Reaching the Exit First

How can you tell me that this is so important to you?
Oh dear, I've always known you were lying about something.
Oh dear, how naive.
Oh dear, I am angry.
Oh damn, I thought I saw you moving.
Oh shit, it's just you breathing.
Well fuck, you're not alive.
Um crap, what's the next step of my plan.

Oh, I didn't expect you to start living again
not after I killed you like that
so my plan stopped when you stopped
but you haven't so I'm still going
but there are no more directions
so I'm fucked

again.

And now, the sun is punching through
and the guitar is playing in my head,
the first chord like a brief smile
however, looming and pointing to dispair.

If I had boxes, I would pack them
if I had plates, I would break them
if I had grudges, I would hold them

but i don't--
I've got white knuckles and a really shitty situation,
and this beautiful song playing in my head.

sounds like I've got life.

who's waiting for who to quit breathing now?
because I've already started walking away.

When I'm Taken Back, It Seems...

Hair on vinyl, dammnn
Yes, I realize how religious this is--
You know what this means to me?
It means hearing a car door,
walking out on the back steps
as she climbs over the fence with friends,
and we whisper while we sneak cigarettes,
whisper while we sneak glances,
in the dark you can’t see eyes,
or you can but darkness really means that it’s sexier.

Oh it means so much more that just “This is good work.”
It means, “Can I come over? I need a friend.”
Hell yeah, come on. Share my bed. Here’s some food.
Let’s listen to some records.
It means, “Beth, I have to leave town.”
Sure, where do you need to go?
It means, “Come check out the new carpets I got in my car.”
Okay, let me grab the Visine.

And it simply means that I’ve got connections,
that there is something more powerful
than what you’ve been letting on,
means that I’ve got this brief case cuffed to me,
and there’s money inside and I’m resisting,

means that this is truly the only way to get off
you’ve been lying or unknowing or completely ignorant
this entire time,
but that’s okay, I’ll give you another chance,
if you at least come over and listen.

It means chances, it means forgiveness,
it means, “It’s all okay, let’s just do this,
why the hell not?”

I feel like I’ve come back to the lord,
where’ve you been?
Had your back against the wall?
That’s cool--I’ve got something for that too.

How Many Times Before?

"You should know how breath taking you are,"
Thanks, man--but I don't want your breath,
and I don't want you to give it to me,
and if you think I'm pretty--
don't tell me in forms of my beauty taking something
from you,

"I wrote this for you, what do you think?"
Your form is brilliant, the rhythm is fantastic
your wit is profound, shiittttt.
I hate that you don't write like this in all of your poems,
I hate that it is about me,
I want you to erase it and write it about your mother,
tear it up, I am starting to hate you--

maybe you're the one taking breaths,
because suddenly my lungs can't sustain flight
my wings are bound and I'm standing here horrified

maybe I wrote this for you because I ran away
before you could turn around to see it was me
maybe I wrote this for you because I feel obligated
to return the favor, of course, this is different
maybe I wrote this for you because you're the same
and it's easy to write a piece I've written

something like
fourteen-fifteen times before.

When you are in motion,
does the sound repeat back to you,
are you aware of your own life?
I don't want to be your form of life.

Writer

The last night we spent together
I was standing still in the lake waters,
at sunset, the clouds fluttered like curtains
the sailboats approached the docks gently,
each wave sunk my feet deeper into the course floor--
second by second brought change,
I needed to take in every change as it happened,
a sort of film in my memory,
this was something that would never happen twice
angered by my limitations as a human
unable to ever fully believe in this beauty
unable to ever believe in this beauty.

Suddenly, it slipped--
I inhaled until my lungs burst,
eyes open until lenses cracked and curled,
drinking and drinking until cells burst
listening listening listening,

and that's when I heard the lake calling me,
"If you leave your heart with me,
you know I will never betray you."
You would not know it, but I am heartless
infront of you yesterday, today, tomorrow

and I realized you were talking to me,
standing next to me, thigh deep in your pants
water lapping against you,
I realized you had been making me promises
and spitting beautiful lies and disjointed plans

it's not that you weren't brilliant,
it's not that you weren't charming
it's not that your eyes weren't little windows

but your existence is not as dynamic,
explosion, permeating--
but the lake promised me
but the lake promised me

Go ahead, ask me if I'll be back
Look across the bay, you will hear whispers.
Writer, I am there wading, running to the horizon

and if you stroke your thumb across the water
I will feel you against my skin.

Rendered Connectionless.

So glad that ain't me.
Remembering what being a city kid is like
as the dark renders my legs red
from the lights naming greasy bars

or noticing grit between your teeth
sort of like stopping to think about your words
not smiling, trying to figure out what's breaking
in your mouth--sure hope it aint my soul.

throw all my quarters in the jagged edged plastic cup
of the three black men playing five gallon buckets
on the corner--there's some man with a swollen face
ankle length peacoat, and some trophy fuck strutting beside
trying to relate to the guys with the buckets and the drum sticks

just shut up and give them some money--
"You guys are good" under my breath, sideways glance,
drop the change
walk away.
Sure hope it ain't my soul that's breaking.

Stopping to figure out how a piece of street got in my mouth
rattling between my teeth, rattling against my jaw
thinking of how that man's ribs ricocheted gun shots
as he fell backward in to the street,
and when the light turned green--
traffic went.

My light turns green, lock my doors,
haven't pressed the gas yet trying to figure out
what has broken--feel for my phone, for the cash I stashed away,
it's there.
tongue gliding around teeth, feeling for holes--
all of my ribs in tact--
and the flap of skin fits perfectly over the wound,
when I fell off the curb, I didn't expect it to reverberate
through skin to muscle to gristle to bone to lips to eyes to skull
and dear god, it hit my brain and
the flap of skin almost makes the hole look like a dark crescent moon,

the light is still green, people are passing--
but what. is missing?

I've got a hole in my memory and a childhood to fill it,
DAMN RIGHT I'd like to start from scratch--
I've got a massive HOLE in my memory and a WANT to fill it,
DAMN RIGHT,
I'd like to fill it with sounds of warmth

but those sounds
don't come from no where,
--and all roads lead back to it,
don't want to press the gas
afraid I might blink and end up back there,

moments like these I feel like a scared kid again,
ducked down in the backseat, on the bad side of town
I think I saw that man die that day
in the middle of the road,

and the light had turned green four or seven times
before the police came,

in a sink hole, think it is my soul
that's slipping--and if it goes, it goes.

but I won't blink, and i'll look for flaps of skin to cover it,
but i'm not backing down,
not, going, anywhere
until this gets settled.

