escape

cracking the pane
letting a gulp of cold air in

i jump out the window
dashing through the yard
over the rusty clothes line
leaving slush footprints behind
muddy boots, thoughts
reaching for the road

more side roads,
less highways

shedding the bulky knit mittens
fingers wiggling in the wind
coat, gone
breathing again

running
running
i'm gone

the neighbors shake heads
visible through their kitchen windows
spying on my sloppy trail
left so you could come too

christmas eve eve

the roads are worst
right as the temperature hits below freezing
one tight long sheet of ice

my head cradled sideways in the seatbelt
watching pricks of freezing rain attach to the windshield
cringing every time the wipers are released
the thin screech of exposed metal on glass
time stalls

just waiting for the precipitation to freeze
all for a snowy christmas
or to get home again
although home is more likely to be found out here
knowing i belong to a place i haven't arrived at yet

headlights reflected in the side mirrors
blinding and frustratingly persistent
i tilt my seat back and close my eyes

over and gone or settle down

prelude:
quiet, old heart
those days are long
stretched thing

settle, mind
the sharpest memories
can prick when you stir them up

verse one:
i can't say it anymore
"everything happens for a reason"
it hasn't taken me long
barely a quarter of a life
(if that)
but i can't see this making sense
even in a great scheme
the wide tapestry stretching across the sky
cannot have so many snags
all of my misplaced stitches

chorus:
sitting on that old piano bench
i came home
no need for words
looking into familiar patterns in
stained glass
casting cares like the lilies

verse two:
a long line of moments
where all i wanted was to be smaller
papers shuffled, looking busy
waiting for someone to arrive
twitching fingers
tapping nervously on coffee cups

chorus:
no worries
i came home

coda:
quiet, you
don't wait
let it out
then let it lie

portland, oregon

a chance to wear my galoshes, daily
i will let my hair get long and ragged
a closet full of dresses

i want time to go to an art gallery
pausing in the silences
before each color
closing my eyes
and drawing in the smell
of rusty people

i have green eyes, mostly
and i want time to stretch
fabrics sliding over my skin
smelling coffee and roses

laying down the knotted hardwood floors
patches of sunlight in my mind

grieving

it's the most difficult in the morning
the moment pulled taut between sleep and wakefulness
that you almost feel him next to you
instead, worn pillows and creviced mattresses

no one to set the cereal bowl out for
decades old yellowed plastic and instant coffee

how to be one
the painful freedom of being able to do--anything
hanging laundry out in 30 degree weather
as if washing and washing clears away the need to think

getting the mail more than a chore
sympathy cards and junk mail to be returned, deceased

when you're out shopping
"he never liked staying out this long"
exploring the simple joys you haven't been afforded lately
it's beautiful
to see you smile when you try on that horrid plaid jacket
you look beautiful
finding something new to do all over again

the unobtained glories of the four minute mile

dear mr. santee,
tell me,
what does half a second feel like?
like the breeze,
or less?
like the snap of the ground
giving way
under your feet
does it have that bitter taste,
that comes from being
not quite good enough?
wes,
(if i can call you that)
i think you're doing just fine,
as find as dead can be.

classroom thoughts

oh, economists!
soothsayers of the world,
this day is irretrievable

the squiggles on the stocks pages
predict
tomorrow will come

and the type
scattered on the decaying pulp of trees
reports yesterday has gone

what is today, then
historians and theologians
what is to be done?

words

I sleep with books under my pillow
words of God and man
paperbacks
novels journals volumes

sometimes they spill out in the night
tumbling down to the ground
splaying their laborious innards

and I think of what I've written there
nights when I can't sleep
or mornings clouded with dreams

how just last night
I read some poetry
and scrawled out all that was painful
all that was trivial

words that speak of loneliness

putting my own words under my head
and now I can't escape them
and I don't know where to find you

from the trees

look
there's little better
than pennsylvania in october
the edges of the leaves

i thought of that
singing
you thought i was getting emotional
setting off a chain reaction
tissues and tears
when really
it was just the coffee
and i hadn't warmed up

maybe towards the end
i was adding some beauty to the world
if even for a small instant
like the crevices
the changing edges of
autumnal leaves

maybe it was a small offering
penance for my unbelief
gratitude for life given
nothing more than i can give
although mostly
it seems like you ask much more
from the trees

when i'm home

meeting at our old haunts
i couldn't help but smile
making eye contact
(you've always had such blue eyes)
my heart started pumping at a dizzying rate
although i'd rather romanticize
what i wish we still had
even as you tell me about that other girl
i suspect
it has more to do with
the three cups of coffee
regardless
whatever my organs tell me
you feel like coming home

observations

walking past the
paint peeling on the porches
a daily decay

reading the headlines
on the paper left on the sidewalk
under the sheen of plastic
and droplets of rain

waiting for the light to change
a boy on the opposite corner
lights up
and starts strolling
straight through the don't walk sign
despite the surgeon general's warning
i like him
so bold
and so alive

candles

i'm already wishing to come back and sleep
to lose myself in my cousin's music
and eat some mints
to pound away at the piano
and to not be concerned with deadlines
to pretend like it's winter
when cocoa and mittens are the only consolation i need
a welcome disguise in layers of scarves
a day where the muscles in my back relax
and i don't feel guilty about calories
with plenty of time to read

instead i stay waiting
for a day i'd rather avoid
unable to see the grace and mystery
most likely just unwilling

maybe just a day where bad poetry goes unnoticed
and it doesn't matter if it's not perfect
if it's real

I do not want to be there all at once.

I do not want to be there all at once.
I would rather slowly assemble,
piece by piece
the way I lumber out of bed in the morning
and my fingers unfurl over a cup of coffee.
The languid opening of the newspaper
filling the day with words of foreign lands,
to put on socks, and only then shoes
tied up neatly with old laces.

