-echo-brilliant light, the death of stars, long since dead,
dragging darkness behind them
merely illusions, no substance to kiss
I have no form …less than hollow
No stillness within me
No answers to give
No songs made of laughter
No treasures unclaimed
What faith now remains?
Look to other faces
My time never was
A whisper, a vapor
A Day in the Lives of Foxes and BirdsOver blue marble counter tops,
coins click between fidgety fingers
and people loiter, cluster,
shuffle, ruffle their clothes
like birds dipping their beaks
to the asphalt in the packed parking lot
hoping for nesting papers and food.
With rustling plastic bags clenched
in palms still prying destiny from time-worn lifelines,
his pupils appear parrot-pinpoint
in hasty decisions and desperation.
Before he leaves, he chirrups at me
from the wrong side of the register--
"Do you need a husband?"
And I, fox-sly and slippery in the reeds of my day,
hold back laughter and answer with a straight face--
"I've already got one,
but thank you anyway."
brutal honestyHave you described y o u r s e l f to the thousands -
Hesitant, but completely honest? W h o I think I am
and what I s o u n d like are t w o different things.
S T O P and think for a second and say,
who are y o u, are you happy with what
you d e c l a r e yourself to be? W o r d s -
you t h i n k they describe w h o you are;
but are they enough?
Be h o n e s t.
are you w h o
you want to be?
O R are y o u,
j u s t y o u ?
False declarations lead to malicious truths that w o u n d.
It burns - hurts like a k n i f e to the flesh, but you know
in the end h o n e s t y will feel like a numbing narcotic
that eases the a c h e and lets the gash become
boys dont cryand the way
that your hand
holds onto mine
feels like the noose around my neck,
i'm trying to hang myself
i'm not dead yet.
but your thoughts
and your words are guns
and when they shoot me in the head
you cure it with a band aid
because you don't have
a medical degree yet.
your kisses have left me
black and blue
while i still use
the mug you gave me
as an ash tray.
and i'm holding on
to the lip stick stains
on the dresser
wearing them around my neck
to hide how you took
my breath away.
my old friendthe warmth against your cold embrace
settles my bones in for the long months.
your beauty in the stoic days is unique;
placid white trees of lace, glass dripping
from the rooftops.
i'm sorry i hated you so,
please come back
...RealidadesÁngeles y Realidades
Las siluetas de los ángeles bailaban en la niebla,
y aquellos niños reían entre esmeros, entre sueños,
los miraban, los llamaban, corrían, corrían tras ellos,
saltaban, jugaban, perseguían su alegría, vivían.
En la lejanía, el fuego se alzaba y las cenizas regían,
las cenizas de las letras llevadas por el viento.
Crecían, tan de repente, se abrazaban, sonreían,
dormían bajo el parpadeo de las luciérnagas,
desnudos, en paz, entre flamas y formas,
la pasión moría en el suspiro de la inocencia.
Tan oscuras las sombras dibujadas en la distancia,
las dudas, el porqué de no poder alcanzarlas.
¿Por qué? Están tan cerca, ahí al frente,
entre danzas confusas, en silencio, en negro.
¡No! Ella gritaba, puedo verlos, aunque lejos,
Él decía: solo son nuestras sombras, fue así siempre.
Entre lágrimas, entre sus sombras y las del
Funny Little MenI am a coalesce of the darting goblins from the crisscrossing tangles of my aging,
from the clown’s laugh which made me weep bitterly, to the old farmer’s caution
that tasted for me my first lick of self-conscious toxin,
I am an old figurehead with these faces costuming me head to foot
as much as I attempt to shatter this stream drinking me to ledge’s jump I cannot sufficiently
unhinge my brandisher
with every other mechanism of my force I made chance to pull the tapestry discordant ways
for moments those watching lost their sneer
I jerked myself from that course and again into stony comprehension
The twisting follower was gaining my steps again—I mirrored its struggle
As it regained a uniform I fell still beside it
And finally the stream faced me ahead, we looked upon one another, I could not sufficiently
Unhinge my brandisher, so I dangled upon the trigger, and charged, hurling my own hand
he's not a poet but his words are goldhe wasn't what most girls would call a blessing.
he wasn't smart
and was bad at playing
he didn't have
blue eyes and long eyelashes
he didn't have
a mysterious past life
and his parents weren't rich.
but when he sang to me
and played the guitar -
i didn't care that it sounded like my aunt's ten year old cat.
because at night
he held onto me
and i held onto him
and i could still smell
the sweat on him after a long day at work.
he was horrible at cooking
but that didn't matter because i was too
and we were happy
sitting in front of our TV
watching Jimmy Neutron
and eating last night's Chinese take out.
and he wasn't perfect -
i won't tell you how many times
his words have made me want
to kill myself.
he couldn't understand
that he hurt me
and he never knew how to fix it
but that's okay
because at night
he held onto me
and i held onto him
and we could both hear
our heartbeats -
just because they weren't in harmony
doesn't mean that they couldn't sound like music.
PumpkinsWatching the playful characters,
run up and down the spooky streets.
while running from house to house.
Searching for candy;
they always stop to look at us.
They smile at us,
for I bring joy this time of year.
Lighting up the night,
we add spark to the haunted house.
The horseman's head,
with a scary Jack O' Lanterns face.
Our spices fill the air,
with your lattes
People travel far
To come pick us,
even celebrating that.
With the corn fields,
and apple cider.
The leaves even change,
Our seeds can be roasted,
and garlic salt.
Pastries and pancakes,
we are the main ingredient.
For everyone loves us,
around this time of year.
They decorate us,
and replant us.
Because even when Halloween is over,
we still come back next year.
Teenagers in a Wasteland. I've decided to cake the shadows under my eyes with contempt, filled to the rim of my eyelids.
My armor is the moon stone earrings I slide into my earlobes and the one cuff, cause' I'm not that much of a rebel.
Remembering that when I was little I used to wear two color socks, always.
The left always came first.
And in a sea of mindless faces that drift like puppets on broken strings I see them.
We have called them poets, rebels without a cause, misfits.
With heads up high and the darkest murder red tainting their lips.
Forward, they strive.
Constellations of dried tears on their cheeks, but those smiles, like the stream of light on a rainy day.
Or for some, the starch lighting of desert summer storms, the heat palpitating from their body.
Ridiculed to no end, they strive in humiliation and eat their regrets for breakfast.
Downing them with their calming pills.
May it be a cigarette, stow-ay on their lips, or a