(rd)

Joey Lawrence

(WOAH.

http://www.angelfire.com/freak2/twizzledazzle/bloggy

The ever-lasting and original, Peaceful, Ceramic Warfare.
Just relived a tremendous amount of my life that I had forgotten.
This is better than the writing I keep under my mattress--
er, better than the box of writing I keep under my bed.)

Dear Delirious Lord,
Forgive me for my irreverence,
looks like it's a blood disease,
I quit looking for healing anyway--
I'll live with it, I'll live with it--
Oh the fury of misguided lust,
it was his voice, wasn't it--
I knew it!
you heard it too!
you're blushing.
Amen.

Like It Was Yesterday

I hated you as I desperately undressed you,
untying your tie to find it kept your head on straight,
slipping off your wing tips to find that you had skeleton feet.

What's it like to be eighteen and in love with a dying Man?
Welcome to the City,
marvelous visions of skyscrapers,
elation, sensations, what love--do I love this?--
but you know it'll kill you too, kid.
the exhaust will bind your lungs,
the stress is clanging on the walls of your heart
with wrenches--

and if you stay long enough,
his death will trap you too.

Woman with Skin Like a Lace Slip

She defines success, her earnings
between pleasure and bills
while figuring numbers she fumbles
her own breasts and wonders,
“When will I ever become a widow?”

She has to get married first,
but you can’t take yourself to the courthouse,
or stand alone in front of a man of God,
she opens up drawers of her desk,
to search for pens and look through photos,
“I thought there was something I needed here.”

Fabrications sound like melodies on her ears,
she tells people no and walks away unscathed,
tonight she imagines if she would’ve accepted the invitation,
she would be in misery at a table with another person,

One hand up her tee shirt, on her bare breast
as she opens the cupboard,
she doesn’t need to impress anyone,
she eats in her bed and listens to night noises,
“I remember my family” she thinks gently

As constant, yet seasonal, as the cicadas
or the branches of the trees undressing themselves,
she has trained herself to hear each leaf hit the ground,
“They fall on each other, they decay together,

they become the ground.”

It’s only ever few days that she thinks these thoughts
should be shared with someone else,
but then falls asleep and wakes up in the morning
scarless,
tearless,
forgetful that she considered sleeping next to someone,
her hand cupping her own vulva for a sort of comfort,
“This is mine,” she thinks her first thoughts of the day,
and prepares to become the ground alone.

Empty Handed

Something so diabolical about the way
the sun pulls you into a field of gravity
or maybe its a partnership between three,
the sun-the earth-and the moon.

all much bigger than me
and any sort of influence i might have
so i resort to not knowing simple scientific facts
telling you to go on your way
make your silly, foolish decisions

how can i compete with the universe?
to you, i am barely someone
but to the wealth of space?
well,
let's just say,
i know who & what you'll choose

and it's bigger and badder
and louder and madder
and you'd be so much happier
and
and
it's a lost cause
you're already drifting
into the Invisible Lost.

(circa--august? september? found in the back of my textbook. rd)

Not For Long

Freeze
In some shadow,
look left
look right
stare straight ahead
straining your peripheral vision
eye muscles aching
wanting to be super human
the thought of how this mess began
am i really doing this

right
now?

Hear them coming like wild animals
think of who you left at home
no one
see the dingy winter grass
smell the sweat off your skin

remember
remember,
what you could've been
and that you're running from fate
they're all waiting at home for you to fall
and break your skull open

everyone's waiting for the blood

it needs to end now,
how would a grandmother say it,
or a mother,

what words would fall off your tongue
if you hadn't bit the end of it off

and the reverberations of hoof beats
are felt in your stomach,

when the weakness sets in,
just stop.

you're weak.
just, stop.

what are the last thoughts that you'll have
"nothing has been monumental,

and I am not a monument."

The waters in the womb that I came from,
must have been riddled with this sadness,
must have been thick with reality,
because at my most natural times--
I am aware of this depth.

Times when my own voice is enough,
waking up to a November sky--
If I were a sky, I'd be something like this
the dark tensions of one season leaving
as another takes it's place
the fight between two kindred spirits
swearing separation to find themselves
as tumultuous as,

Every other fight I have ever known
has never been as beautiful as this.
Hello, era.

the way a child hands out candy to friends
from a personal collection,
holding five or six pieces cupped to the chest
head down, lips poking out, trying to protect
as if older boys might appear, push him around
steal his prizes--the ones that he gives away
to be loved
"And you can have this one, it's lemon."
Working so hard to be quiet all week to win a piece,
making a shot from the three-point line in the gym,
best out of three at rock-paper scissors,
knowing all but two on his multiplication test,

he'd forget all these things.
children doing meaningless tasks to be loved
by other children who practice impractical routines
to be loved by the original circle-runners.

and there is always a candyless child left on the swings
watching the children who win the affection of others
wondering when all of this will be over,
questioning how their mouths can be so sweet.

Boundaries

The serpent winds around my being & I conjure a thought,

the sight of you is so surreal,
lines create your being,
so you must be breathing,
should I approach?

The edge of your skin meets the room,
an outline that signifies territories,
when in your State--I am comfortable,
the surrounding a wasteland of forget.

Your metamorphosis goes from human to concept--
I immediately regret putting you in this frame,
captioning your moments with phrases
I shame myself for letting my thoughts
get the Bests of you,
embarrassed that I could control the poem,

if my brain,
if my brain were normal
your deliberate existence would not appear
in each rain drop,
would not rear it's head like
the snake choking the life from my body.

Just play nice.

Sure, I'll fill out a W2 and memorize my employee number
I'll push them on the swings and let them recite small poems
find their simple jokes terribly amusing and walk in front
backwards while calmly yelling for them to get in line,
I'll do it without a whistle, force them to listen

but what if their ears don't want to hear?