I do not want to be there all at once.
No one needs my undivided attention at 7 in the morning
but maybe 9 or 10

I do not want to be there all at once.
Because being there all at once
means I've picked up all of those bits
I've left strewn behind
under trees, scribbled in the margins,
tucked in friends
and being there all at once
means someone could pick me up
and blow me away like the dandelion on the wind

when i want to make music

there's something that doesn't reach your eyes
the monster that crawled inside
and snapped in two the line from your heart to your head

what happened, what happened, what happened


too many words to read
even without alexander's library

night

when did we decide to brighten the night?
to fog up the sky
instead of letting the deep, black
envelop us
cover the lids on our eyes
to hide the fierceness
of the rotting and blinding day
smearing the clouds
with our feeble reflections of the sun
with grimy streetlights
canceling the stars
take your respite while you can
enjoy the cool pitch of the evening
let the lantern lit
steadily die
in the flattened expanse
of the bended horizon

regret

i think
i'm finally tasting
regret
it's like
slimy pizza
i left sit
for
far
too
long

i am the light of the world

i miss the sunrise
which is funny
because i've never been a frequent follower
but maybe that's the point
missing something
you've never actually had

this room smells like
bacon
every morning
and now the morning light
is filtering in
as i wait for my hair to dry
and it wouldn't be such a
bad thing after all
to stay and watch the floors
beaten down wood
shift and move
as the light crawls across
letting morning become afternoon
and realizing
with grand patience
that i couldn't stop it anyways
how beautiful
how plain am i

oddment

I knew you were afraid I'd disappear
so I've held on
keeping myself present
in old memories
clutching on to anything familiar
as the sepia crumbles all around

I haven't forgotten you
or what it felt like to knit that scarf
knowing you would wear it every day
and as the snow fell
you did

I'm left here
looking around
unable to completely let go
standing in the midst of ruins
keeping a small fire burning

You come and visit
maybe you can see my flame
but I know we shouldn't
rebuild on such a cracked foundation
but I need a place to go
why can't I find a new place to go

skin

is the smell of
onions
monsters of produce
really the only thing i
have left
a part of my skin
proof
that for an afternoon
we worked together
canning pickles and peaches

later i was covered
with a film
of chlorine
the grime of summer
an old
familiar feeling
yet in a suit
that didn't fit
mine
was lost

back home
my feet are falling
apart
skin crumbling away from
between my toes
perhaps
it's wear from travel
too much
from here
to
there
or
my body
signaling
i'm a new person
every
28 days

if i'm a new person
with
40,000 cells a minutes
gone
lost among
the places i've been
moving
leaving
living this nomadic lifestyle
with people changing
at every turn
well,
shouldn't be this hard

a symphony: three movements

I.
there are flowers
growing out of gutters
lining the rooftops
as the rain continues
the vacancy sign lit
cooks outside, smoking
waiting to go home

II.
and i am tired
and the rain is making the leaves tremble
and i ease my bones into the ground
letting the rain wash my elbows clean

III.
when i don't think
when,
the world is right

innocuous

i understand, "mere feeling is innocuous"

but

the feeling of falling when i reach the top of the hill
and decide that no, i don't need to put on the brakes

when the landscape opens it's willing arms
to my eyes trying to categorize every color

waking up without an alarm

or

seeing an expanse of stars
after life in a thickly light-polluted place
leaving my hands open as a benediction
before i fall asleep

the rush of caffeine

a well-designed home
with spaces that make me dream of a place of my own

and

handshakes

a new piece of paper

dancing to lousy music

at times, it's nice to know that "mere feeling"
is enough

And also with you

Corner seat, up front.
Probably the best seat in the house,
except for, of course, where the big guy's at.
Omnipresence sort of removes the need
for front row seats.
The power of the organ shakes straight up
from my heels to head.
I'm dressed in Sunday best.
Right there, right next to the sound,
I'm tucked behind the beast
that's roaring and drawing everyone along
in often old and faithful songs.
Lyrics of prayer wafting up to the vaulted ceilings.
I feel God everywhere
but how can I not tremble while asking,
"Lord, have mercy upon us."
Holding the hurt and misery out in front of me,
lifting the worst kind of sacrifice to the altar.
How can I express what it feels like
to be the one who gets to turn around
and tell you, "Your sins are forgiven."
Like a rushing wind, a flame.
I mean every word I say.
I understand, that this is just an hour.
A civic duty, maybe.
But I want to tell you that this,
meeting with you. Falling before God.
This. This, is what my life is about.
And I could sleep in pews,
and live off of communion bread
if it meant living in the house of God.
What's incredible,
more than music, stained glass;
is that this God, Alpha, Omega
lives in the house of me.

Alleluia. Alleluia.

Reminiscentia

Struggling to get dinner ready on time
you can't remember
how to work your oven.

But older memories
come spilling out
as I clamber about to scoop them all up.
I don't want to lose them.
The relics, the glass keepsakes
tucked and shelved all around
above the sink and dinner dishes
I want to know their stories.
An easter hen
and fair souvenirs from generations ago.

Tell me about before
walking to work
living in town with an old aunt.
Tell me about the independence
and the sunshine on the sidewalk.
Meeting your future husband.
What did you see?
Was it the crinkle around his eyes?

When you drive down Main Street
vacant and crumbling
do you think about when he walked you home from work?
Streetlight and starlight.

