam-shell eyes scanned the dark expanse of her comrade
The sea kills so much, births so much, devours so much that perhaps
She may forget how endless, untameable and hungry that she is
But to see another ocean is to see the truth
And the side of her mouth crashed and grinned a
Tsunami as she sighed from her depths and remembered
"I am vast and we are endless"
Her rough, clam-shell eyes scanned the dark expanse of her comrade
The sea kills so much, births so much, devours so much that perhaps
She may forget how endless, untameable and hungry that she is
But to see another ocean is to see the truth
And the side of her mouth crashed and grinned a
Tsunami as she sighed from her depths and remembered
"I am vast and we are endless"
Plans
Mud adores the way it feels between our fingers
Slippery and tepid, full of the grit of tiny stones
Sliding to the aching earth with whispering thuds
We love the way mud smears like it knows it can be cleaned
By throwing in its lot with fresh water instead of our skin
Dust in disguise returns to dust, unabashed
It splashes into new viscosity
And tree roots wonder which is better for food and for home
Wiggle your toes like roots in wet sand
To see how long it takes to topple
Slippery and tepid, full of the grit of tiny stones
Sliding to the aching earth with whispering thuds
We love the way mud smears like it knows it can be cleaned
By throwing in its lot with fresh water instead of our skin
Dust in disguise returns to dust, unabashed
It splashes into new viscosity
And tree roots wonder which is better for food and for home
Wiggle your toes like roots in wet sand
To see how long it takes to topple
08/16
[Untitled]
I'm proud of my worshipful tribal mask
delicately painted and carved from the wood of trees
I hand-picked for the feel of their
unforgiving bark and smooth interiors
these trees are like me, but right-side-in
my fragile insides, bouncing and bashing against
my rough places that the world can't handle
but, you see, my tribal mask has a few functional flaws like
when people who love me want to see my battered face
they see the smooth, sanded smiles
and cut their earnest fingers trying to see
what I don't want to show them
I can't decide if I'm too ashamed or raw
to open up my fortifications
08/16
delicately painted and carved from the wood of trees
I hand-picked for the feel of their
unforgiving bark and smooth interiors
these trees are like me, but right-side-in
my fragile insides, bouncing and bashing against
my rough places that the world can't handle
but, you see, my tribal mask has a few functional flaws like
when people who love me want to see my battered face
they see the smooth, sanded smiles
and cut their earnest fingers trying to see
what I don't want to show them
I can't decide if I'm too ashamed or raw
to open up my fortifications
08/16
New Babel
after a year we found a way to stop spinning
Yes, we still loved our hurricane, but we looked around
Up - riotous stars playing hide-n-seek,
but instead they count to 7 million years
Left - to dry, orange, grass-less fields
masquerading as desolate
Right - tall, reflective buildings praying
no one will ask how the weather is
because they're hyper-introspective
and they don't want to say, "Well,
the gloom in my spirit quite resembles
a tempest"
Down - impish, hot heat making earth into glass
so we can look up the skirts of cultures
that don't make sense to us
it's funny how closing one eye takes us further
than keeping both open
as if the mountains know we are lopsided and primal,
but that we also tend our flower gardens
we stop because our hands are blistered
from searching through Babel's rubble
trying to find the bricks that were holy.
made by bodies in love for a common end
Babel had good stones, wrought from unity
the problem was that it was tower
and not a city, meandering up and away,
trying to escape
but we will win the world back and make
a sprawling and wond'rous city
where no one speaks the same language
but everyone is understood because
all words are spoken between the heights of
12 and 144 inches
where everyone has to convert inches to meters
to miles to fluid ounces, 'cause they want to get lost
our city will be chaotic, colorful in nameless
varieties of green and crimson, water will always be cold
brows will always be warm, sticky with sweat
and unruly wisps of hair
every day we will be astonished by the growing
bounds of our affection for our home and for
how our home is our legs and
dipping toes into new sand
and for how sand is actually weathered glass,
whether or not that makes sense
(How? How is it soft?)
touch my lips "for I come from a people of unclean lips"
burn me with smoldering
coal from forging fires to keep the creeping,
violet cold at bay
for while we build our city we must
serve as the builders and the wall for we are
the blessed saints of Nehemiah and we
sleep with one eye open
because noisy sponsors tear down projects
that have failed before
but they don't know enough languages to silence us
they don't know the anguishes that would teach them
not to silence us
so for now, we weep and cry Shalom
so for now, we weep and cry for home
amen and let it be so.