"Ms. Beth, push me to the moon."
Sure, and I just saw that on a bumper sticker
wonder if for some reason this child belongs to that car,
"Ms. Beth, will you push me next?!?"
The voices ring out as I quickly formulate long lasting rules,
about waiting turns and moving down lines and no,
I don't like you all equally and no,
you can not be the line leader and no,
you can not hold my hand, and no,
I will not hold you--I'm not your mother
pick the mulch out of your own eye ball -- I'm not the nurse
unbutton your own pants, crawl up on to the toilet -- I'm not a potty trainer.

So now what?
Oh, they're paying me to treat them like adults--
I don't care if you're crying, learn when to stop
Someone stepped on your fingers? Next time, move them.
You miss your mother? So do I. She's a ghost, welcome to life.

Don't tell him he's fat, that's insensitive
Do not push or put your hands on each other, that's A NO-NO.
Get in line.
Get in line.
You're out of line.
And you're out of line.
Every one's feet need to be on this red line.

I. AM. WAITING.

You sure wasted a lot of time getting in line
and being respectful,
I am really disappointed,
I am really disappointed in all of you,
I am really disappointed in you,

Oh,
a part time job--
this is a life time--
and it doesn't matter that I lose my voice laughing
because you're absolutely hilarious and delightful,
that I look forward to going outside with you to play

because my voice will heal, but my stomach is raw
and my stomach will heal, but my head hurts,
acetaminophen will help my head, but then my lungs
they are cracking from the heat of my blood surging
through out my chest and my neck is sore from holding
up my head, too exhausted to hold it high but refuse any other posture.

So many tenses, illnesses, common senses--
can we leave it at something simple,
something gentle, and can you take it to heart?

(rd)

Further Toward

God can move mountains,
but it's hard to move a boulder
with my human arms,
it's large

and the weather is a little murky

seems the best thing to do is try.
try to move the stone,
try to find the surface of the water,
try to lessen the pull of the noose,
endeavors to salvage this

there are words just floating everywhere
two in a row, three in a row,
the spaces between are befuddling

where should I put this boulder?
the scene is unsurveyable with these words
how long has time passed before acknowledging
this challenge?

and off in the periphery,
there are people laughing
and off to the side,
the people are so happy,
and near the edge of the cliff,
I stand with my rock,
and near the end of the world,
I dance recklessly.

Leaving Me Alone

Walking through the house, empty
they hold on to my clothing like curious children
and suddenly I don't want them anymore,
I tell the spirits to run and hide--

flitting into the closet,
slipping behind open dooring,
melting into cushions,
becoming wall paper--

but they never truly leave.

Spirits become what is closest to the truth,
creating the shell of existence,
are they jealous of my livelihood?
Well, it's all a myth, a well written play,
the words on the tongue of a well dressed broad,

each sunrise throws a silk shawl of prayers,
and god shrugs them off not wanting to be bothered.

Thoughts of you hover dirty
visions of truck exhaust scaling our heads
like demons; nightly, there are remainders--

I'm coming,
I'm coming,
I'm coming--

it used to sound so much like,

I'm dying,
I'm dying,

beckoning me forward into the fog that chokes me.

Directions

Desperate roads are singing to me,
there are promises waiting,
written directions to find another road,
to go in another direction.
there is an end, I think.

There should be an end, I think.

At least the seasons change,
and at least the seasons keep changing.

Untitled

Conversation hovered like steam hiding under lamp shades,
the lighting settles on skin and makes us look jaundiced,
there's nothing outside yet she stared into it intently,
"Why does everything have to come to an end?"
For some reason, she assumes I know the answers to these things,
the questions that people are too humble to try to answer,
leaving them to gods who congregate in alley ways, dirty silver change
shooting craps to win the lottery, scattering when cops appear,
Do I have enough cigarettes to be able to handle this civilly?
"I think they do it to drive us crazy," the smoke's too thick
blotted the answer right out, leaving me irritated with a second chance,
she fell asleep in the chair while I was thinking, barely breathing--
"Endings have their purpose too--I think it's so they can find the bones."

"Quit being so nefarious," she said through sips of coffee,
"Stop asking me questions that I don't want to answer."
We're both irritated at each other's non-sense,
"But you DO know the answer right?" Of course I do,
"It's a disappearing act, okay?
Everyone in the crowd tells their neighbor it's an illusion,
they act wise, they're all rich fucks and laugh from their necks,
their guts burgeoning, searing horror that someone got the best of them,
thinking, 'He's gone? Is that the end? Is that it?
Did I pay all that money for this? Where'd he go?'"

That night I dreamt that I called her on to the stage, I put her in a box--
three taps of a wand and hacking up some gold dust, a classic vanishing act
but the crowd was gone suddenly, and I realized it was only me on stage.

(rd)

Birthday Gods

Honestly?
My birthday wishes are consumed with this catastrophe,
and I know they're not that important,
wishes never come true,
but have you ever felt so desperate
that superstition captivates you?--

it's my last ditch effort,
is what I'm trying to tell you
and this frivolity of begging
the birthday candle gods
to let this subside
is humiliating in the least.

I've taken to practicing my wishes
when I blow out scented candles on my desk
hoping that maybe there is some hope attached there,
and when we poured gallons of water on the campfire,
I was screaming in my head with my eyes pinched shut,
"I WISH THIS WOULD TURN OUT WELL
I WISH THIS WOULD TURN OUT WELL."

We always say, "I don't give a fuck anymore,"
which means we give massive loads of fucks
but are too blinded by the pain of what's on our mind
to even stand face to face and say it,
just say it.
just.
say.
it.
I wish,
you'd just say it--
I'm sure someone just blew a candle out somewhere
so it's okay to make that wish,

Don't fault me, birthday candle gods,
I've been practicing for my big day
hoping I get two cakes,
I have to two big requests

and I'm twenty-two this year,
shouldn't I be wishing for a convertible?
or a shit ton of money for student loans?

when the cakes are placed in front of me,
I'll have already pulled my hair back
in preparation as to not dick this up,
"Come on Beth, make a wish..."

I've been frenzied, blowing out candles
matches, flames on gas stove burners,
wishing and wishing and wishing
and this is what you've reverted me to,
singeing my arm hair off, no eye brows
getting as close to any flame to make it legit
begging, "PLEASE, LET THIS BE BOLD."

Moments

Moments, like images of autumn
appear in my mind and float away as easily
as the leaves the cross my path from trees
who choose to undress together.
None of them get to live.
I crush them all, purposefully grind them
into indistinguishable mush,
not even the brilliant ones, beautiful small
explosions of toxic colors and summer sunsets
are salvaged from my wrath,
and I do it singly to hear their spines crack.

