I know all the rules that we should make:
no kissing with lies on your tongue
no more acting like your young
cuz we’ll play beneath the sheets
it’s a game that we can’t beat.
Understand the sun is in your eyes
it makes it that much harder to say goodbye
but I know that you’ll come back
to find that feelin that you’ll lack.
You knew I was the perfect one
tried to follow rules just for fun
kissed beneath the sheets
it’s a game that we can’t beat.
You knew the words to me
Each curvature of vocal pleas
That forms a smooth statue on the ground
concrete or alabaster sound
Those lyrics embedded into stone.
Oh, your stone heart, stone heart,
Use those words to sing
Me out of dying.
- - -
You knew the words to me
Each curvature of the vocal chords
That forms a statue of sound,
Smooth concrete or alabaster.
Those lyrics embedded in stone,
Oh, your stone heart,
Use those words to sing
Me out of sorrow.
- - -
the language of skin
speaks dry stories,
the deffinition of useful art.
- - -
my heart beats
up my soul. the sun darkens
every face, it burns each mind.
all I can see is blind to me.
water me sky
fill me, flood my body
even drown this muse.
- - -
in my lap his head curls
and i smooth the edges of his mohawk
shaven sides
kiss my thighs
and the thick labyrinth consumes
he is a hawk
a head of curls
colored like a peasants flight.
in my lap his head thinks
and from the thoughts come visual climaxes.
my fingertips read his hair
like a poem in brail,
pulling out the code.
the strands from his scalp
become hands, stroking the backside
of my heart. combing through my flaws
and blessing them with soap.
i once saw him as a devil
consuming me whole, leaving me hot
like the depths of a fire.
i am a deviless now
truly swimming in his smoke.
a lovers lamentation
it’s a labyrinth you want to get lost in
Estella
I found her buried in the dust
so I blew a sand storm from my womb
revealing her freckles,
those beautiful constellations.
Caballeria de Berenice,
her hair fell from the night
a waving onyx ocean,
bits of mexican soil swimming
in the roots of her soul.
She would lean into my eyes
searching for a place to keep
all the paper stars she cut.
I became her mother, and she
the never ending opportunity of the sky.
I became her mother, an opening sun rise
and she became my daughter
cutting stars from white paper
In the orphanage we cut white paper
into stars, and we hung them
onto wallpaper horizons.
She leans into my eyes
searching for a place to keep
all her paper stars.
- - -
some songs sound like summer
memories of us looped in the chorus,
a familiar hand
lyrics we all knew.
we’d pull the cars close
to the lake,
letting the music strip us
the water swimming with naked muses.
you’d enter me as stars enter the sky,
we’d shine brightly, laughing
at the boys dunking the girls.
some nights it was only the girls
and the song about sex would replay
until we were able to laugh
at misfortunes, we’d give advice
we had heard in lyrics.
but when the girls needed
more drama to solve
you’d corner me,
a willing prey
making me jump through
the smoke ring conversations
until I got lost inside your lungs.
metallic, mindless, i search for a field
to learn earth like a butterfly or bee
I yearn for a oak trees rippling shield
to pick fruit, learning love, a weight in me
in society I’m stuck, a window
a glass eye, lacking cornea and art.
I’ve heard of that never-ending meadow
i hear rebirth, the quickly beating heart.
Truth is a waterfall, drowning all hope
my lungs have collapsed in it’s hurried tears
In attempt to concur without a rope
we are motherless now and it appears
to rest in blissful blowing grass, means death
hopeful ones search for fields release your breath
i wonder of all the places he hasn’t
touched me. and those few places
burn: touch me.
the seasons belonged to us
autumn: he made it feel like sex,
his hands falling into me
like a leaf accidently landing in my eyes.
he melts the snow, with a kiss
and births poppies and tulips
until spring’s song is summer’s.
I do not comprehend sleeping beneath
the shade of anyone else’s oak branches,
those eyelashes fluttering in October winds.
My face is lined with poetry
tears scattering our love on the page
of my cheeks. don’t leave me.
but I hear him, that voice,
resounding from my inner most heart
“don’t worry about it.”
don’t leave me.
I. The dying traveler
My life is not a circus
it’s an endless vaudevillian act.
my spirit moves
floats
limply
landing in pale hands,
like a scarf tossed into the air.
Ii. Dance
slow-slow-quick-quick
the king of jazz
come dance in flapp-
er upt in
The door is wooden and white
it’s closed to the small town outdoors
and I dare not expose
small town tulips bud
and the sun sings springtime gospels.
I sit inside, with an upset stomach
sighing and wishing for good conversation.