Yes, we still loved our hurricane, but we looked around
Up - riotous stars playing hide-n-seek,
but instead they count to 7 million years
Left - to dry, orange, grass-less fields
masquerading as desolate
Right - tall, reflective buildings praying
no one will ask how the weather is
because they're hyper-introspective
and they don't want to say, "Well,
the gloom in my spirit quite resembles
a tempest"
Down - impish, hot heat making earth into glass
so we can look up the skirts of cultures
that don't make sense to us
it's funny how closing one eye takes us further
than keeping both open
as if the mountains know we are lopsided and primal,
but that we also tend our flower gardens
we stop because our hands are blistered
from searching through Babel's rubble
trying to find the bricks that were holy.
made by bodies in love for a common end
Babel had good stones, wrought from unity
the problem was that it was tower
and not a city, meandering up and away,
trying to escape
but we will win the world back and make
a sprawling and wond'rous city
where no one speaks the same language
but everyone is understood because
all words are spoken between the heights of
12 and 144 inches
where everyone has to convert inches to meters
to miles to fluid ounces, 'cause they want to get lost
our city will be chaotic, colorful in nameless
varieties of green and crimson, water will always be cold
brows will always be warm, sticky with sweat
and unruly wisps of hair
every day we will be astonished by the growing
bounds of our affection for our home and for
how our home is our legs and
dipping toes into new sand
and for how sand is actually weathered glass,
whether or not that makes sense
(How? How is it soft?)
touch my lips "for I come from a people of unclean lips"
burn me with smoldering
coal from forging fires to keep the creeping,
violet cold at bay
for while we build our city we must
serve as the builders and the wall for we are
the blessed saints of Nehemiah and we
sleep with one eye open
because noisy sponsors tear down projects
that have failed before
but they don't know enough languages to silence us
they don't know the anguishes that would teach them
not to silence us
so for now, we weep and cry Shalom
so for now, we weep and cry for home
amen and let it be so.
Healing
Did you know deserts are made from the souls of shattered people
who let themselves waltz with breezes and
who beat their bleeding chests, dancing 'round fires
holding the oxygen hands of hurricanes
Time takes an unsteady fist-full of their shards
because she's the only one whose skin is
impermeable to the cruel perforations
of protective edges and glass scythes
The broken ones cannot take up arms if their
frantic arms are pinned to their sides by the
marching embrace of time and weathering winds
Just so, I, the deadliest edge, will be made soft again
once my pieces are made so small that they can only caress
But small doesn't mean insignificant
it's just that a desert is vast
and a broken vase can only take up so much space
it's not what makes you up to be ornamental
but what you're made of
I'd rather bury forgotten things in the
affection of my blustery brokenness
than be a proud adornment that throws itself
on the floor again and again to warn of the
quake that's coming
no
the earth will listen now
for it's covered in me and it never knew
how much it needed me before
Lock up your houses all you want,
but I won't come knocking
'cause they're built on me
August 2016
who let themselves waltz with breezes and
who beat their bleeding chests, dancing 'round fires
holding the oxygen hands of hurricanes
Time takes an unsteady fist-full of their shards
because she's the only one whose skin is
impermeable to the cruel perforations
of protective edges and glass scythes
The broken ones cannot take up arms if their
frantic arms are pinned to their sides by the
marching embrace of time and weathering winds
Just so, I, the deadliest edge, will be made soft again
once my pieces are made so small that they can only caress
But small doesn't mean insignificant
it's just that a desert is vast
and a broken vase can only take up so much space
it's not what makes you up to be ornamental
but what you're made of
I'd rather bury forgotten things in the
affection of my blustery brokenness
than be a proud adornment that throws itself
