poetry

Arachnophobia

After
you swept me out,
I made a home in the rafters.

It never
seemed like
a place to call home.

But spin
enough white
woolen blankets and

anything
can look like Home.

You know,
it’s rather nice
up here. Because

up here,
I can see you
from afar, and much

more
clearly than
before. Up here,

sunlight
doesn’t burn
the skin you made

so tender.
Up here, the only
webs that can ensnare

are
those I spin
myself. I feel a tug

at my
throat. It’s
Growing ever tighter,

but
still I’ll keep
spinning so that

I will
never be
tempted to crawl

down from
the rafters
again.

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poetry

JUST BREATHE // just breathe

We don’t
open the
windows
around here.
Out there
is ocean
air – toxic
as the smog.
Fear it
breathe in
recycled
gas instead –
gasp – breathe –
gasp – breathe –
what if I
tear these
shutters down
what if
gasp –
breathe –
I breath
in ocean
air –
GASP – BREATHE –
is it as
toxic as they
say because i
GASP –
BREATHE –
think it’s
drown in
ocean air
or
GASP
suffocate
BREATHE
NOW –

* * * * *

It rushes through the windows
in a twister –
it blows through my my lungs
like a sweet, perfect cigarette – but beautiful.
They always said
the air out there was toxic.
And I was so afraid of the wind
and the waves,
and breathing ocean air –
but it blows through,
clearing all this stale silence.
Sweet breath of life
rips through this house, tears down
everything – these walls,
these clogged-up halls – until there is nothing left but
beautiful, explosive, oxygen.
We are not in Kansas anymore:
we are living art-pop technicolor – finally.
Here,
we are resuscitated back to a life
we never knew we could have.
Here,
there is finally breath of life.
For we have kicked down the windows,
and we are never closing them again.
Finally… finally…
just breathe, right here, right now –
Here:
this is freedom.
Here:
This Is Gospel

poetry

on the longest day of the year

i lift my eyes
up towards invisible stars

and wonder
if stars are still real

or if stars
were ever real

or if some
storyteller told one

too many
tales to keep a hope

alive that
when the sun finally sets

night is
not all darkness.

i think
of how storytellers

are sort of
prophets but sort of liars

and how
constellations are

only made up stories
to make sense
of chaos

and if they
made up the lines

they could
make up the dots too.

i watch
the unwelcome moon

peek her
somber eyes through

the scorching
skies and i wonder

if she too
dreams of stars

but fears
that at the end of this

endless
sunlit nightmare

she will
find herself alone

in the
infinite darkness.

but still
i try to remind myself

if icarus
had only waited

to spread
his tender wings

a little
while longer the sun

may have
fallen instead of him.

poetry

The Sound

He swears he seen it.
He swears he seen it rear its awful head,
rear its awful head with those awful yellow eyes.
“I’m tellin’ ya, summin’s not right.
Belie’me. Summin’s not right with that place.”
He shit-talked his wife.
Then poured another drink.

She swears there’s nothing.
She swears there’s nothing in that place,
nothing like the rumors say.
“I’m telling you, don’t listen to them.
Believe me. Don’t listen to a word they say.”
She huffed about her husband.
Then took another drag.

Come on down to the bank of the sound.
Come on down to that sweet, sweet sound.

I’ve never touched water.
I’ve never touched water in all my years alive.
I’ve never gone down to that sweet, sweet sound.
or felt the sand between feet,
or let winds sweep me up
and away –
I’ve only seen it from the hill.
Seen ripples of the moonlight
when there isn’t any wind.

Call it “mermaid.”
Call it “monster.”
Call it “magic.”
Call it “BY GOD THERE’S NO SUCH THING!”
But I long to taste water,
whatever they say.
But they still never let me go near…
I’ve still never let me go near…
For “there are shadows here…”

The believers say
that years ago,
something wandered in from the ocean…
Something wonderful… something awful…
They say they heard a voice like Dagon…
“Ancient voice.”
“Unnatural voice.”
“Summin’s not right!”
“Summin’s not right!”

Come on down to the bank of the sound.
Come on down to that sweet, sweet sound.

Do you hear it, too?
The monster calls in the night –
Some voice like Dagon,
some echo unknown.
A song like sirens.
No, a sweet, sweet sound…
Heartbeats bubble, bubble from below.
Look there! Look there! I swear, I see it.
I swear I see it rear its awful head,
rear its awesome head.

Perhaps, I belong to the water,
as always, I’ve wondered…
Don’t go near…
There are shadows here…
Come on down to the bank of the sound.
Don’t go near…
Do not fear…
Listen –
Listen –
The water is calling –
Follow now that sweet, sweet sound…

poetry

The Museum of Public Shame

is a strangely splendid bit of architecture,
covered in recycled newspaper shards.

The tour guide met me at the entrance
and gave me a badge that read “Just looking!”