Living in the same house
you grew up in years ago.
Right on the township line.
The memories live in the carpet,
they breathe through the wallpaper.
Up through the heating vents
that inflated my Sunday dresses
twirling and giggling.

tired haikus

boxes and baggage
new shoes in a time of change
help me get going

sunburn on one side
days of delightful sunshine
books returned too soon

no more shared dinners
we eat seasonally here
well-salted cuisine

smudged

I didn't feel old
until
I saw the lipstick
stains on my
blue toothbrush
but even then
how much of that
is simply
a sophisticated game
of dress-up

all-knowing; all-loving; all-powerful

here I am
wearing my sweatshop clothes
crying Lord, Lord
forgive me
for my iniquities
for my late penalties
deliver me
from this world so corrupt
that I've embraced
because I love dishwashers
and a clean face
but why! and how?
could You create
a system rotted to the
roots
the children hungry
forcing down sickly sweet fruit loops
and then they tell me
that You're doing all You can
You're just missing hands
and that I understand
because I'm trying
Lord, I'm trying
and if You are love
You wouldn't let this happen
without a fight
forgive me
My Lord and my God
I'm doing what I can
use my bruises
and tomorrow
I'll be into something new
less beef
more relief
please be there too

belief

breaking down these locks
and I'm jealous of how
you just walk
right through closed doors
and I hate that
because you see me at my worst
but you're always around for my best
telling me
to look around
feel the marks of suffering
compare scars
don't be afraid
you're bringing some serious peace
to my huddled group
right in the middle of our pettiness
prying my clenched fist
apart again and again
breathing life
you invite me to inhale with you
cut the chains
I'm working on it

Not very good thoughts, but important ones nonetheless.

We didn't make it far
but at the same time
you're clearly here with now
and I can't help but wonder
as you sit in my kitchen
with another old friend
coloring eggs like we did before
after a day full of anticipation.

And maybe it was that,
along with sandal-weather
that gets right up under your skin
and that constant companion
worry about being left behind
that has me electric.

But I'm the one prancing ahead
dancing to the songs streaming
right through my ears and my rattling brain
thinking about an array of friends
both old and young and new
and well-worn like a good plaid.

It's so nice to stay outside
to breathe the openness
to consider what tomorrow will look like
to wear a belted dress
and we'll talk about God all you want
the smell of hyacinths and daffodils lingering.

one dream

i'm going to be me
I'm going to be carefree
as beautiful and as humble as a queen bee
rather unrelentingly
and as the sky parts from the red sea
the world is going to open to me
full of squid feet and possibility
from the strong and from the weak
i'm going to be free
feel the beat
singing wildly from the tree
from its roots straight to its leaves
i'm going to dance recklessly
i can see
open fields above my bruised knee
all things that are lovely
and it's so unlikely
that i can hardly breathe

lunch

she struggled with the gritty can opener;
like the one back home--bruised and battered
retching along the grated edge
the shared can of spaghettios torn open.
with coffee, the meal of starving literary types
split in half as well as could be
(even though she shouldn't have given him anything at all)
how was he to know
the sickly tomato smell felt like the John Deere clock at grandmas
the texture of tracing patterns on the olive green rug.
he didn't know that this lunchtime familiarity
processed pasta worse than a deep splinter
was a poor imitation of a life they had
if only in the whimsy of her mind

sneakers

running, running!
shoelaces trickle open
and i break free
tongues wagging behind me
hair cascading
long loose and curly
chasing, flying!

barking up the wrong tree or guardrails

on these road trips
when you're driving
i realize
we may not have had anything in common
and i can feel the greasy roots
of my hair, unwashed, unkempt

until our favorite songs come on
and i hear your laugh again
and even if you don't understand my life
the tea kettles and video games
it's okay

look at the trees
creeping up to the guardrails
look at their highest branches
spindly and vacant

the first bits of sunlight
heat the car burn my face
i don't mind
it forces me to think of books outdoors
and new places

after a long season of new people
and a chill that went deep to the bones
i can't look to you, my past for roots
and we've seen the spaces new leaves should be

look instead at the sap
the deep, sticky syrup deep within me
that feeds me
and makes me alive
the stuff of jane austen novels and acrylic paints

my glasses sit crooked on my nose
and i breathe deeply past the tension in my neck
watching the dents in the guardrail
listening to you once again but
mostly
looking for myself

things get turned around sooner or later

I don't like to think too hard about the way
Elliott Smith makes my heart pound
and the way he killed himself
more alone than the lyrics in his music
and I don't want to think
about starvation
when I live in a building with vending machines
don't make me think about what I see
when I look into your eyes
and I stop thinking about the world's problems
and how disgusted I am
that you make me think about mine
when I'd rather be pretentious and be concerned
about those dead and dying
instead of what living means when I'm with you
when I'm feeling most alive
because I'm toeing the line of sanity
because I can't hold all of these things at once
and I see bombs exploding
and limbs flying with gruesome accuracy
and all I want is to hold your hand
how are we supposed to live like this?

crocodile tears

the grasshoppers are anxious behind my eyes
and all I can think as the water drips down my back, is
"you don't love me"
"you don't love me"

"you don't love me"
and I want to chase away
to let the sunflowers sprout from my palms
crackling through my skin
to carry me towards the sky
to live deep within the earth

I can avoid your eyes
devoid of watermelon love
crisp like a Sunday

and I'll try to dispel this morning chill
that lives like the ants deep within my bones
tunneling

and I stand with the water off, immobile
as the water drips

snow moment

huge forts of snow
perfect for burrowing
to crawl inside
and wait
watching the sidewalk freeze
and the snow
fall, timidly
weaving in and out
of the streetlight

the sad beige color of unbleached linen

vacant
the gravel-pocked road stretches its
crumbled
long and winding arm
for miles.
horrible little grass tufts
covered by the dandruff of smut
lecherous barnacles
and feet.
kicking up a long line of dust
from this town to the

next.
chasing
i'm running
on this barren road
watching your bumper drive away
pulling away from this miserable place

and my ankles snap,
unable to take the weight
of dirt
clods collecting deep within my lungs
accumulated filth
a broken hitchhiker
listening to the engine pull away
watching the road decay

dinner for one

he is content sitting alone
the bustle of the restaurant
a calming reminder
that the buzz of the hive continues
long after his wings are clipped

back in the days he flew free
meals cooked by his wife of 53 years

it's been so long
that's a wistful memory
he conjures up by ordering liver and onions
despite the grimace by the young waitress
a favorite dish
reserved for Sunday nights

he sits and waits
slowly sipping his coffee
with barely trembling hands

waiting for a meal he can no longer cook
waiting for the return of a faithful companion
knowing he can only order one off the menu

danger

prying apart the sinewy ties
between my mind's fantasies
and reality

the dreams pumping a poisonous blood
into my everyday activities
sickly muscles
growing stronger and stronger

you nonchalantly feed the beast
one handful at a time

do you know what you're creating?

