Friday, June 22, 2012

My Poetry Portfolio from Last Spring


Ocean – Sunrise

Frail clouds heap, swift and listless, as they
dust over the dimming rung of heaven.
Twilight flickers at the distant sill,
mute and still, dissonance, creased like
salty breath and little secrets and forms like
stray bruises on matte canvas, blush
'till light trills the waters' scruff
in deep, even sighs.


Water rises, hollow sheets of gold,
hued with sand and shell pieces.


They make no effort to resist
the drift or the steady undertow.
Instead, given freely up,
they sink back to bottom,
to their sense of meaning,
and take pleasure in the loss.


I refuse, because I am not
without fear, raging terror
of that which cannot be contained.
Caught on that edge, I admire
the salty taste of
your unrelenting beauty.




Permanent

Dreams sift through tight-locked finger tips
They weren't alive, not yet, anyway
Blank the canvas, graphite always leaves shadows
Unintelligible, once legible, accident
Trade the pencil for a pen, begin.



I Open Up

The way a House Finch spreads
to reveal his breast,
true red
amidst sturdy browns.


The way a book likes
to split itself in two
uneven halves
between ready hands.


The way lips part
to breathe in air
and speak
about it later.


I open up for you
because I want to know
how it feels to be vulnerable
to someone other than myself.




Cement Life

Life turns his solid head
and speaks a riddle to my chest:
"Tear your heart, make a vacancy
straight both sides, rain for me
kill a clown, take his smile
behind the woodshed
and chop its weary
curls off like a
worm twirls
on the
cement."


Are they lies
or do I just not understand
the difference between truth and reality.
Carpe Diem? Right. I'll drown tomorrow anyway.
Forever isn't long enough these days
I want time to slow so much it stays
in my hand... the way God sees it.
A toy, a wisp, or a worm maybe.



Skylights

There was something in the proximity of night
to make the sky bruise my eyes. Little lights darting
just out of reach. You can see better in the dark
when you look just off center of the mark. To all
the little marks out there, ghosts of distant places
caught in spaces between heaven and my oily eyes,
am I to them as they are to me – a matte speck or
an out of tune light?


I look to the sky to be undone
by the facts: I am small.


There’s a broken mirror in my head – a surreptitious way
of faking my inner reflection. It’s not lying
if it doesn’t know what’s false,
if it doesn’t know what truth is…
Either way, you see things in a broken mirror
that are just aside and aloof
of what was meant.




Futility

The sun rise faces west -
A giant flash-bulb who never ceases
forces me to turn with his direction.
I cannot face my future as he does;
I cannot strand my eyes on nothing.
Nothing the way darkness is nothing,
the way it feels opaque and inclusive.
How do you answer silence?
A boy dives into placid water
ripples burn to the edge in tiny gasps;
 these are the sound I make at night.
desperate noise filled to my eyes
with a need to know futility
had its rightful place.




Leaf

A leaf breaks from the bough
falling at its time, and I
can't even guess how long,
exactly, I’ve been aware.

Guilt follows, jealously
apprehending fiction -
that I’m apathetic
or just lack attentiveness
enough to form truth, accuracies,
maybe even belief.


I trust this leaf
more than myself
and I am unaware
why.




Impasse

The exit sign cast a dim shadow -
purpose of failure, illuminated
metal fingers slip, the tumblers
red steel bound with collapse and
the impasse - no way back.




Ocean – Shore

We opened an expanse before
you, took no notice –


the way we rise and fall, toppling
in white, in wind and without shame
curl into the latter. Ourselves
undone by heavy heads


as you strike us, mid-fall
and openhandedly blame
us for your body's weakness'
against the tides, against the weight,


against your folly.

Would you hold your own
undoing, with so little
acknowledgment?




The Wife of the Whore

A life turns gray without warning
the beloved holds another in circumspect tenderness
gives her X amount of words, and palms
the edge of her skin without reverence
as the slick between them tears their sickly souls.


It's a cold half-truth; that she opened her legs
and must've promised you all, all the way
I gave it to you. But I gave it to you
she sold it to you, for the price of love
and fifty-dollar bill you took from my purse.




Day Beast

The day beast spread itself heavy in the air
to graze on the slow heartbeat of night
with splintered orange teeth. The day beast who


Opens and closes all things on earth,
flays the edge of dark, and rubs us dry
between careless fingers.


Nothing natural happens without him,
nothing that wasn’t already exiled from heaven
like a used moment.