And they never saw me coming,
did not have time to tell the next one to vanish--
could not tuck their children in to cupboards,
could not button their pants,
it was like a bandit kicking in the door,
the silhouette of someone in a long coat
with a rifle.

These moments, I destroy them all
cohesive ideas that string together a life
cause disheartening head holding,
eye closing, sighs--
A sigh that stops my day,
consciously forcing back tears,
building walls, not talking to friends,
wanting my loneliness so that I could be unaware,
of my events.

So I kill them,
wait for it to pass like autumn into winter,
and look woefully and proudly at the carnage.
Who is safe? The newspapers would scream,
Not one of you with your memories.

Predestination Turned Determination

Learning to write again after an intermission with your identity,
is similar to searching for God after years of willingly
holding Satan’s tailcoats--

During this period of time, you’re made to suffer
gathering pieces of grace alone in the sparse woods,
knowing well it doesn't grow here, but this is where
he plunked you and it's a humiliating trick,
hoping to piece something together
that might look like holiness,
that might resemble being whole.

Suddenly you’re a walking lesson, for all of those people
the ones who might toy around with losing themselves,
giving up their gifts, their passions, devotions, faith--
they stumble past your naïve and gaping mouthed,
generally a finger protruding through the slobbery hole,

So what? They see you hanging strangely, uncomfortable
your neck not quite broken, your feet tingling with the explosion of blood,
so what they they’re watching you struggle for life--
God’s surely around the corner isn’t he,
A technician in this masquerade, this research study?
The problem is that he told me the safe word when I can back to him,
when I sat down and picked up my pen,
but I refuse to say it to him,
to show him the words that would make him look on me like a sick child,
I‘m the one floundering here, I‘m the one strung up and fucked wide open--

Theologically, the safe words are, “Forgive me.”
But I don’t beg,
and I’ll be God damned if I’m alive come morning.

The Woman Who Works In The Bar

Your beauty will run out, but you don’t even know it.
You like coming back to the bar you drank at for years
encouraging your raging alcoholism,
the sobers thought you were such a drag,
but you were the life of the scene with the liquor--
it’s just like walking in that old bar again,
faces lighting up as they turn to look at you
your innards turning soft as you feel recognized
and recognized
and recognized again.
Of course, you’d come back
for this type of love, you’d do anything.

You say, “If I quit drinking and just come up missing,
what will they do without me?”
And we pretend that they’d miss you,
imagine situations where they’d talk about what a great man you were,
how they wish they could slap a five down for one more drink for you,
offer you the warmest stool with the yellow coosh oozing out the side,
we pretend, because it feels just as good as the numbness from a shot,
“I better go back one more time, you know--just to tell them I won’t be back.”

I comply because I don’t know any better,
and in the morning, you’re asleep in the bar waiting for drinks to be served
for you, a tweed coated party with patches on the elbow,
a gentle glow from the window sills kind of get together--

“Why do the dry ones hate me so much?” You ask, one night
you managed to stagger home and these were the words
that spilled with drool from your lips as you collapsed,
“What did I do to make them be so sad to me?”
I felt for you then, held you like a child, pulled you close,
Told you that they just didn’t understand your world,
and we pretended that they were always at your door
knocking to come in and just have a mug of beer,
we fabricated and image that they just didn’t know how to fit in
that they were search for the answer from you,
“I’d let them in,” you say fading out, aspiration so shallow,
“I’d always let them in, and I’d always buy them…..”
breathing, breathing, “…..another drink.”

How cold they were not to love you back when you needed it,
I know, you’re a drunk--but you were so naïve and trusting
and you gave your feelings like tiny little presents to people
who slid them away in their coat pockets to not remember later
and let them wash so recklessly--
How cold they were,

Let’s just get your jacket on you, baby
I can’t stand to see you shaking like this,
C’mon, I’ll walk with you--
“You’ll walk with me?!” Your face lights up,
“Yeah, we’re going to get you there safely tonight,
and they’re all there waiting for your arrival,
reminiscing about your stories, thinking of what you’ll tell them tonight,
the little candles on the tables were just lit, and I think they’ve swept the floor
we’re going to make sure you get there alright--
C’mon baby.”
My arm around your waste, yours around my shoulders--trying to stay steady
I think that this is exactly how lovers walk, so passionately intertwined

In front of the bar I open the door and heavy lidded bastards regard you,
dropping greasy shot glasses, heads hitting counter tops
candles smoking black as wicks drown in their own wax,
you interact with the smog in the bar so graciously, my love
This is exactly how it is to be in love, a sickly waste land constructed
and decorated into a delicate, heart warming dream.

I sit to the side and try not to cry, for every sweet and gentle lost boy
and I just wait for the next man who needs a lover,
and a vision to last the rest of the night.

Give Up

There's a headache growing tentacles
through the skull above my eyes,
spreading nausea down my neck,

I've gotten past the stage
rendering me unable to eat;
missing that as I realize the next step
is hardening arteries, syncopating rhythms
between my upper and lower heart,

but realizing although it works separately
it's all one
heart

and even though I'm home right now,
that doesn't mean I won't stumble out that door
and across this state
to be with the ocean,

doesn't mean I won't give up, won't give up
because my nerves are so tight right now,
you could play a song sounding something like
electricution;

doesn't mean that I don't want to run either
singing lullabies to myself about searching for loneliness
even though, I couldn't stand seven days without you
sighing gusts of wind to move everyone so that I can just be,

There was a time when I was a solitary lightbulb
hanging, austere, in a room with no purpose.
There was a time when I was okay with that.

Weak Old.

Sometimes the shadows cast cool spots
over your skin, you think of what luck
you must have to experience brief relief;

the sun beats down again,
too much of anything good,
it'll kill ya--suck the soul right out
and spit you into a cup full of week old saliva,
filth floating in it.

the future is almost enough to gag on,
enough to send you running to the trash can,
globs of mucus pouring from your throat,
and the volcanic heaves push tears
like raw egg white,
and after the savage holocaust in your stomach
has ended, you hold your head in your hands,
sitting on your knees,
and weep.

the future is almost enough,
but it never is all it takes,
to kill you.
I can't promise it will be alright,
but I can promise you that when you've vomited enough,
the pain will endure into the next day,
and your body won't let you forget,
how much it hates to sit in direct sunlight;

it'll kill you, unless you can kill yourself first
and that's a success you're confident about.