time well spent

I. waves
sunglasses

we walked for miles

conversation between old friends
as old as you can be
when you're sixteen

the sun slowly swallowed by the surf

watching people go by
envying suntanned bodies
and hands held tight


II. sand
sunglasses

wondering about a future
admiring spacious balconies
families

small creatures
burrowed deep in the sand
broken shells from the past

sketching hearts and initials
recklessly sharing in the moment
hide tide erasing all confessions


III. we would walk
we would hold hands
and share
on the beach
in our sunglasses

on aging and happiness (in a swimming pool)

it's nice to know
that as we age
this anxiety will fall away
our terseness will push us over

(we can momentarily watch this from the lifeguard's chair, at the neighborhood pool in the heat of summer, wilted vines crawling up the chain-link fences)

men and women toppling off the diving boards
bodies, frame by frame, aging into wrinkled shells
falling into one elegant splash
creating ripples of happiness
that casually push the group along
swimmers slowly liberated from the congestion of acquaintances
faithful companions doggy paddle side by side
long strokes towards the shallow end
and the stairs to climb up and out
shamelessly displaying aged bodies
sagely glancing back at the deep end
the youthful thrill of not being able to touch the bottom
replaced by the confidence
of feet on the ground.

zip code

he crept out onto the roof
to feel the crunch of snow on his boots
and to feel the burn
run up the inside of his thighs
to wait and think
before morning whisked away the brilliance of the moon
and thousands of evening stars

looking over the emptiness
that comes with rural living
lives marked by mailboxes
miles and miles apart

he knew she was out there
pausing in her driveway
neck tilted up to examine the stars
if only he knew what she was thinking
if only he knew she was thinking of him

instead he had his own thoughts
haunted by science
things dreamers shouldn't think about
the enormous shifting plates underneath him
slowing dragging his world out to sea

delicate

tiny atoms intertwine
spindly creatures

exploring the feeling of fingertips
the spark, the shock

eyelids and eyelashes
individual bits
coated with flake of snow

one slow blink
and the world spins

stolen moments
when reality is in memory
when life teems in being

precarious

teetering on the very edge
between light and dark

the sharpness lingers

because for each of these
millions of moments pass
in the mundane

carved out
cradled deep, deep

sunlight blazes across snowfall
cold settles deep inside
beneath the layers of socks and sweaters

fragile

Flawed

I won't, I won't try to rearrange you
I won't even try to change you
I want you the way you are

I'll take all of your old silly habits
That's the only way I'll have it
I want you the way you are

I will even forgive how you voted
And then the way that you gloated
I'll take you the way you are

I'll accept all your horrible grammar
I know grammar doesn't matter
I'll take you the way you are

I won't ask you about your big secret
because I know that you'll keep it
I want you the way you are

I won't think of the way that you whisper
I won't think of how you kissed her
I'll take you the way you are

I want a flawed and unreasonable person
That's not really even worse than
Living alone like I am

I know I have made far enough mistakes
To cause you your own grief and heartache
Please take me the way that I am

I want you to accept all my failings
To help me with my rearranging
To take me the way that I am

I won't, I won't try to rearrange you
I won't even try to change you
I want you the way you are

If

I wonder
if someday
in a little house
on the corner
leafy vegetables out back
in past the kitchen curtains

I'm going to live
reading morning newspapers
tackling crossword puzzles
over coffee
brewed to wake us up

playing piano every morning
as soon as the sun hits the keys
asking you what you think
gladly stopping when you come
whispering your input in my ear

clocks on the wall
rows of shoes in the closet
yours and mine
pots of all shapes and colors
filling up the salt and pepper on Tuesdays
worn slippers

I wonder
if there will be nights
we'll go outside
and talk about nothing at all
stars caressing our cheeks
hands intertwined

I'll be pleased
with walls we've painted ourselves
art in the kitchen
shelves flooded with books
your favorite authors
and mine

november

the curled leaves were clinging,
precariously clutching on and shivering
i understood how they felt

backs braced against the wind
deep muscle tightening tension

november makes you feel alone,
strapping on scarves and mittens
bundling deeper and deeper within
yourself

the gray sky looked like a painted backdrop
lowered down to set the scene

bleakness

leaves scattered across the sidewalk
aimless

still without the resilience of december
still hoping for some sunlight to peak through
hopes in the crippled edges of fading foliage

at night the skies offer little comfort
clouded over and unsure

deep cello-resounding chords whisper underneath
i can feel the earth sigh under the weight
waiting

Chasing dreams

I'll be thinking of you when I'm heading
west
propping my feet up at every coffee shop
Sitting up front
performing for a crowd on a caffeine buzz
Closing my eyes
inhaling the fragrance of stale morning pastries and hazelnut
it'll be you I see
Chords trembling through my fingertips
your name on my lips
tempered by a smooth mix of breakfast blend and sugar
playing memories
I close down the house every night after night
doors locking
My feet continue towards the car with threadbare tires
ignition
And I wish you were int he passenger seat with me

Gilding

Giving in to the expressive statements
of the Word.

Over the chaos of the deep
magnificent
spewing forth unimaginable.

Digging deeper into the earth
swallowing the soil
breathing damp dirt
standing on the feet of dancing mountains.

These hills are the bubbling
the straining of the stream of life
the water that will save you from thirst.

It is good.

The vine is creeping over all of us
we are tiny timid leaves unfurling
drawing deep drafts up from the roots.