My eyes are sensitive to words
and I water them into green prairies,
but their roots can not grow
without your solid soil stare.
Detached I begin to write,
unsure of seasons ahead.
To my right side there is a door
wooden and white.
It’s center is a clay mother
holding her beloved son.
Their silent slumbering
is shaped like a beating heart,
I take comfort in their sincerity.
To my left side
- - -
keles flight
each time my mother sees something in the sky
that’s fatter than a sparrow
she cries “ah! kele, it’s a bald eagle!”
even if it was a vulture.
and each time my mother anxiously stares at
my belly. I look out the window
searching
frantically
for my own bird.
- - -
My mother adopted me when I was three, it’s always been just us. Since then I’ve had an overwhelming instinctual need to impress her. I owe her so much. She was my whole world and I didn’t mean to disappoint her. I always thought that my mother and I were really alike and now I’m trying to remember if there was a time when we weren’t the same, when we wanted two different things…
…I was turning six and my mother asked me what I wanted for a present…
she was smooth
and smelt like a dollar store
plastic hills erupted on her chest
with an L.A. attitude.
i wanted her.
this materialistic lust.
“a barbie mother, that’s what i want.”
mother was sensible
and smelt like an office
athletic plains expanded on her…everything,
with a Spartan confidence.
i had her.
this mother-child relationship.
“dolls won’t help you grow up big and strong.”
well neither do your lies…
Volley-ball, bike, softball mitt, I’m sure I was fine with whatever she gave me, and I let that childhood fantasy disappear in a cloud of sport dust. But now as I grow older, that baby doll cries in my dreams and my memories.
- - -
My toes know every cement brick
in this town. Their worn too,
from Mexicos dirt
and the places I need to walk
on barefoot. Sometimes
shoes are cuffs, dead end signs
on a road that really leads to home.
My legs lead you to forever,
thin illusions of dietary know-how,
when really I eat like your Aunty Janet.
(Please dear, pass the gravy.)
The physical limbs lean against
anything thicker than a wrist,
breathing in and out with the wind.
Trying to match my hands
to the clouds’ steady flow from
country to country.
Some day I’ll find were this body
fits. Were awkward tree bows
blend into the sky behind,
lovers laced in bed.
But for now I am comforted
in short walks to the grocery store,
holding your hand.
Two wooden sticks fastened by glue,
make crosses on my mothers
bed-room wall, telling me how to
fix my arms, droop
hang there
be still in this
fast world.
She laughs though, when my words
come out so true,
when religion becomes just that
to me, a piece of art
among so many other stories.
(The ones they used to tell me
before I closed my eyes.)
- - -
We hadn’t been alone in awhile,
so I took notice to his lips
and every other budding gift
he possessed.
The warmth between us
never burned
only pumped and flowed.
Though when I think of it
I may still have a scar.
- - -
-His childhood, mom died from Consumption (a form of T
and then his father stopped caring for him and left him to be adopted by a loving women and her unloving husband, John Allen. John refused to have Edgar have his name until his wife convinced him to name Edgar, Edgar Allen Poe. Just having their name as an addition.-Through elementary and high school Edgar dug up graves for money. Which could’ve inspired some of his disturbing poetry.
-We’re not sure when he started writing poetry or when he considered himself a writer, but his first published piece was
-He got married in 1836 to a women named Virginia. They moved to New York City
- - -
i.
The cops flashed their lights,
neon rings
orbiting the night.
I stood alone
in the middle of main street.
It was past mid-night,
the traffic lights
conducted no one,
always saying
“no”
in
red red
red
winds.
As I touched my surroundings,
a collected cry
sounded; leaving me
to wonder
how nature could
ever be in such
deep remorse.
A collected cry
deep from the mouth
of a goddess wind
ii.
My mother didn’t like
swimming pools
so we would dance
in the yard
half nakedness
a color close to the sky,
the sprinklertossing it’s
spity laughter
in handfuls
across our world.
We’d water the tulips
leaving them jealous
of our own
budding mouths.
And we ignored
the need for ignorance,
neon bar signs
telling us
there are better
beverages to swim in.
iii.
I showed her how to dig,
to cover her hands
with knowledge.
Finding night crawlers
in the afternoon
kissing her toes
or discovering
how much you need to pump
with two-year-old legs
to reach
the climax of laughter.
I wouldn’t tell her
of the times
neon shards filled my lungs
and I almost
felt real light
(to be buried
in the same earth
and find
the same worms).
I have planted something
more than mother nature
more than the earth
could ever grow…
iv.
My legs shook,
gleaming realms of power
dirty
burning paper
leaving ashes
for my thoughts.