on the floor again and again to warn of the
quake that's coming
no
the earth will listen now
for it's covered in me and it never knew
how much it needed me before
Lock up your houses all you want,
but I won't come knocking
'cause they're built on me
August 2016
that quiet, inner-garden place
a niche for shrinking pains and growing worlds
its graveyards host the hosts of murdered hates
bared teeth & burning passions are not welcome
until they are tamed and learn to cry
broken pots leak their nourishing streams
and flowers find their minds and strength
September 2016
a niche for shrinking pains and growing worlds
its graveyards host the hosts of murdered hates
bared teeth & burning passions are not welcome
until they are tamed and learn to cry
broken pots leak their nourishing streams
and flowers find their minds and strength
September 2016
thick
silent disdain slides from slick tongues
boys crafting insults they never needed to hurl
for i was already practiced in the
art of hating my body, always being
too much to have and to hold on
to; i searched for a knife that was good
for carving mangoes and skin
to slice the strength from my bones
carve the smooth from my curves
to be skinny like the skinny girls
seducing hungry eyes of the boys i grew up with
delicate, a flower, like my mother, my sister
but with each year my body betrayed me
my hips grew wider, my thighs more full
of earth & flesh, & i began to wonder
if God made me big so that my body
could bear my existence and
my frame contain my power
a crafted vessel of clay & pride
these hills & valleys were never made from dust
i am a mountain range covered in
stone & fire & earthquake
i am not too full of flavor to be delicate
i can always carry you
that does not mean i will
for the weight i carry must be worthy
of stone & fire & earthquake
October 2016
boys crafting insults they never needed to hurl
for i was already practiced in the
art of hating my body, always being
too much to have and to hold on
to; i searched for a knife that was good
for carving mangoes and skin
to slice the strength from my bones
carve the smooth from my curves
to be skinny like the skinny girls
seducing hungry eyes of the boys i grew up with
delicate, a flower, like my mother, my sister
but with each year my body betrayed me
my hips grew wider, my thighs more full
of earth & flesh, & i began to wonder
if God made me big so that my body
could bear my existence and
my frame contain my power
a crafted vessel of clay & pride
these hills & valleys were never made from dust
i am a mountain range covered in
stone & fire & earthquake
i am not too full of flavor to be delicate
i can always carry you
that does not mean i will
for the weight i carry must be worthy
of stone & fire & earthquake
October 2016
Paper Airplane
when you send me your condolences on stationary
i'll unfold the creases of your sorry
& fly it back to you as a paper airplane
because I am not broken, I'm single
there is no way to rearrange the letters
in that word to spell "insufficient"
or "too much"
i'll unfold the creases of your sorry
& fly it back to you as a paper airplane
because I am not broken, I'm single
there is no way to rearrange the letters
in that word to spell "insufficient"
or "too much"
October 2016
do you know how hard it is
to be strong and soft
to be powerful and kind?
i see more of people
than they see of themselves
i give a home to orphaned
emotions that broken humans
place near the road in cardboard
boxes reading, " dn ǝpıs sıɥʇ "
do you know how hard it is
to devour injustice with your eyes
but not vomit endless rivers
of lava and fury
to carry delicate hearts made of
flower petals and silk
in the same hands that hold
back all deluge of despair
to not destroy the one
while restraining the other
do you know how hard it is
to carry the weakness of others
under your tongue
your mouth always pregnant
with ignorance trying to escape
your teeth the only cage that
keeps your rage from
eradicating those who need you
but are too proud to ask for help
and too blind to know to thank you
no, i don't think you do
you don't know how hard it is
to be a hurricane and a whisper
a tear and a caress
but if you did
i wouldn't have had to learn
that i am important
-inspired by the poet, rupi kaur, and the aggressive dumbass at work, but mostly rupi
to be strong and soft
to be powerful and kind?
