rocket

Note:  I will no longer sign poems with the date they should be posted on, but rather the date they are actually posted on.

When I was a bundle in my mother’s arms, a cluster of inconspicuous cells that had grown and divided into something alive, something with potential, something that could become anyone, the first thing anyone ever asked when they saw me was:
Is it a boy, or a girl?
Because that’s what I was, an unconceivable, uncomprehendable, unlimited bundle of potential, and they wanted to know what single word they could define me as.
All of my life, people have been trying to define a who by whats; what’s your gender, your name, grade, age, race, address, what’s your blood type, what’s your astrological sign?
And though you may criticize me for using poetry to lament the poison of words, when the first euphoric Cro-Magnon stopped and thought, ‘I am happy,’, did it not diminish all later jubilee?
Because now there were criteria, standards, comparisons to make, and every time that caveman felt anything similar to happy, they had to stop and ask, ‘Am I as a happy as I was the last time I was happy?’
There was no satisfaction, no pause to enjoy the emotion, because it had to be labeled, measured, scrutinized, analyzed.
You may say the rainbow is no less beautiful because it is called a rainbow, but as soon as the word manifested in our vernacular, it became expected. While few have stopped to ponder the arc of color that curves to kiss the heavens and falls to the ground, and while few have considered the sheer improbability that that very sun would shine into those very water droplets which would create their illusion at exactly the right time and place to be witnessed by these very eyes, everyone has seen a rainbow.
No longer was it a phenomenon that dropped our jaws but a common matter of fact; no longer a miracle, but merely a rainbow.
And despite popular belief, you are not the words that describe you.
Not a single person is black or white or fat or skinny or this or that, because those all describe things and you are not a thing.
Maybe it’s human nature to label and measure and scrutinize and analyze, but as long as everything must be placed into its own nice little square, there can be nothing genuine. As soon as something becomes defined, it is taken for granted.
So stop. Stop the words and let the silence speak. Let the feelings be felt, unbridled. See the world but do not call its name, for its name is the very thing that makes us blind.
Only then can we stop being something and start being someone.

(c) 030612

it’s the kind of sad that hits you
when your hands are busied, when your eyes look the other way
that sad that creeps in through the tips of your fingers
or the balls of your feet and snakes, snakes, snakes
all the way through you

the sad that makes you freeze-and-hyperventilate-and
-drop-to-the-ground-and-melt-and-writhe-and-
cry-out-in-pain-and-pray-for-mercy-or-death
-or-really-anything-but-this

numbing, an analgesic, the general anesthetic
so powerful you could be unsewn from knaves to chops
and not feel a thing, the sad that makes the things
you once enjoyed; now dull

the sad that turns diamonds back into coal
and takes the luster out of the moon

and/this/is/the/sadness/that/comes/creeping/in/at/night/
this/is/the/sadness/that/you/can’t/fight/
you/could/evade/and/run/as/much/as/you/wanted
your/sadness/is/a/ghost/and/you/are/haunted

do what you can
do what you must
do what works

sadness can wait

(c) 110710

the space on the bed where you lied curled against me inflates.
it bubbles in a grotesque way, sends a chill to the corners of the room,
full of the monsters that your voice once chased away.

i drown in the silence of the night, heart beating against my ears:
the only sound against the backdrop of mocking crickets,
who have each other to sing to.

within the night hides grins of malice and angry eyes
the brightness of your smile once vanished.
and now mold and maggots slide across my flesh
where you once held me tight.

loneliness is a cruel drug,
it does not blur or enlighten.
it reaches down, down, down
and chills you right to the bone.

goosebumps across your skin,
your conscious echoing in the vastness
of the void,
your thoughts loud and angry and humble and shy
all at the same time.

grasp for a scent, a token, a memory,
to banish the monsters until sleep can take you,
to stop the thrashing beast of your mind,
until exhaustion slips over you like shroud,
until you don’t have to be so lonely anymore.

(c) 110610

i pray in another life i could be a tiger,
majestic in statue
and proud in pose.

with yellow eyes like topaz,
that rippled with wisdom,
knowing crystallized in their golden depths.

the mighty tiger who stalks with infinite patience
and strikes with finesse.

the tyger burning bright,
in the forests of the night.

the tiger who makes poets tremble,
and write verses that do not rhyme.

the tiger who strikes fear in the souls of men,
who hunt not with patience nor finesse
but guns that buck and shout
and underhanded poisons and traps.

the men who hunt not out of necessity,
for food or to protect their young,
but the men who hunt for greed.

and still the tiger lives on,
to inspire verse and song.

the tiger,
with its topaz eyes,
with its majesty,
its patient pride,
stands stronger than the greed of men. a muse for many past, and for many more to come.

(c) 110510

i wish i could write a poem that beat like the blood in my heart.
if only there were words to describe the aorta,
the vena cava, pulmonary,
and how they beat for you.
i wish i could write you the words you need to hear,
make words like i how i feel for you.

i wish anything i could write would be something worthy of being given to you.
i wish i could do something
or say something
worth giving to you.

i come as i am
with scars and callused feet
and encrusted with dirt and mud
and the tolls of a long journey.

i come with nothing more than myself,
my eyes, my wit,
and your heart.
i come seeking your touch that i do not deserve,
your glances that i do not deserve,
your love that i do not deserve.

i come with yearning.
if only i could give you something worthy of you.
i would write the odyssey with you as my muse,
but Penelope would make the journey to you,
sometimes on all fours, barely clinging to survival.
yearning, yearning for you.

i wish i could give you what you deserved but
i come only as i am.

