I AM/SHE WAS

A ripping strand from the royal blue ‘good luck’ scarf from Mongolia that hangs above my bed—

I am worn. 

A piece of pavement that couldn’t bare to belong to the rest of my driveway—

no tire stopped to notice her, she was luminous next to the unbroken,

I saw her.

I am—

She was,

Beautiful. 

Untitled

I am a prop in your highly illuminated kitchen

Cabinets that could fall behind themselves all too quickly

The back drop is a pretentious view of the Hudson.

I am a ghost of quiet irking

A pressed sunflower on your desk

I am the typewriter above it 

Weighing it down 

Bursting any ounce of volumetric bubbles 

Silent decibles

Between petals and paper

Stem and leafs 

Between metal and seed

I am the freckle on the small of your back

Only a lover would see 

Christmas lights and sand dollars

I am your homecoming. 

Piano Hands and State Capitals

When they touch purple dotted knees, and music sings 

They are called piano hands 

And you wear them so well, not like a glove 

But like a birth mark your mother begged you to see the doctor for

But you refused 

Because that mark was meant to be there 

And it came with me

Just the same as petals on sunflowers 

And the small stars 

History teachers call capitals on the map in the front of the class room 

Those dotted lines from point A to point B 

Stretch much further than the four corners of wilted paper 

And much wider than knobby knee caps 

Purple dotted, singing,

Touch me touch me 

Knee caps

Granite colored clouds hug the skin beneath your nails 

As if you had been picking figs and dissecting summer into small 

Petri dishes 

Divided by weeks and 

Differentiated by the color of the steam 

Which formed above each

Oval shaped memory 

We had visited Pennsylvania 

Didn't quite make it to Harrisburg 

But we were damn close

Thoughts at 3AM

I am a coiled ghost of snake skin
A coat worn by the quiet monster that slithers its way over the top of your quilt, beneath the cloud of guilt you sleep beneath. 
Or within. 
Within the flume of "please let me forget you. I blame myself. It was me. It was me. I shouldn't have pissed you off like that.. Oh no, I'm feeling woozy again, baby will you pass me that little spoon? I need to.."
Boil. 
Me down to clean and pure, a bubbling pot of freedom and translucent innocence, I never thought I could feel so...
"high! Baby you're too high up! Get down. The neighbors will see. They'll wake up. Oh no, please don't get mad, please sweetie, we can just go back and make some more.."
Love. 
A prescription filled daily, I could never look myself in the eyes, but I swear to god when the blues were playing in the diner that one winter night, it's usual burning lights that turned me to stone,
Only melted me into a soft and tired bag of bones. 
I was nothing but a relaxed mixture of 
"movies. I'll just tell her I'm going to the movies and sleeping at a friends. No, she won't find out. Will you just have some fucking faith in..."
Me. 
Was a word I relieved from my vocabulary I was her. 
A set of eyes and hands that operated on a mechanical submission of true and false answers.
Skin like a scantron
I failed every...
"test. A drug test ? You fuckin' kidding me ? No, I won't piss in a cup for you. What am I to you, a .."
Child. I was just a child.
Who knew such a small amount of time could be equal to such a big front door.
Slammed shut so many times,
Shut on every season, kicking down the renewed offerings of daylight, trying to rise up, but I can't...
"reach. 
The broom! Or that book! Something! There's a fucking snake in my bed". 

Close to Me

I long to kiss your mouth, your hair, your ankles

Not with my lips but with my eye lashes 

Because something so delicate

Could never feel itself 

Eyelashes rarely kiss other eyelashes 

So please baby, let these light bristles, labeled protection kiss you

I am seeking for the perfect measure of delicacy 

You hold it in your finger tips 

I crave the nourishment of your midnight fits;

Come closer 

Hold me closer

I need you closer 

Baby stay close

Stay close 

Stay close 

To me, to me, to me, don’t fucking let go of me.

I want to swallow you 

The way a barber shop smells, 

Of sweet and sleek, slippery slathered sun beams

On the hard wood floor of my grandpa’s closet

That doesn’t even have windows 

Barber shops always smell like sunshine 

I want to fall into the cave of your kisses 

Keep me inside of your mouth 

Let me use your tongue as a blanket

Your gums as pillows 

I sleep so soundly,

The tickle of your eyelashes,

Reaching down your throat 

I am slipping down your throat 

I am so close to you 

Close to you 

Baby stay close to me 

January 5, 2012

I have an oral fixation
For the grinding of your bones between my molars.
Tripping over cerebral nets
That form a staircase beneath
Photos of you and I
That I can't seem to shake


Shaking off past damage
I can't say we're holy,
but God dammit
I prayed for someone
Who has hands like you.


I'd like to fold up every night with you
And save it in an envelope .
I'll mail a thousand kisses,
At the end of every year
I can taste you on my teeth.


There is a beautiful tone of forgiveness
That slips beneath my skin
Every time we scream at each other.
Im sorry wouldn't suffice on either ends of our shared spectrum--
But the hands you place between
My shoulder blades
Are the same ones I squeeze tight
Both on the mattress
And in the car,
We'd drive for hours.


I have an oral fixation
For your eyelashes
As floss.
Cleanse my gums of
Each time I left
I always came back.


I traced sentences with my fingers
On the back of your hand
In your basement
Where alcohol has stained the counters
Where our voices splattered the walls,
I wrote,
"I am still in love with you."