i see more of people
than they see of themselves
i give a home to orphaned
emotions that broken humans
place near the road in cardboard
boxes reading, " dn ǝpıs sıɥʇ "
do you know how hard it is
to devour injustice with your eyes
but not vomit endless rivers
of lava and fury
to carry delicate hearts made of
flower petals and silk
in the same hands that hold
back all deluge of despair
to not destroy the one
while restraining the other
do you know how hard it is
to carry the weakness of others
under your tongue
your mouth always pregnant
with ignorance trying to escape
your teeth the only cage that
keeps your rage from
eradicating those who need you
but are too proud to ask for help
and too blind to know to thank you
no, i don't think you do
you don't know how hard it is
to be a hurricane and a whisper
a tear and a caress
but if you did
i wouldn't have had to learn
that i am important
-inspired by the poet, rupi kaur, and the aggressive dumbass at work, but mostly rupi
Dragoncita
There was a time
When leaning into you
And growing towards the sun
Were synonymous
But one day
I realized they'd become
Antonyms
And I had to walk away
Because I need the sun
More than I need you
Because I need to be me
More than I need you
October 2016
When leaning into you
And growing towards the sun
Were synonymous
But one day
I realized they'd become
Antonyms
And I had to walk away
Because I need the sun
More than I need you
Because I need to be me
More than I need you
October 2016
Sunrise Poem
Her song rises from the depths
of darkness
light begins to
peek its gentle fingers
from the edges of
her holy lips
lavender beams grow warm
the sweet & tender
notes fly slow & mournful
towards the
horizon of her throat
emerging from her soul
the golden orb of sunlight
bursts into the morn
October 2016
of darkness
light begins to
peek its gentle fingers
from the edges of
her holy lips
lavender beams grow warm
the sweet & tender
notes fly slow & mournful
towards the
horizon of her throat
emerging from her soul
the golden orb of sunlight
bursts into the morn
October 2016
Feminist Rant
i can be demure, if it pleases me
barefoot, pregnant, made-up, if it pleases me
i can be sweet & polite, if it pleases me
i can double-check my sources,
laugh at myself, smile, dance,
kiss (with tongue or without)
cross my legs when i'm sitting
in a dress, yes, i'm capable
if it pleases me
but i will no longer do these things
to please anyone but myself
if i'm being the kind of woman
you prefer when you come around
i'm still doing it for me because
i don't feel like dealing with
your bullshit
if what i want happens to
coincide with what you want
congratulations!
but don't for one second think
that i'm bending for you
because the only people i
am willing to bend for, to break for
would never ask me to
October 2016
barefoot, pregnant, made-up, if it pleases me
i can be sweet & polite, if it pleases me
i can double-check my sources,
laugh at myself, smile, dance,
kiss (with tongue or without)
cross my legs when i'm sitting
in a dress, yes, i'm capable
if it pleases me
but i will no longer do these things
to please anyone but myself
if i'm being the kind of woman
you prefer when you come around
i'm still doing it for me because
i don't feel like dealing with
your bullshit
if what i want happens to
coincide with what you want
congratulations!
but don't for one second think
that i'm bending for you
because the only people i
am willing to bend for, to break for
would never ask me to
October 2016
You are vast enough
that the truth you know
can be equally as real
as the ache you feel
you can bear both
fire & ice
sustaining all elemental
states and stations
You are vast enough
to be utterly shattered
and completely whole
all at once
though the tension
seems to be tearing you apart
it's really stitching you back together
October 2016
that the truth you know
can be equally as real
as the ache you feel
you can bear both
fire & ice
sustaining all elemental
states and stations
You are vast enough
to be utterly shattered
and completely whole
all at once
though the tension
seems to be tearing you apart
it's really stitching you back together
October 2016
sometimes being awake feels
more like a dream
than being asleep
open eyes slowly awaken
to the insanity of our race
humanity
looking, we devour art;
words, images, songs and stories
of the
insatiable ache in every foot
and every drop of blood
that makes a home of this
celestial rock, suspended by
gravity whose strings are
pulled by holy fingers
that pry open seeking eyes
to unspeakable horrors
and indescribable ecstasies
the universe exists inside every chest
when new light is shed on tiny
truths, before unseen
they blossom into realities
unabashed and weighty
more like a dream
than being asleep
open eyes slowly awaken
to the insanity of our race
humanity
looking, we devour art;
words, images, songs and stories
of the
insatiable ache in every foot
and every drop of blood
that makes a home of this
celestial rock, suspended by
gravity whose strings are
pulled by holy fingers
that pry open seeking eyes
to unspeakable horrors
and indescribable ecstasies
the universe exists inside every chest
when new light is shed on tiny
truths, before unseen
they blossom into realities
unabashed and weighty
October 2016
to the man who shines shoes near my favorite coffee shop
I want to make his shoe polish into seeds and sow them across our city
I hope the seeds will grow till they've uprooted the stubborn cement, revealing
the earth that is as black as his beautiful skin and as rich as his passion
for polishing shoes and as deep as his knowledge that how people walk matters
more than where they and up
in that soil we could nourish a new order and overturn the tables of the
slave-owners and torturers who do their clinical work with clean lines
in the name of a God they have never known
I hope the seeds will grow till they've uprooted the stubborn cement, revealing
the earth that is as black as his beautiful skin and as rich as his passion
for polishing shoes and as deep as his knowledge that how people walk matters
more than where they and up
in that soil we could nourish a new order and overturn the tables of the
slave-owners and torturers who do their clinical work with clean lines
in the name of a God they have never known
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