Baby Is Desperate

The newborn has pneumonia,
has been asleep for thirty-seven hours,
this season, this cold, this era
has lasted too long,
and this town,
needs to burn to the fucking floor,
outside this town,
there's a whole earth that gets to thrive
and swell with beauty,

the baby is in the third drawer down,
I was too tired to hold her anymore,
I needed sleep too,
plus, I don't think she'll be waking up,

my eyes are as glassy and lifeless as hers
i notice while staring into the mirror
who belonged to my grandmother, mildew
in the corners, or is that mildew on my walls?

How could I have not kept it breathing?
Failure, failure,
does not ring like church bells,
putting her in the drawer seemed sane,

she quite breathing a while ago,
i don't know the proper procedure at this point,
they don't teach us things like
where to take your baby when it spits up
blood clots and asperates it's own vomit,

they teach us how to feel guilty
immediately wanting to slide the evidence
under a floor board
with the roaches and the syringes

it's wrong,
and the evangelists were right,
i'd go to hell if i died right now,
but i'm not trying to mask my fault
i'm just ignorant
and she didn't have pneumonia afterall.

Deliberation on Survival

It's not as late as usual,
we sit in the car, leave it running,
wish I was running away
from you and everything i feel
about this education and the money that i need to make--

we leave the car running, the headlights on the bushes
and I heave my exhaustion out through snot in my nose,
desperate addiction, needing alcohol through my tears,
saying anything that might make sense to myself
because goddamnit, it hurts
and i'm embarrassed that I need alcohol to sort out
my life
/life--
don't understand why battles are all uphill,
i don't mind battles,
can't they be on a flat field?
I'll throw the fucking flag at the top,
take a few bullets,
come skidding down dead bodies--
we all fought, some lived,
I keep living,
I just keep breathing,
I'm the one who is still here
every.
time.
and it's getting to be too much
on evenings like this--
needing thirteen gulps of divinity,
gulps of air, I am trying to tread water--

and you listen so well, baby.

which makes it worse,
I begin to rant and sort and write unecessary poems

so humiliating to be this human in front of you,
such a stab in the gut to feel this alive,

once I could suppress it,
anymore it burgeons from me,
fat from a wound,
oh it's so desperate,

fat from a goddamn wound.

there are times when feeling alive are intolerable,
times when I prefer to feel invisible,
a sweet ghastly idea,
times when being dead seem the most appropriate--

but I always make it out of that battle,
and each fight I realize that the odds are against me,
so I'm waiting for it to end,

knowing I've always been the exception'
"Good woman, Beth Smith"
isn't always the cheerful greeting others think it is,
I might look at you in shock
realizing I've come away from it,
still bleeding red, pissing yellow-
conscious, and irate.

To See Your Brother Go

In pictures,
he already looks like a ghost,
somehow the camera captures
the truth you purposely forget,
fail to acknowledge;
but I can't blame you--

you grew your hair long,
because he couldn't grow any,
worked pottery with your hands,
because he couldn't control his,
laughed hard, laughed hard
uncontrollable and sincere
with him, because he can laugh--
and he does,

he looks like a ghost in some pictures with you,
all shallow eyes,
black and white, auras blending into skin,
those are the pieces you throw away immediately,
like touching them,
breathing,
might turn them in to truth--

he's a ticking time bomb of dying,
but you didn't expect he'd live this long,
and although every day your entire family
pretends to live it to the fullest,
so that he may drink every drop
of life wine,
he's so drunk,
oh, but you're so sober--

your brother admires you because you're so beautiful,
and your friends play with him like the twenty-seven year old
child he really is,
he dances, you dance too--
a special handshake constructed out of madness
trying to create everything you could possibly endure
with a best friend

before the slipping occurs.

pictures can be destroyed by fire or compactor,
they can be degraded under piles of the entire city's trash,
but the slipping has to happen,
the fading has to begin,

continue to love him,
your heart might turn desperately cynical,
but never let him know,
he should begin to ghost away with that grin
that beautiful grin,
his ghosting will begin,
and you, my human soul, can not stop it.

POS

What I originally had planned to put here had no poetic merit to it at all; simple a rant to a boy who isn't easy to love. Who doesn't know that story? It can't even be sold because it's all too familiar and people don't want to buy what they live through time and time again.

So I'll try again later.

PIECE OF SHIT.

Another snippet, untitled.

I don't mind, sweetheart--
bring those troubles too.
If you need to bag them up to carry them all,
I've got room enough for your heartache.

I don't have money, I don't have collaterol
but I have strength enough for the both of us
and every day I get stronger so that I can hold you up
maybe that tomorrow you can look toward the crowd
and feel worthy of their adoration.

Untitled, as of yet

I guess we've said all that was meant to be said,
those lovely things we dream of childishly in the morning,
become scuffed up and dirty by the time we go to bed.

What about that dusk scene that is so used,
can we say anything about that?
Any words to describe how each sunset is unremarkable
because we're not surprised anymore?

(This could be a beginning, middle, or end of poem. From midnights, locked in a public pool.)

Naive, August

Can't memorize everyone and their lines
but their voices aren't so distinct either
afraid everyone's melting; too soon
the magic is gone.

I refuse to give in to your victimization,
I'll use my imagination to pretend you're better
than you ever really were.

Those who tell the truth say you're a piece of shit,
and although I know it would be right to believe them
they are also momentos of a fat bastard's dinner,
and I'll keep you just the same, you little shit.

Evolve Already

Oh, Jon--I've heard you complain
that you are too young to understand
this life, and existence, and you're pathetic
in my book--
against that sunset tonight,
you look absolutely prehistoric,
a barbarian, neanderthal,
I've been waiting for you to evolve
so that maybe we could have dinner
civilly, humanely, diginity
alas,
you remain poorly coordinated,
nonverbal, grunts and groats,
simply discovering fire makes you hot
and I'm bothered by your amazement at simple things,

I care very little about you anymore, Jon--
go to your cave and come back a man,
with shoes, and short hair,
and learned and literate and not putrid
for the sake of being putrid.

Brush your teeth, guy--
who could even try to love you?

Insight on to human nature, after a scenic drive in Michigan

It's a simple act,
some trees do it with prompting
by weather and many seasons,
other trees don't need any reason,
they'd rather just not be rooted down.