The revelation of a sunset engulfing
the last remaining breaths from the sunrise
letting youthful naivety run rampant
skirting across the sky.

cameras

a cheap boxed gift
pre-packaged in shiny primary colors of childhood
containing a plastic black camera
and a book on "how-to"
so thrilled to match up scenes from real life
with staged book examples
size 12 shoes
racing around my backyard
trying to capture trick shots
and action
sunlight streaming through the lens
fingers twisting an empty camera
waiting to get prints back
lines of negatives

another camera
a hand-me-down
long black
kodak
and film that can't be bought in stores
it took my favorite snapshot
autumn and maple leaves
three colors
red, green, and orange
loosely hanging from my climbing tree
hands and feet winding up
scurrying up
scuffed elbows and glasses that slide down my nose
the camera anchored by the wrist strap
a moment saved
developed on 4x3

today
still crunching through leaves
eying up climbing tress
a new camera in my pocket

A call for action

I'm going to rally against the street people,
the ones who take a buzz saw
to towering (if leaning) trees.

A limb for a limb, I'd say.

Fighting
against parking tickets
against strict assignments
against those trying to take me out of the pulpit.

I'm going to wave beauty in your face.

Yellow octaves,
and trash that just might be art.

I'm going to drag you into deep alleys,
and show you the pristine magic of streetlights.
Curves and shades.

The power that's in a single, trembling leaf.
How life draining from something can make it seem alive.

Life in tension.

Can't you hear the music?
Flooding through your headphones, your speakers,
the floor,
your skin.

The music might not be a march, but it's marching.
It's a tango.
It's a waltz.
It's a foxtrot.

Each step sending shivers from toes to nose,
Pulling you in.

Raising high a sign,
Protesting the rights of all, the trees.

Praying for deliverance,
in the midst of dancing and tyranny
from those street people.

creek

old bleach containers
mobile homes
for tiny crayfish

we creep along the water's edge
peering under the reflections of sunlight
poised to snatch

creatures from mud

sonatas

four hands
and Beethoven

first we played on the piano in the basement
the musty vent directly overhead
a piano that should play on its own

it didn't seem so bad
laughter muffled the out-of-tune octaves

the sound traveled up the stairs
throughout the house
notes strung together

hands weaving in and out

Chores

I'm taking laundry out
Stuffing it in a garbage bag
Warmth all bundled together

Absentmindedly pulling apart lint
Already dragging my clothes and myself
Down the hall

Warm jeans
Folded into drawers
The blinds are half-closed

Pulling the closet open
A steady accumulation of dresses
To match the ever-increasing row of heels

The stacks of books in the corner
Need no sweaters
Clean pages, ready to be underlined

Wandering back up the hall
Abandoning my true loves
For a box of forgotten dryer sheets

Time, and the freedom from it.

I.
I can schedule you during this point in the day
From A to B.
That's it.

No more, no less.
I regret to inform you, that I must decline.

Isn't this how it feels?
Tiny little entrapments.

Even the blank spaces have lines running through them
Dividing and subdividing.

If it's empty, I must put something in it.

II.
More than things, and spaces
Abstract, meaningless(ful)

Moments instead of seconds.
Sighs too deep for words can't be categorized,
Deadlines don't actually mean death.

Maybe it's climbing trees,
or the sunlight sneakily poking through.
Taking a break, and really meaning it.

Yes, really meaning it.
Not thinking of what's next.

Which makes accomplishment satisfaction,
Instead of a check mark.
Because these are the moments I'm good at,

The words I can put together.
The experiences I can share.

It has something to do with friendship.
You can't fit that in a calendar square.

library

once
an afternoon in the library
(something feels at home in the library)
blinds drawn down
twisted open
to let in the travels of the sun
trees rustling anxiously outside
I sit in blocky furniture
so library
garish oranges and bright yellows
at least like the libraries
back home
trapped in a faded decade
books trapping the same past
deep within the binding
carefully selected
and stacked in the
corner of my cubicle
paging through academic magazines
that I read over the summer for fun
still now
I can't shake that feeling
this shouldn't be learning
and research
opening pages
this feels like
visiting an old friend or
returning home
to find mom has put the kettle on
for a mug of hot chocolate
the deep rooted feeling
of leaves falling
a blanket
and a good book

meat for a month

like the Israelites
I like to complain
and weep nostalgia over cucumbers

ignoring the steadfastness
of the One who loves me most

sitting in a desert of banality
bland and beige
dreaming with my fingertips
the ragged leaves of a cucumber plant

ignoring the manna
scattered abundantly, ready to rot

like Moses
I shout to the Almighty
what do you want me to do?

carnivores all around

on missing hymns and home churches

fans beating the air
stifled, summer breezes
underneath peaked ceilings
lofted to point to God
outdated red hymnals line the pews

sitting up front
pages of music blow shut
and the message goes on
preach it, brother
until the almighty two-syllable amen
reverberating off orange carpet
and stained glass
amen and amen
a cue
to move forward
hymns and people let loose
doutbing people to a doubting world

wandering

crashing through the night
air compressing and expanding
right outside the window
rolled down

powerfully close to the edge

red lights waving nonchalantly
exiting highways
fanning out

thumbs locked on the wheel
thinly in control
inches away from metal on metal

wind explains away
eyes wide open

headlights on low beam
rectangles of white flip past
one, two, three

the skies empty up
space for vehicles
pulsing across the countryside

Barcelona

meet me in Barcelona
on the balconey
plants, greenery
spilling down the iron railing
look for the bright red flower

meet me in the sunlight
white latticed chairs
tall glasses
with bright yellow lemons on the rim
refreshed

meet me in that place
where you can translate
what blue skies mean
in foreign lands
laundry fluttering in the clouds

Together we fill gaps.

Remember that time
we watched all the Rocky movies?

"Yo Adrian."

I was spread out
on your living room floor.
The carpet making impressions on my skin.