4:27 am

My feet 

Have been placed onto grains of an unfamiliar salt 

That don’t sting— but salivate 

For the step of your heel, and the kiss of your 

Eyelashes that you wish on 

Don’t dare to let it slip, or it won’t come true

Have you ever seen the animals when the moon is up?

Like the wind,

The fish do not sleep

And the fins that stretch 

From the spine to your 

Gaze, 

Seem to reflect onto your chest

In the form of a beating drum.

OneWord.com "Crouch"

Bent
And forward
With a neck leaning down
And a spine sticking out
Slouched
And covered
With a hand reaching out
And a heart falling down
Crouched
And beneath
With a foot falling down
And a shoe sticking out

9/11 Speech "Words"

I used to breathe with little lungs,

But I took big breaths 

For a seven year old. 

Today marks ten years- 

My lungs have grown a little...

But I still take big breaths 

To remind myself 

That everything is beautiful, 

If you learn to breathe easy.

It must be recognized that 

I am not the only one 

Whose ears miss your voice,

And whose hands miss yours.

Your heart was a suitcase-

Packed with so many other hearts,

And hands,

And minds.

And you loved so many things,

And so many people.

They loved you all the same 

And with your suitcase heart

That you never closed, 

You created a beautiful set of luggage. 

Home

I can’t compose a personal, and clear definition of what home is. 

It isn’t on a street, it doesn’t have a lawn. 

I guess it’s the first sip of coffee every morning, or the stranger that says hello to me when I’m walking into class. 

It’s the man at the store that tells me everything is going to be okay. 

To me, home is when I am safe, and smiling. 

The Heart is a Planet

I counted thirty four white windows
I counted twenty four moon sticks
Twelve on either side of the planet
That is inside both you and I

The heart is a planet
The blood is a galaxy
And I suppose
The stars
Could either be blood cells
Or your freckles

Night Town, Night Owls

I like it 
When the sunlight drips onto your freckles

And you seem to make even the tulips smile

I’m headed down to the night town 

Down beneath the night owls

There’s a contrast between the red lights and

The break pedal 

I like it 

When your purple lips are pressed against floors of air 

And you don’t understand how beautiful

You are when you’re rushing 

I’m headed to the night town 

Beneath the night owls

There’s a contrast between what I say 

And what I mean

Lunch Alone

There is an untouched guidance
Beneath the fingernails
Of a bartender
In a flannel shirt

Do not think of a black
Night and lots of voices
There aren't any short skirts
Or screaming drink orders

Baby blue tile creates a back drop for the glass
Bottles lined along the wall
From the simple print of Effen Vodka 
To the detailed scripture
Of its grapes and vines; The bottle of red
On the other end of the shelf

There is a soft consistent
Drip of rainwater falling
Off the edge of the bumper to my car,
Parked in the lot

The brighter, yet lucid lights
Distract the dripping, and
Makes its way to the
Center of my glass

Shining a maroon port
Pomegranate juice and ice
Not a scripture on the bottle

Diner

There is a plastic film which kisses the edge of this table
More than likely to protect it from coffee mug stains and
Potentially written messages from dragging and digging of forks and knives

I've sat here for about an hour
Two glasses of orange juice
A cup of coffee- which is now cold as I take my final sips
And scrambled eggs are the items which have traveled far
All to end up in the throes of my screaming stomach

There are two Asian girls sitting in the booth in front of me
Taking snap shots of each other while they share a bowl of sweet potato fries and a strawberry milkshake
I fiddle with the peeling plastic on the far left corner of the table
My eyes dart back and forth from the tower of little plastic cups of preserved berries that sits in a metal contraption at the end of the table-
Back to one of the girls

Whose skin reminds me of a manilla folder
And eyes that flip from open to closed faster than the bite of an angry rottweiler
The white moon of her nails were waning to a crescent
She nibbled away
At both the fries and her nails

The awkward gravity freezes in front of me as I paint an ugly, oversized mustache under the nose of my waitress
She snatches up the crumpled dollars I would've wasted elsewhere and I begin to gather my things as
The bustle of keys to black Range Rovers
And wedding planners sipping diner mimosa's
Gives the air a salty taste of constant dis-satisfaction
The Asian girl with her moon nails takes a close up of her BLT

Heel Stompers

We are fragile, but this is not a tragedy 

Described as the softer gender 

We are the ones with the gentle touch

Who have done the most hitting 

Our lips are a specific red 

Not a crimson or cherry 

Centimeters away from the microphone 

Staring at our mouths- not hearing words

The doors of corporate America only remain open so wide

Let’s just hope that is enough 

For our lace covered legs to walk right through 

So we can stomp our heels onto the soil plowed by the other kind 

A monument to commemorate the differences between the stick figures on each public bathroom door

Cold stone, constructed with the proper curves and clashing corners 

Standing only so near the statue it sits next to 

A monument to commemorate the differences between just us

I am a she, but I am not like her 

Her sharp stilettos may be red like my lips,

But my Chuck Taylor’s aren’t as black as her lace

I am not one of those angry feminists 

I am a she, but I am not like her 

We are whole, though 

Softer, but not afraid to strike

A scrape from her manicured nails 

Or a dirty punch from my uneven knuckles 

We are not afraid