Roots begin to dry,
soil becomes loose,
and gravity takes control,
a care free,
gentle smile sort of free fall
and luckily no one is there to watch
or to judge.

Sometimes trees fall
when they had nothing there to hold them up
Other times trees will fall
simply because they're tired of standing.

Death Overture I

After a fresh, deep, skin toughening sunburn
I spend the night shivering and vomiting,
Imagining that this is the onset of the illness;
the composition of death.

How would I look with no hair?
Should I shave my head now to test the fashion?
My personality is too morbid sometimes.
Always waiting for the end.

I’m so beautiful and young,
They say to me,
Apparently I’m desperately alive

Never seen such a classic beauty
Drown so fast,
Dry cement around her own feet,
Jumping off the boat.

Too pretty to die early,
Doesn’t exist.
Some of us run toward it.

Looking for Leftovers

Parents have become more organized,
nothing left behind,
entrails of an afternoon well spent
with small children who absent mindedly
drop shovels, buckets, toys and float

an absence of toys feels unnatural
knowing that a child was here digging this hole;

have you ever been in a home with children
that had no toys, no color, no semblence
that a kid existed?

it feels hollow.
like that they're waiting for the child to die
or hoping.

Brother

I used to love you
when you would make me laugh
at saturday morning cartoons;
I could look at you at the dawn
summer morning and think
"You're my hero
you'll never change
will you?"

Now I love you
simply because you are my brother;
that if I didn't love you
I'm afriad no one would
and you deserve more than that.

So hard to look at you
imagining how I used to look up to you
see the clear summer sky;
now who are you, drunk driver?
wife hater.
daughter neglector.

I just didn't recognize you
because you weren't looking at me
and you resemble someone who's lost
unwilling, hesitant, embarrassed
by the prospect of being alive.

My love for you is barely there,
but what little I have left
is in a vile, a small label
with your first and last name
social security number
and blood type.

Keep Your Promises

With this light shining on my face,
I feel embarrassed that you might see my grin.
And I don't ever want you to think there might be
any semblance of you in my happiness,

because there's plenty.

I read my poetry to you, allow you to see the words
because I love you, but I promised myself
I wouldn't fall in to that pit again--
so I let you read my poetry because

you mean nothing to me.

I'm okay with all of these contradictions
but we'll need to make a hefty deal
with a contract littered with legal terms
that I promise not to run away again

& you promise never to let on.

Without Them

People say not to write about clouds,
but these were thing and scrawled across the night sky
while I drove down the interstate
racing against every other car to get back
to you.
These clouds were scripted in Arabic
quite beautiful and isolated in the sky
I read them right to left finding
they knew my truth, too.

Writers frown when mentioning love
but I sat in the chair and stared at tree tops
and you built that fire for me;
starting off small and by the time I refocused
it was huge, hellacious.
The people who said you didn't love me
were liars
and thieves.
Never listen to marauders.

We don't have to talk,
just be near me.
You don't have to entertain
in fact, I want to be alone--
but I mean,
the others have to go--
you should stay
I want to undress with you.

This side of the fire is phenomenal
as I work the teeth out of a deer jaw bone
and you stare skeptically waiting for me
to be mischevious.
So it's true that you don't trust me?
I trust you.
What do the clouds tell you?
You can read them if you try,
and I think you know the truth anyway.

(Compost Heap, 2010. RD)

The Subtleties of Coexistence

I choose to take the trash out in the abandoned dark
of night,
I flip the horizontal switch above the sink in the bathroom
to wash my face,
dishes need to be done, but the sponge is dry and breaking apart
in the scummy sink,
crumbs and twist-ties litter the coffee table
in the living room,
the bedroom fans are caked with gray dust.

I think I can love him,
this time.

On my knees,
scrubbing the shower floor, it's 3AM
this is what I do.
I haven't been able to sleep since he started
the graveyard shift,
so I feel trapped in the graveyard.
So much commiseration and arguments,

honey, don't worry
it's okay, I promise.

Yellowing, the refrigerator door sucks shut
my bare feet stick to the hardwood floors
I want a tuna sandwich
and I can hear the young couple sleeping behind the
kitchen wall,
feet apart,
full bed,
it's hit them already,
their nights crawl on,
what a shame.

Our bed is large and I can't get close enough,
scooting and scooting him to the edge of the bed
until he wakes up and mumbles,
"Look at all the bed behind you."

Getting accustomed to this life?
Sure, I guess.
This time, it's different
I'm willing to hold on to it with both hands
until my knuckles are not only white
but bursting from the thin film of skin around the

it's only skin,
seems worth it to me.

our existence is complimentary,
even the empty Star Wars action figure boxes
until the edge of my bed,
my jewelry on his side table,
his mail on my desk,
my poetry laying on top of his record player.

it all makes sense, suddenly
on the front porch along the highway
on the hottest night of the summer, yet.

we are only skin and bones now
and if we hold on tight enough
we can burst through all of this
and it's all worth it to me
how gently i can say this to you
with compassion and admiration in my voice.

True, it's only a voice
one that you've heard before
but there's beauty in recycling
the voice of a lover.

(The Compost Heap, 2010. rd)

Daily Chores

A list of things to do,
idly waiting on the scuffed coffee table.
It's not the chores that make it hard to breathe,
the prospect of another day devoted to maintenance.

Sure, I discredit other people for their happiness
as simple as the fact
written in plain script at the top of a white page
that I have very little of my own.

[I have spent too long searching for improvement
routine oil changes in my life
to find that, come winter
I am this dull, this laden with guilt
this disguised by the grin on my face
as I greet customers as work,
"How may I help you?" is code for
"Who the hell let you in."
Savages.

Perhaps this cynicism has been brewing
filing suits against me my entire life
and this is the first time I've had enough courage
to unleash the beast.]

(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)

Clutch

After a war,
despite the sun rising through gun smoke
everyone wears dark colors.

I have begun to pull my hair out
one kinky, gnarled strand at a time
because I am forcing my brain to comprehend
what it was not created to do.

Forcing neurons to fire
and receive orders
that are so foreign
I can feel the sparks flying jaggedly
through gray matter.