Surrounded by outdated knick-knacks,
you the youngest in the family.

I pretended like I was asleep.
Wondering what you would do.

Eyes shut, ears open.

Knowing that you would have to wake me,
to drive me home.
My favorite part of the night.

Driving home
on the road my grandma lives on.

Dreaming of meat lockers
and holding hands,
my feet propped on your dashboard.

swensons

greasy food
eaten far too late at night

purple
grape milkshake
tops off the evening meal

it's like old times
i only met you recently,
but it seems like years before.

crammed
side by side in the backseat
no room for elbows
except in ribcages

exhilarated
getting caught would be bad
very bad
and for the price of a double cheeseburger
all the way

songs and places

old songs play on repeat,
bluegrass lyrics and hazy days of sunlight
eyes close; crafting a scene
painting it out, stroke by stroke

stretching across the canvas
to fill in the hillside
corn stalks emerge
timidly, forcefully.

light courses
tumbling down, and down
racing to illuminate

green
blue, and golden. deep, dark earthy browns.
and more green.
always green.

pushed into the corner
a promise of night
wide open fields
and stars that crease the sky.
filling empty spaces.

eyes open.
confused, misplaced.
roads pave the way
full of cracks and sticky black tar.

restless.

sleepless.

feeling nostalgic for the sunlight,
the way it catches any object ablaze.
making normal,
extraordinary.

unsteady with the night,
space pushing infinity

too much space.

looking for a chance
to go west,
to cup the ocean between my hands.
letting it trickle through.

deep blazes of sunlight
breaking across the water.
a breeze,
holding me upright.

back east,
the night grows larger.
looming and vast.

falling asleep on couches

falling asleep on couches
comfortable enough to never leave

eyes kept closed by a new hat pulled down to the brim
green flannel is my blanket

dreaming of places to travel to
and places I've come from

dreaming to stay put
wanting to let that be

cooled by a swirling fan overhead
lulled by the sound of a familiar tv

travels

no seat belts
only helmets
locking not the body
but the mind inside
to wander
thoughts of leaping off
to join the sky
cresting over the tallest asphalt peak
careening down curves
the landscape expresses itself
in deep shadows of greens
whispering
echoes through the roar of the wind
beckoning
to keep going
to abandon the helmet
releasing the culmination
of nineteen years
shamelessly into the world

a ride

wildflowers
inhaling the exhaust on the side of the road
coughing out beautiful blooms
for the passerby

crowding around a ragged trunk
pushing out the side of a hill
grasping
with thick deep roots

tiny pebbles lay prostrate
cowering under the guardrails
bowing beneath the weight
of the life teeming
surreptitiously sprouting
their own small gardens of weeds

the open sky breathes down
causing ripples on the land
deep valleys
cupping the sunlight

reflecting back onto already sun-soaked golden corn
waving idly
gazing nonchalantly at the wilderness
and uncontrollable
growths of color

still forming miniature skylines
tall white observation decks
and squat purple buildings
skyscraper stalks in between

What summer feels like.

The crowd at Rita's has changed, once again.
I still go to pick up my gelati
(not quite gelato)
Amazed to see the immaturity of the current crowd.
The chunks of real cherries in a pond of cherry flavor.

Although, I suppose the last time I was there,
we salsa danced.
Public disruption in our own right.
Old friend, old times.

It's like these chairs,
how I sat in the same one last year,
Summertime. This time of year.

I was waiting for you to come say goodbye
before you left the country.
We sat, chatted.
I thought we had the world ahead of us.

Pennsylvania lit up the night
first, with lightning bugs
Fireflies, then a proud array of stars.

The next night I did more of the same
reading 17 magazine and painting my nails.
The brightest color I could find.

I can hear my family playing badminton in the front yard now.
As always, it's chaos.
Why is my brother so tall?
Our numbers never stay stable anymore.

Life feels so comfortable
worn like a familiar sweater.
Waiting for the company of friends to go for gelato.

abandonment and recollection.

racing
tying up laces
and letting go

looking for the highest hill
the spark
the evening breath of sunlight
cresting, just ahead

air moves in, and out

rewind--fast forward

all the miles spent traveling
moments together
a glimpse, pulling backwards

older memories speed forward
each pound of the foot
draws them in, and out

spinning at the top of the hill
yelling, screaming, shouting
tiny pricks of grass, flattened

sprinting back down again

weeds

tiny sprouts
crowding my cucumbers
a poor decrepit species on the end
aged edges

i have no problem crooning
power ballads, love songs
anything to coax them along

feeling guilty that this plant
appears to be less loved
evidenced by the wilted stem

the rowdy tomatoes are becoming unruly
testing the boundaries
tiny yellow flowers

weeding, i pry secrets out of the earth
places of growth, flood and drought
asking the beets for forgiveness
for not giving them the love they deserve.

i just like cucumbers better.

opened

filled; from the inside and outside
broken from the ribcage
split at the seams
searing free

books that make me cry

words taper around the edges
of yellow-
green leaves glinting
in the sunlight
under underdeveloped apples
on the blankets
of afternoon
and leisure
stories slipping by
into the crevices of
grass, patchwork shaded
kaleiding
glazing onto ripened
hair and fingernails
moments of being alive
but mostly living

Inbox.

Your name has always been at the bottom of my inbox,
popping up again, and again, and again.

Deleted messages, important and not.
Notifications.
Altercations.
Vacations from face to face contact.

I leave your name there,
to reassure me that life is real.

How could I move you to the trash?

Or maybe, I just like the little flutter my heart makes,
when I read your name.

incomplete, tomorrows

entering
the dew sounds like bells
clear dawns

dreaming of
red pickup trucks
empty roads
sneakers fly for miles

soundtracks spin
gamboling guitars

packing
suitcases full of possibilities
as new as a bride's dress

carelessly
feet proceed
over cliffs

oceanscent

the beach isn't a place, it's a smell
spf clouding the air
hovering like a haze
mingled with the aroma of heated skin
at its most basic
unpolluted by human grease
sea spray
salt, not chlorine
drifting out onto land

Corner Windows

Frailties
Caught between corner windows
Voyeuristically peering through
Transient.