We are painfully naked surfaces who,
under no alternative, survive the puzzle
of our fading brilliance.


Scarred

My feet dangle over tiny waves
their crests, like scars, become my reflection.
They lick the side of the wall
asking to become, begging me to come
but I won't touch the chilled waters
I will not preceed my fault with failure.
Here in a breeze I cannot name, I resist.


He stares back at me through dark features
broken by the need to breathe a minute longer
to breathe a little deeper,


Greedy bastard.

In a moment of resilience, I stand up
grab the wall for balance and kick his face in.
Murky water jumps on my leg and crawls back down.
He reaches for something more than just my guard.
I step away and leave his desire to be born
into nothing. Born into the scars
that steal my focus.




Velcro

To the Couple Across the Room,

In regards to your willful act of premarital inter-digitation,
I have to ask, are your fingers still getting proper circulation?
Word on the street tells me you were locked out of the DMC,
so I can understand why you chose the BTS to play footsy
instead of being one of those low-love awkward lounge types.


Instead, I offer to you that what the rest of us see is disconcerting.
Hardly grotesque, but something feeling more akin to salt and pepper
except, taped together. Not a bad thing, just rather annoying
because in some cases, where one is needed the other is not,
and in other cases both are needed but in differing amounts.


I imagine in lieu of your multiple lakeside excursions
you've come to view the "us" as somewhat important,
so please do not misinterpret my tone as scorning infatuation.
I only mean to extricate the myth you all are forming,
namely, that when you part it sounds a lot like Velcro.


Sincerely,
Us




Skeleton Key

Your scent fell through the tangled framework.
Like a fool, I began
to follow your sharp pieces
with a skeleton key to old cages
I don't live in anymore. I escaped
to the mutable distance,
to excuses and indecision,
and preconceived imaginations
where you and I are words and meaning
and words win because sometimes, you cared
less than me. Which is further from the truth?



Memory

Sand sculpted frames in a shell
of flesh and tiny quiet strings,
all speaking what their told.
Stray messages creep in
with misdirection, unscripted
like lighting wells in the sky
all flash and no friction
on their own
smelting purple strips
with white ropes
to dangle from.

We are displaced
because life leaves lines
creases in the skin and mind
wrinkles that cannot be undone
without breaking.




You Can’t Steal What You Already Own

Your hair rubbed like
Sand between blue hands as
You questioned my quiet shoulder about God,
About grades, about reason, and
About the difference.


I held you closely,
Closer.
Trying to steal uncertainty
By making myself something
Other than what I am.


But we didn't
I became nothing more
And you gave nothing less
Than our own empty
Convictions.




The Hollow

You say Hello.
Your words are hollow.
I lose my center like the spindle of light in your eyes.


You pass by.
Your density presses.
We start a war; more, we don’t acknowledge.


Strain a swallow.
I no longer follow
your logic, or whatever it is you use to decide.


You stare me
down like all the boys
you know give up, I won’t go so easily though.


I say Hello.
My words are shadows.
Silhouettes on substance
 used to be.


 

Creation Revisited

There was nothing that was something
for the perfect dark to be reference to
till the Endless found three points
made a nothing into something
a space for emptiness to collude.


Speak in presence, speak light
break nature between itself
two parallel scars torn roughly by infinity
as absence draws in purpose, night
like cold pulls into flesh, numb.


The Endless breathed the day
he breathed. All blessings, and a curse
the say we broke our center hold for greed.
Ate our fill, empty souls. It's simple
we are undone by desire
for more than
perfection.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Day Beast

The day beast spread itself heavy in the air
to graze on the slow heartbeat of night
with splintered orange teeth. The day beast who

Opens and closes all things on earth,
flays the edge of dark, and rubs us dry
between careless fingers. 

Nothing natural happens without him,
nothing that wasn’t already exiled from heaven
like a used moment. 

We are painfully naked surfaces who,
under no alternative, survive the puzzle
of our fading brilliance. 

Monday, April 16, 2012

Futility


The sun rise faces west -
A giant flash-bulb that never ceases
forces me to turn with his direction.
I cannot face my future as he does;
I cannot strand my eyes on nothing.
Nothing the way darkness is nothing,
the way it feels opaque and intrusive.
How do you answer silence?
A boy dives into placid water
ripples burn to the edge in tiny gasps;
these are the sound I make at night.
desperate noise filled to the eyes
with a need to know futility
had its rightful place.