It hurts in a novel way,
dull, pressure, motion sickness;
but others will label it
PTSD;
preferred to sustain dignity
passing through scenic destruction
pretty thoughts shot dead,

and it was so beautiful,
is what I had to tell myself
otherwise
I'd still be crying,
I refuse to be human anymore.

(Compost Heap, 2010.)

Almost Perfect Before Death

It had just started, the motion
of his head turning to mine,
his eye lid, the one I could see,
covering my favorite eye.

Before he even spoke,
I lost him.

Heart stopped suddenly
and every day I mourn the loss
of a perfect phrase.

Twenty-seven years, I just wanted to hear it
had he opened his lips a moment sooner,
was always my rationalization.
I'm sure he would've said it to me then.

Hospital Room With the Bay Window

So odd, you died with such dignity
though saliva dribbled out of your lips.
I thought your dry heaving, stale breaths
and thick, stewy vomit would make you less appealing,

I wanted to have sex with you then.

Laying there alone, you needed someone
to lay with you, kiss the corner of your mouth
stroke your jawline, show you how alive you still are
until the last moment.

More over, there's something erotic in death
if not the simple fact that it's startling to watch
an entire life come to a halt.
What else could I offer?

I told you about a dream from the night before
about the road on the edge of town
that smells like stale inner-factory walls
but sounds like freedom in June.

Your slow gazing eyes, contently cruising my face
it's not that you're ready to go
but that you're not in control anymore
and three years of this has turned you into a husk.

No one is holding you, they've all gone home.
I'll hold you because I am also a husk by life.
Hiding my tears behind your gently shut lips--
I guess I could sing in a time like this,
there's a window to look out of, as well.

(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)

Erotica

To consol myself,
I pass homes of unknown people
and convince myself that they were allowed to live
so why wouldn't I survive?

Headlights of racing vehicles infront of me
match the glowing, evil eyes of the sunset looming over mountains
and blend in, all smudged.
I begin to fret endlessly--
Will I too blend in to the aftermath?
Just become another piece of metal and rubbish and muscle
and teeth and gravel and skull?

The cliffs aren't sleeping,
the steep drop off isn't amazing,
these are predators that we're admiring.

Climbing the mountain
I grind against the edges of the road
taunting death with sexy whispers,
"How do you want to fuck me?
Hit it from behind?"

There's only one way to cope,
and that's to drive death crazy with sex.

Each home erected as a monument
to the life lived there;
I'm naive and in awe,
"They were allowed to live..."

If the car flips and my lover's neck snaps
I'll die in desperate shock
my tank top sticky and dense with blood
I'll lay over him and tell him it's okay
although clearly one of us is dead.

A catastrophe on the mountain
is a picture of two possessed cars racing head on
a grizzling explosion as they intertwine.

Brilliant,
I heard you calling, death;
Full speed ahead.

(Compost Heap, 2010.)

Paper Lungs

Centuries now, that this story has passed
dribbled of the cracked, bleeding lips
bile stinging the open sores of
my people.
God has never set foot in this part of the country
never looked into financing a home
never enrolled his chidlren in our ruins of a school system.

He took one look at our skeletons
at our cracked teeth
and vowed never to put his family through this again,
then he got the hell out of this cesspool of gargling delirium.

It was only hours ago that I truly felt his absence,
in the stale air that I find so refreshing;
I took a staggering breath and regretted it immediately
ten thousand morbid realizations
but one floated dead to the surface of my swampy brain:
I have been alotted so many breaths,
and I've been wasting them.

Doctors explained that my lungs are the worst they've ever seen,
"Two brown withered scraps of tissue paper,
hanging from rusty farm hooks, Ms. Smith
what have you done to your body?"
Self medication of sixty cigarettes daily
and they shake their head.
I ask them if they can prescribe another reason
to get out of bed in the morning
except nagging, digging addiction.

They hand me the prescription as I hop off their table,
and tell me to have a good day,
Yeah... right.

The pharmacist smiles and accepts the note,
quits smiling, exits and reenters with a bible,
eyes my existence.

Yeah... right.

And did you know that churches won't buy bibles
from people who have track marks
or hollow guts
crooked rib cages
itching balls
curly hair
desperation
vulnerability
dark thoughts
curses from their enemies?

So I gave it to them for free
and I saw them toss it into a pile of ratty others,
tall and crawling with maggots
like the piles of filth in our landfills.

No, god never settled here.
I'm only twenty
I shouldn't have this demon on my hip.
The sulphuric bitterness is seeping from my capillaries
and through my pores.
I smell like death,
I carry hints of the cologne from the man
who abandoned the worst of me
and he's only a man.

This ward wreaks of the illness.

Lansing, Michigan

Some person with their doctorate,
packaged in a camel colored turtleneck
might explain how silence is not a noise;

however, in my desperation, this silence screams
something bloody and wretched, fleshy and choking
more alarming that the sirens of war demanding evacuation.
In this desperation, I sit in a dark hotel room
the deafening lack of noise
floods my brain with a blackening paranoia.

In another's quaint home with soft yellow flower walls,
the late afternoon sunlight streams through bleached white curtains--
this dream keeps me awake. I turn the TV on and press Mute.
I don't need noise. The Silence is speaking.

The woman with a one room house in the inner city,
she's seen everything
quit fighting for justice immediately.
She's skeptical of me,
I'm too naive for her life.

This idea that America's purchased from high-rise, chrome corporates--
How man more can we sell before the morning comes, before the race ends,
before the noise erupts and silence doesn't not control the masses,
keeping us wandering aimlessly and in awe of your wonder, Oh Lord?

Our mouths are dry, we're begging for water at the door of some person
and for those of us who've heard the gospel
we're hoping this man is Jesus.
There's rumors that he is a gentle man.
The rumors are unspoken.

Unimpressed, but he's convinced himself;
his bored glances, he's tired of philanthropy,
shows us to the water hose,
he doesn't speak,
but we're so grateful it's humiliating.

Not a whimper.

I thought I heard the phone ring,
the way hotel phones startle you into answering,
I'm dying from exhaustion and it was a hallucination.
Hoping one person might call, but who would do that?
We're all in this show of pain, different motives
different tickets, different venues
we're vending trying to be seen.

Shooting prayers up like rockets for a noise
as concrete as screaming mothers as their sons
shot in cross fire, screams like wombs dropping,
a wailing that would impress you, sir
in your turtle neck.