Buildings, stoic and reassuring
Built to last
Reduced to their earth bound status
Glass.

Eyes see straight through
Between human irrelevancies
Ahead to crumbled tomorrows
Excessive.

Blue sky
Doesn’t knock
Travels in through the front door
And out the back.

charming

easily rocking
patches collage and collide
displaying shadows from the hammock above
abandoned in favor of cool, dark grass.

casually, leisurely
words strolling by on the page
lives and relationships
created and illuminated
by mid-afternoon sunlight

interrupted by easy footsteps
blocking the sun
and laying down a bowl of strawberries.

reaching into the pale blue bowl
expansion of flavor
red stories made sweeter
by the kindness of a charming young man
delight in good fruit

Each.

Knowing life would change,
the dew
slowly, bitterly appeared on the grass.

Each drop, to each blade.

Each clinging like I did to the symphony in my ears,
filtered through the latest album.

Weeds, without notice, rampant in their enthusiasm,
sprouted.
Leaped out.

Forming shadow jungles for my pleasure,
in the dusk.

Imagination to spark imagination,
shimmering with tomorrows
each an unknown.

While I watched, while I stared,
each evening faded.

Breathing in the absence of anything else to do
inhaling words

Waiting.

each day, each hour

breathing ripples across my back
arching

dormant, unaware

outside
branches defiantly wave at the miserable wind
gleams of daylight remain
resting on the tired grass

tensing smaller and smaller
one point

restless, fearful

boxes lay in disarray
without homes
no order remains

fitfully fingering the air
cooled blue

Moments

Precarious.

Walking parallel to the sidewalk,
missing the bumps, cracks
Sharp winds.
Hands forced deep inside of
unlined pockets.

Eyes closed.
Into traffic.

One moment, one instant.
I see you. And you're gone.
A vibrant display of the fragility of life.

I watch you retreat, wondering.
What would it take?

Each crack,
a spindly earthquake story.
Small forests,
populating the canyons.

an afternoon

one.

mildly ruffling
each limb
a curving masterpiece

brightened by the late afternoon sun

needles feathering downward

behind
a window waits
bordered by brick

rectangle panes

two.

shadows creep
the crevices of bark
darkened

sinster greens speak

three.

one last streak of light
splays across the scene

trunks bared

Circus Life

I want to sing,
but I have no tune.

Deep down,
there's a diva.

I reach out,
trying to fly
alongside your trapeze.

Straining for your fingertips.

The big top swirls,
the animals roar.

Beastly lions,
and courageous tigers.

I stand in for the ringmaster,
who is working the popcorn stand.

Feeling inadequate,
as I look around.

Everyone performs,
ingenious acts.

I only observe,
but I want to sing.

This tuxedo is large,
too large.

Chaos reigns in this circus life.

lights

bits of glass
remnants of small bulbs
lying hollowed

empty sockets

half goes black

strands stringing endlessly
with and without purpose
leaving claim to the fragility
and purpose of each individual

one misplaced word

half goes black

Solid Ground

I.
I was in love once.
Kind of.

It was more of a movie love, you know?
My heart raced whenever I sat next to him.
I thought our characteristics equated mate puzzle pieces.

But I really knew because my heart broke when he went away.

And then, I realized,
There was no lasting power,
And no mutual agreement.

Making my "love" anything but.

Leaving me to match phrases in books to something...
that may not have even mattered.

II.
Something real, something tangible.
As worthwhile as sand trickling and lodging on the webs of my fingers.
Romantically, our eyes meet lovingly.

But I really know we're more of a giggling sort.
And that didn't really happen.

Scratch that, start again.
I want a few years back to build a wall.
Of bricks.

This is what I think real is,
But maybe I should plant a tree.

outdoors

thick and ragged
extending to the sky
coated with the still clumping
spindly
snow
leaving shadows on the lower branches

perched above
watching the giggling glimpse
of a bright green coat
trouncing around the trunk

tracks down the road
barely visible
each minute bringing a fresh layer
covering

Expectant

The guest list was set
along with the table
shiny crystal glasses
and waiters ready to serve.

The scene was opulent
stunning in the details
scraps of velvet stitched together to make
a chocolate, liquid evening

Time ticking, sinking deep
sadness making its rounds
curling up into my eyes
when the guests don't arrive

All suggesting the need for low expectations.

doubts

old songs read like a rainy day
coursing down the narrow inlet on my back
winsome, my arms unfurl
mocking the disbelief gathering in my eyes
unsure that anyone ever meant, "an awful lot"
or that anyone ever will again
songs from strangers being the only chance
anything else being too much to hope for
feeling the memories drip away
and the creep of resolved cynicism

green eyes

jealousy
comes from a threat to ownership
which is why i'm so defiant
jealousy
is easier than rejection
and confrontation

cozy little imagined boxes

Ten cents per line

Wanted:
An escape to superficiality. Mediocre music and personality a must. Thoughts not welcome. Poignant memories either.

Putting these fliers up,
staples to telephone poles.
What a defeat.
What a brilliant escape.
What a foolproof way to stop.

Life living past the tipping point.

accordidon't

boy with the accordion:
trying ever so hard
to make the fine lady
fall in love with him
alas, his skills are mediocre.
he will keep playing,
with his medicordion skills
until the fine lady
boots him away away
because he is annoying
sigh sigh

waterfalling

today, I would like to
stand under a waterfall
and let the beating water
pound, pound, pound
trickling around the curve of my ear
eyelashes forming individual spikes
crystalline.
sun spearing through
the jumping drops
and I feel a rippling in my soul
unburdened from the guilt of the day
small grime
sliding away
with a roar
leaving my being
alive with adrenaline
and open

When I'm Alone

In a dark house,
there's an uncomfortable feeling
coming from being the only one awake.
Without the reassurance of being alive.