We started with a modern piece:
The Jury, it was called. I saw a chorus

of mechanized bluebirds. They turned at me
immediately, and fixed their hollow eyes

upon my lips. They sang so loud I could hear
nothing but “SPEAK” “SPEAK” “SPEAK”
“SPEAK” “SPEAK” “SPEAK” “SPEAK” “SPEAK”
“SPEAK”

Don’t speak, mouthed my guide, slashing a finger
across his throat. We backed away… slowly…

He led me to a room with only Venuses
in various states of decay. Moth-eaten canvas

“No, moth-eaten skin,” he corrected. “Here,
take this,” and handed me a bee suit.

In the corner, I spotted Mona Lisa
in a bed with demons on her chest.

The tour guide chuckled and told me a secret.
He said she was counterfeit – the real one

was called Monica – the real one
was burned up in Rome, in Alexandria,

in Salem, in somewhere. He couldn’t quite
remember. He didn’t seem to care.

I felt my stomach churn as the stench of oil
paintings me made me wonder…

No one asked them if they wanted to hang
on walls, or if they wanted a sentence

in a history book (or several history books).
but don’t speakjust looking… As I left, I asked

how the building stands through time. He said
the frame is made of bones. “But don’t worry.

They aren’t human.”

poetry

The Speed of Light

Disappear with me into the amber grass
that chafes our backs. Last time we looked up
from here, the ice beneath us chiseled out tattoos.
We still have matching ones (at least I do).

Usually, I disappear alone into the weeds
and dream they are flowers. I feel the seasons
spinning around me, but I concentrate on stars
which twirl eternally in their Viennese waltz.

I know that some of them returned to dust
a million years ago. I know that right now,
some are gasping in a vacuum and choking
on dark matter. But I can’t tell from here.

I wonder what you’re thinking. If you long
to return to the sky like I do. If you even
remember all the constellations we made…
or if you care about them, anyway.

You aren’t looking at me, your eyes
are gazing into the depths of dark matter.
At last, I speak. “You see that star?
I think that’s the one we wished on.”

You shrug. “It’s probably
dead already,” you say,
and walk away.

poetry

pretty house

there’s a house on the hill
with gingerbread sides.
it’s got sugarcane windows
and rock-candy bricks.

see candy apple trees
with peppermint bark.
a lifesaver swing
hangs from a red vine.

children always say
“it’s such a pretty house.”
that was the house
where they wanted to play.

grown-ups always say
“it’s such a pretty house.”
on zillow, they estimate it
at 1.1 million.

the house has two stories
and a million more
it could tell –
if it liked talking.

inside,
cotton candy
cobwebs deck
the drafty halls.

a gingerbread man
sprawls out
on the sofa,
gobbling up red hots.

another
obsessively sweeps
powdered sugar
off sticky tiles.

like the house,
the inhabitants
aren’t much
for talking.

they’ve sealed
bedroom doors
with royal icing
over the years.

the chocolate floors
don’t give much
traction. but hey,
they look so sweet.

and even as the chocolate
is melting away,
if you stand on the lawn,
“it’s such a pretty house.”

poetry

From the Dock

The clouds have always said I belong to the water –
I can’t help wonder if they may be right –
I remember what it’s like
to run –
eyes closed –
into this very lake
and to feel the water
sneak through cracks in my skin
and slowly replace blood –

I remember what it’s like
to run
out of this very lake –
in sudden, icy sobriety –
and into the snow –
to feel water
crystalize around me –
a cage like a castle –
I ruled from that palace
beneath the cloak of pines
where the clouds couldn’t give me up to the water –

I remember what it’s like
to stare
across the lake
and watch the waves shimmer like tears
and call my name across the snow…
not loud…
just murmurs…
a heartbeat from the depths…
until even echoes dissipated…

I remember what it’s like
to emerge from a cocoon
and to feel the deadness of the winter
descend with the water’s silence…

I remember
as I sit –
waiting –
and sometimes I believe
I hear the waves whisper as they kiss the shore –
but I won’t seek refuge in the snow
anymore –
and I won’t run with closed eyes
like a sleeping child –
this time
I will listen –
listen to the water –
and wait.
I will let one foot
dangle off the edge
until the water pulls me in.

poetry, Uncategorized

Strange Fog

Mute dawn
seems
in supernova glow
again today.

Beneath gray sheets,
our eyes lay
naked
to rays that should blind…

This time, we wish
ears
had lids
instead… for

we hear
of another garden
taken
as offering…

We breathe
sick sacrifice
second-hand.
Some wear masks. Others

evacuate. Then…
come virulent winds
and we know
there’s no other way.

But not you.

You say
it’s “water”… or
“ocean spray”… or
“just fog”…

You close your eyes
to ash
and soak in
sweet toxicity.

You cough more
than you used to…
but
“that’s just how it is.”

I wonder if
you’ve
ever known
blue skies…

But you
insist
this strange fog
will pass.

And you won’t leave…
So I’m forced to
watch
you dance…

you dance…
in the acid rain…

 

*My heart goes out to everyone effected by the NorCal fires.