You may not agree with my rationalizations,
but that does not exist here.
simple sensations, and suddenly you're captured.

(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)

Snatch

you can rinse the blood away with a stream of piss,
she explained to herself.
she didn't expect to feel it slide out;
thick and tough,
she thought briefly about how it might burst
if pinched between her thumb and forefinger.
she didn't expect to spread her doughy thighs
to watch it glide down the white porceline bowl
and sink helplessly to the bottom of the toilet water.
it hadn't time to learn how to swim.

It didn't seem right to her,
all of the other women in the bathroom had no idea,
they swarmed around her stall,
heels forcing corporate, dignified sounds on the tile,
making their meetings on time,
wiping themselves from front to back,
inserting tampons,
washing their hands and straightening their skirts...

How did they earn it?
They were allowed to be so
DAMN
PRETTY.
She's never been that pretty.

Staring past her tuft of untamed pubic hair,
legs spread tensely, feet pointed; more a workhorse
than a dancer
she feels apelike in her false birth;
her bloody clot drowning in a toilet, what would've been an eye
shaping up it's mother,
a few faint blood vessels...
a clot is all.

maneuvering her labia, she instinctually squirts a stream of hot yellow piss
erasing the streak of light pink blood, entrails & evidence
from the shimmering white.

automatic flush when she stands up
by the time she turns around she realizes it's been snatched away from her

From now on, she vows, from now on
I will be numb to this shit,
I will be terse.

(Compost Heap, 2010)

Womb Harvest

It began when women plucked their wombs
from their abdomens
like choosing the fattest, juciest chicken
for slaughter
leaving us hollow and dry.

Oh tomorrow is endless,
and the children are so distraught and furious,
adults are staying indoors with canned food,
supplies of primitive survival,
awaiting the rapes and monstracities
after nightfall.

An ironic scene,
the sun is so pleasantly bright
the smell of spring and pine in the air
while I lay silently
giving in as the children rape me.

The girl scouts had knocked on the door,
I didn't see the one behind the corner,
with the recorder,
until the freckled one in front
began to lick her lips,
then they pounced.

I'm a hollow one, you see... empty,
I echo for some sort of control,
and I couldn't help but notice
how beautiful the day was
while little hips brandished sloppy strap ons
and fucking me into my brain.

I have to cry,
we quit peddling innocence the same way
we forfeited our womanhood,
folding it up in our dejected,
limp, withered wombs
and tossed them into the alley
like old, nasty rags after surgery.

The stench brough perverts
and of course, flies.

The children know everything now,
and they're looking for a better fuck,
tighter cunts
fatter asses
bigger tits
and you're royalty.
anything else,
and you're rotting meat,
useless in the eyes of babes.

(Compost Heap, 2010)

Rough You Up

How'd it feel to have someone help
chew your food;
by that I mean, when I slammed your jaw shut
and you have your words between your teeth,
how did it feel to be taught a lesson?

Your words crumbled like tin cans in the grips
of a trash compactor stained by shit
over the years, and no one had enough balls
to clean it.

I told you specifically,
"One more fucking time,
I swear to god, I'll show you."

You ask how I can hurt you so bad
but I made that promise
and followed through in the form of an upper cut
designed perfectly for your face
and when it's time to bleed, hold your head back
and look at me,

and when it's time to hold your swollen,
toothless mouth,
do it in remembrance of me.

(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)

Ambulatory

Hey crazy, where ya been?
It used to be a numbers game
trying to see how many
before you realized you weren't numb anymore.

How many did it take?
Before you realized you were still dead
and no one could resurrect you
make you holy, make you erect,
make you come,
how many did it take before you gave in

& killed it?

The numbers are higher now
the stakes more shocking

thirty-seven strong,
haven't come in years,
still clean,
no diseases forcing you to stop

Good morning, crazy--
frustrated yet?

you've spent years constructing injuries
that keep you from getting hard
while vaginas wither
weep, lilt, just begging you to
FUCKING STOP

because it's been hours now,
and you sit still in your dark room
smoking, doting, fidgeting

thinking, maybe the next one
"I just need to try one more."

the lamp next to you isn't bright enough
and you barely passed your college courses
the apartment kind of smells like piss
and you are so thin you leave bruises against thighs
from leaning into them

couldn't life be bright and shining?
the carpet is shag,
and maybe next time you'll come.

(Compost Heap, 2010)

Word Night

The hug you pulled me into several weeks ago,
while I stood, you sat in your chair
you lifted my shirt, pressed your cheek to my stomach
and just held me there
I realized
that you missed me
a revelation that you never wanted me to walk away
as you sat memorizing the reality of your face
against my skin
...and there we were again
silently, more in love than ever before.
Shit, baby.... I don't know how I feel about this except,
you are my earth. You don't keep me grounded
but you spin underneath of my feet
it's so grand and unfathomable that I don't realize
the power
it moves me to silence

our path is unmarked
still finding our way

(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)

Born of the Left

The girl isn't that bold
born of the left ovary
the right had exploded several years prior
when a much more exalted sibling erupted
through an ectopic pregnancy.

there are nights when the girls silently remembers
her mother sitting on the couch
comically crooning,
"And I don't even remember when I was your age."

but the girl remembers feeling wasted
by time and exhaustion and the sheer effort of living
and a time when she became skin and bones of emotion
because there were so many questions to be answered.

"Will you? Do you?"
No, but the girl dreams of crawling back through a gaping
cervix, up the side of the meaty uterus,
nailing through a delicate fallopian
and cuddling softly with the rest of the eggs

lost,
in an ocean of compassionate ovum.

(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)

Cloud Cover

You are my foggy night,

driving down the old state route toward the middle of town,
the street lamps are weeping their dirty light,
ugly tears falling on the hood of my car.

The fog is gentle enough to drive on through,
dead moths and pollution mimic cloud coverage.

Street lamps bend forward self consciously
with their yolky light, kissing like filth
but whisper, "If I shine like this,
and you float across my light like that--
maybe they'll actually see us this time."

My blindness was healed,
for once I don't want to go home,
I swear the weather feels like your arms around me,
and it feels like foolishness.

Others are calling this environmental degradation...

I'm still blind,
you're still lost,
no miracles have appeared--

the fog is a napalm mist,
I'm traumatized when I breathe your air,
maybe you'll actually see me tonight,
falling filthy for you.

(Compost Heap, 2010. rd)