A dim overhead light provides a dull glow
shaded by carved glass,
tinged pale rose.

Burning tears finally escape.
Caught up in the rush of life,
never pausing to think about the crosswords of the future.
Tiny boxes to be filled.

Someday the clues will make sense.
Life takes on such a new perspective,
when its reflective.

For tonight,
surrounded by overwhelming familiarity,
it's enough to hope.

Too much.

I wish I could find a large pair of earmuffs.
Ones that are enormous and red.

I want to muffle.
Shh.
Perhaps a pair of blinders, too.

All of this garbage,
Barreling at me.
Herds and hordes.

Sickening, uncomfortable.
Queasy, uneasy.

Earmuffs.
So I can be selfish.
And watch my own world on mute.

And not have to deal with you.

A small kitchen at 10:43

Grainy music sets the mood.

Hair: pinned back into rounded curls,
lipstick carefully applied, a bright red.

Cinched waist, wide skirt.

None of this matters,
because our hands are clasped,
and your hand is on my back,
clutching me tight.

Our feet step over the pale yellow tile,
reflecting the dusty overhead light,
spilling from above.

I can't see your eyes,
because we're cheek to cheek.

Inhaling the remnants of your morning shower,
worn cotton shoulders,
unable to see the dishes in the sink.

My pulse sways,
pulled along by the violin,
faded wallpaper.

Communication Error

I called out,
"Don't you know yet?"
Echoes down the tunnel.

You turned around,
smiled,
kept walking.

I walked faster,
feeling the coolness slip by.

I know I have already told you.

Your sneakers seemed to fly ahed.

I tried once more,
"Haven't you heard how I've told you,
everything?"

You turned around
and your eyes told me,
you didn't understand.

a light in the afternoon

easier than trying to think on everything
to isolate one beautiful moment
is miserably more convenient

to think on a reunion
or perhaps a well-lit tree

or that one moment today
when the light caught the leaves
almost setting the tree ablaze
glorious
which alone would be beauty
but together with the thoughts
already brilliant in their conception
combined to create a moment
inexpressible.

what I remember most
is how I wanted to call
and share that moment with you

Inadequate

I thought I had control.
That each day I woke up,
I understood the dew and the way the sun reflected through
Prisms.

When I stretched my arms wide, I was alone.
The world was a beautiful canvas,
and I recognized every stroke.

I saw the sunsets
and I took a picture,
added a caption
and dwelt in its meaning.
Blazing red.

How superficial.

Do you understand yet?
Riddled by my stories.

Life was a crisp, cool morning.
Directly after dawn.
But dulled.

My eyes, my heart
They show me the glory of a full day.
From the salty fog, to the burning sun.
To happiness that hurts.
Relinquished behind the spindly branches of a shadowed tree.

Because you introduced me to a life so brilliant,
it hurts.

I am a conformist

I am a conformist.

I enjoy the things you do.
I eat fast food: greasy, ill-mannered, unappetizing.

I fall under general American apathy.
And try to say something witty about not caring,
I don't understand the economy either.

I crave stereotypes.

Shiny, framed images.
Places I'm sure to find happiness, despite what experience has taught me.

I am just like the rest of you.

Leaning against the edge of my box and straining,
Looking behind and seeing familiar faces,
Learning that I'm not as unique as I used to be.

I am a conformist.

I arrive early, but don't leave early.
Sitting in my assigned seat.
I fill in the test bubble.

I fill the voids in life with cookie cutter people.
Sleek hair/bright skin.
Even as I look for the mistakes of the batch.

I am a conformist.

I don't jaywalk.
Green arrows equal permission. Permission equals go.
I like permission to go.
Falling in line, falling in line.

Obsessed with image.
Yours or mine? Leave that question stand.

I consider the herd before making a decision.
Subconsciously, of course.

This makes me a conformist.

I am a conformist because I can't take life for what it is.
I can't appreciate its unplanned value.
I repackage.
and I'm not happy when it doesn't rearrange into a Disney movie ending.

unexpected

I'm just trying to understand
What it is that is making life as it is

How it feels completely necessary to examine the smallest particle
in the knowledge that one small piece
is Beauty.

And how each bit of song moves me to tears.
The taste of sweet and sour.

The stitch in my side that won't go away
and I'm smiling, even when no one is around.
That's the funniest, isn't it?

I'm walking, in the cold.
freezing really
alone.
Yet.
Yet!

I am grinning. foolishly

fleetingly
this passing shadow isn't going to last forever.
I fill my lungs with air
and watch my body move with life
looking at the small burn about my right thumb

Reminder:this is a work in progress.

A Scene

Cornfields spread in thin lines
Underlining the expansive array
Of leaves
Thinly supported by twigs from the distance
Pillars nearby
Fans of red; alternating golden, orange, yellow, green
Opening up to catch the sky
Full of extravagant and majestic clouds
Bright and clean above
Shadowed below
All rapidly passing to the left
Scrolling
Leaving little chance to stop and examine
How one large photograph
Is actually many leaves
And broken branches
Kernels of corn

Morning

I was dreaming.
It was your presence I remember most. Wherever you were, I was.
Your presence against my back, your hand on my shoulder.
Protection, you know?
Now it's just convincing myself
it was
in fact
a dream.

a surprise revelation

it's October
and I don't know how this happened

one day the sun shone so bright
my jeans trapped the heat so tight
I thought I would burst into flames

today was rainy.
cold, dreary rain

not.
i repeat, not the kind for puddle jumping.
for that is a different kind of rain altogether, isn't it?

Somehow
in my still puzzled state
I'm baffled
as to how the unstoppable joy
(that I thought came with the sun)
has not disappeared.

Oh, I know!
it's because I'm still here with you.