(c) 110410

everyone seems to have things to say
about the problems in this age and day;
we’re fat, we’re shallow, we’re needy, we’re dumb,
we give too late but take so young.
but despite these undesirable traits and
your snide comments on this generation’s weight,
the thing that scares me the most ain’t in the body but in the mind,
the design by which we find ourselves wasting all this time,
our biggest crime,
that we misread the signs and crossed the line and all
i can do is sit here and rhyme.
love, in the age we got no love,
none for our brothers nor sisters nor the sky above.
those flashing lights on the TV and full color pictures in magazines
and those ballads our celebrities sing have got us chasing after things.
there’s no more time, time for romance or kisses on the neck
when you’ve got things to do or people to text.
and the unfortunate confession of this generation’s obsession
is that we love our possessions,
our computers and cars and phones,
our clothes and purses and homes,
and the sad fact is that nothing Steve Jobs sells is ever gonna love you back.
and we are a people who are hungry,
but we don’t know what for.
we are starving for compassion, for touch, for affection, for mush.
we’re trying to buy things to fill our hunger
but you can’t buy love and that’s where we stumble.
but we’ll try!
if you’ve got money to lose they’ll give you something to buy.
all those big fat wall street men
will try to sell you God and love and religion,
but all those pathetic imitations will only make you hunger for more,
and the next thing you know you’re starving and poor.
wait, all we gotta do is wait.
smell the roses and enjoy the date.
maybe it won’t make the hunger go away but it’s better than gorging on fake hope.
and if you are kind and you are deserving,
you may find waiting to be quite rewarding.
because when that person comes
who you can love and be loved in return,
then you’ll learn,
that this feeling could not be replicated by anything bill gates created.
it’s not about luck and it’s not about fashion,
it’s about patience and kindness and compassion.
and if you day has not yet arrived,
you can strive to fill the gaping whole
with things in full.
but no matter what your try,
or your pathetic reasons why,
it wouldn’t do me half the good that
a kiss from you would.

(c) 110310

fix me,
my face is a spot light, shining, everyone is looking
take your scalpel and shred the sides of my bones off,
take out the sinew from my hips
thin me out until i am two dimensional
and can slip through the cracks in the walls and
fall out of the rents in your head

forget about me
don’t murmur my name in the night as you toss and turn
or compare the summer leaves to the hue of my eyes.
forget about me, i was a broken, screwed up thing
with an expiration date highlighted in red.

fix me until i don’t hurt anymore
fill me with your anesthetic until i overdose
call the code team up, footsteps hurrying up a crowded hall
with their lightning paddles and things to make your lungs work for you
well, my lungs are all tired out.

forget about me, forget about me, i was broken, didn’t you see the cracks, like glass shattering, up from my fingertips to my shoulders to curl around my neck and chest and squeeze my heart until i tasted iron in the back of my mouth?

fix me, they tried to fix me,
i wasn’t broken and they tried to fix me and that’s what did it, i guess
how quickly the cure becomes the poison,
how all you long for is home but you can’t go home, you’re sick
sick sick sick sick wrong wrong wrong wrong

they pumped me up with light so all the world had to look at me,
shining behind skin stretched thin over a belly full of pills
you are being watched, you are on a stage
there are no exits, no intermission, no big musical number
to bring down the curtain with a round of applause,
you are on the stage and you have forgotten your lines,
feel your knees tremble and your palms sweat

take the scalpel and carve my lines into me
so i can’t forget that i am
sick sick sick sick wrong wrong wrong wrong
fix me
forget about me

(c) 110210

i like the way that you look at me
you look straight at me,
not through me or around me or
suspiciously or angrily or sadly
you only look at me

when you look at me i feel like you can see me
you can see the sadness when i smile
and you notice the little flower of complexity
bloom up when i try to make myself seem simple

you look at me like i am something worth having
like i am something unique and special and full of promise
you don’t look at me like they do,
like i do,
you don’t see the failure and disappointment that snags the other’s eyes.
you look at me like i am something beautiful

i like it when you look at me with those stormy eyes of yours

i think you’re the only one who sees me

(c) 110110

little

            snakes

                        sliver

                                    up

                                                my spine

at night

            to plant dreams in my heads

                                    and stories in my ears

with eyes like starlight and little gossamer tongues to whisper tales of better days to me

to lull me gently to the sweet caress of sleep and keep the nightmares at bay

                                                                                    and i will dream

                                                                                    and i will dream

of times where things were easier

at times where laughter came without a price

                                                                                    and i love you

                                                                                    even if i have sadder days now

                                                                                    even if it gets hard to smile

                        and i can’t forget about you

                        little serpents, like moonlight

                        creeping up the skin of my arms like

                                                                                    goosebumps

                                                                                                to tell me tales of you

                                                                                                            and i’ll immortalize you in my dreams

even if i can do no else

(c)103110

they gave me pills to make it better
but it only made it worse
amplifies the empty, like a premature hearse.
cart me away to the place where they want me,
take me to a place where i don’t feel so alone
i’m collapsing in on myself, a wreck of my own.

i tried to call you, to call you that night
but i couldn’t make myself pick up the phone.
and i wouldn’t want to be here either
so i curled up and let the abyss take me
and made little whimpering noises like the
pathetic thing that i am

and i can’t write a poem for shit
you, above all, should know this.
i wanted to, wanted to forget
what it feels like to feel like this.
but it seems like it always comes back
to those goddamn panic attacks,
you look so ugly when you cry.

and i couldn’t, i couldn’t call you that night,
it wouldn’t have been right.
i had to, i had to fight
alone, like it’s always been.
and even if i can never win,
at least i can last through tonight.

and, the fire’s my only friend.
the fire is all i can comprehend.
the fire is my only friend.
this is going to get me in the end.

(c) 103010