I want to swallow
neon.
i.
The town blew its history
into my nostrils.
I stood alone
on main street
listening for my breath
to fall
into the wind’s hands
a messenger
for the broken souls
who no longer
can speak.
The cops circle me
yelling
though all I can hear
are the street lights
neon screams
only whisper
red
red red.
ii.
I was the definition of youth
catching butterflies in my
mouth, giggling
until the sky
giggled back.
We ate popcicles
letting the lime green neon
sticks
trickle down our chins.
i. wind, lonely, by yourself
ii. water, community, family, youth
iii. earth, solid, sharing
iv. fire, temptation, hatred
- - -
Sometimes
when I’d pretend that the
senior hall
was a run way,
I’d get the smirks
I was looking for.
The building
was made of bricks
and mouths
and brains.
We were young,
and sometimes
we’d pretend
the senior hall
was a run way
and we’d get the smirks
we were looking for.
Art projects
all most as burnt out
as the teacher,
sat behind the glass case
(like anyone would steal
a clay doggie)
and the newspapers
that the juniors wrote
became
a carpet across the
cafeteria.
My words tumbled
out of two page papers
and chemistry labs
left to be swept
by janitors.
- - -
Suspension
I lay scattered
like a puzzle piece art exhibit,
breathing through his sheets
as he puffed away twilight memories.
Baby couldn’t remember
who I was
and what we were
for that one night
suspended a few feet above ground
and a few below sky;
the place where gravity had no grasp
and air pressure froze.
Couldn’t remember Sinatra
unfolding my tangled skin,
or Beethoven giving beats
to his fluid dance.
He flew back to his clouds
while I dropped back into swamps,
but I lost a piece of me
suspended in that mist
forever.
- - -
In this town where cigarettes
always burn to quickly
and it blizzards in november
there’s a boy with nutcracker eyes
who told me he has never
written anything beautiful.
But I know that once again he’s
Been lying because when the pear
Curves of a guitar
Are placed into this hands
It’s like he takes the bruised fruit
And plays God, making
Each flaw into smooth skin
And
- - -
He cupped my hip bones into his hands,
cleverly nipping my ears
I move his fingers up my spine
turning my neck to smile at him.
We swayed and grasped
holding onto each other; filling our eyes
with naughty words and teeth incisions.
He gasped at me and it felt good
until the music stopped.
- - -
Abigail Williams was a very interesting woman; well I guess that’s the nice way to say it. In my opinion she was kind of crazy. Her participation in the Salem Witch Trails was crucial, without her there basically wouldn’t have been these trails in the first place. She was a greedy conniving young woman who knew what she wanted and thought she knew how to get it.
Abigail Williams wanted a man of her own and she thought she had found him, John Proctor. John was married to a woman named Elizabeth but when Abigail helped them as a servant in their household he fell in love with Abigail. Abigail took advantage of this love and the two put a black mark in John’s and Elizabeth’s marriage forever. When Elizabeth found out that her husband had been cheating on her with Abigail she kicked Abigail out of their household. Abigail still believed that John was in love with her even though he did not pursue their relationship any further. Even when he told Abigail that he no longer was in love with her she still was determined to have him. Abigail believed that the only way John would be all hers would be if Elizabeth was to die. Abigail planned on this happening very soon.
The things that Abigail was to do next truly proves what a horrible person she was. Her plan was to accuse Elizabeth Proctor of witchery so that the punishment would be death. Therefore she could have John as her own husband. I don’t understand how someone could go through all of this hard work for the love of man. Though I would imagine it would be difficult for your love to be married to someone else.
To me Abigail should’ve been the one to hang. She didn’t think of all of the lives her actions effected, and if she did realize she obviously didn’t care enough to stop for their sakes. Abigail didn’t really have good characteristics; she was simply an evil child who spread her lies like the devil.
- - -
George Moses Horton was born into slavery. He was the property of a farmer named William Horton for most of his life, he as allowed a few things in this life which included selling produce in a town called Chapel Hill. He taught himself to read, and though he could not write he became infatuated with poetry. He would think of verses in his head and keep them there to recite. Once while visiting Chapel Hill some university students who lived there noticed his abnormally big vocabulary. They soon discovered his poetry and began paying him to give them poems that they could give to their sweet hearts. Which if you ask me, was a pretty good idea. Since George couldn’t write he recited the poems to the students who copied them down, they payed him with money and sometimes books.
- - -
She bullied the little cousins
that understood her MaryJane
black flat kicks.
But Charlotte was a doll to me
I would stare into her brown eyes
and tell her, without any words
do not touch my christmas gifts.
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