ArchaeologyYou have been claimed.I have seen my competition holding perfumed picksand daggers in their eyes.They know the value of the treasure I have found,but I'm already in your skin.While I'm here, in my space beside your heart,would you mind if I gently took a rib?This is archaeology, my love.Don't worry,I will sew you up with kisses;stitch you up with x's and oh'sx's and oh's
Hold me steady,while I chisel our names into the bone that crossed your heart,like kids in campus trees:You+Me4ever.I will sacrifice a rib if you will do the same.We will tie a bow around them, and send them into space,and Orion and Andromeda will be as jealous as the restwhen they read our names upon our bonesand see our love alive inside the marrow.This is archaeology.Long after we are dead, our story will live on.
Descartes, My Messenger Bird'I think, I think' 'we hurt those we love'---Fingers white like blind eyes, I am bluntedwith the colour peach on my cheeks:it is plastic, but that's okay underSetting suns. 'I think'I think, I stutterAwake because I am not asleep, I am philosophically stunted and you don't talk anymorebecause I want more and I want lessand I can't stopThis sensation of weightlessness in the pit of me, floating like spores of summeron a breezebetween tin cans play acting phone booths and stringthat could be useful one night. I think.March flies andAugust hovers like a bird waiting for something that crawls, like the insects on my skin, andthis is all about how you don'tmeet my eye anymore, and I broke my first barbie dollAnd I never had another, I suppose. I don't recall.I think, and I burn, andI think. Therefore, I am.---Rooms seem empty without us, and your face isa galaxyFar away.I think, ther
UntitledStill (living) betweenparentheses, while speakingGreek and ellipses...
Post-ItI like to write my words down on post-it notesin barely legible print.Writing the words so closely togetherthat you hardly know where one word ends and the other begins.Making each small page seem like a giant secretthat should be stored away in drawers and at the bottom of my purse.Do not read these messy notes,for they hold too much of me.
RecessionA man on fire walked calmly out of the building, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the bricks, pound the pavement, skin a cat or two. I saw what he was thinking, it formed a black cloud above his head.He thought of old photographs and wicker furniture, of how dark it was inside for all of those plants to thrive. He thought of chances taken and opportunities missed. The monologue in his burning head was a constant buzzing fly, a death rattle.Old TV shows, bad poetry, seasons, songs and metalworks; nothing could shut out the memories or calm the storm inside. Treading water, he wished that he could fly again. Over the horizon he walked, never seeing the starving child scuffling along behind.A man on fire disappeared from the picture plane today, through glass doors that were maybe there, maybe not. Hit the road, Jack, make tracks, don't step on a crack. Leaving dust and ash, smoke-feathers and birthday candles, he receded.
cheaterI am not your confessor.as to the sins, the pleasures thatflung themselves at yourheels,I couldn't care much less.her body is no less yoursthan mine is;I do not fool myself that I owneven this small part of you."it meant nothing"was she then just a tool,a device to use and dispose of?you tell me that you wastedno charms on her,that she threw herself at youand (almost accidentally)you slipped.but why tell me at all?my delusional darling,did you really think I'd give a fuck?
A Winter MorningThe morning fires are lit. That weak little strip of light on the horizon strengthened, and pushed up the darkness of night to the other side of the world. This world is clothed in winter white, a sparkling new day, a new beginning. Every day is a new beginning, full of promise. Every night is a tired revelation that another day has passed without keeping that promise. Minstrels sing of the dawn, lovers embrace the night; the tired old holy men try to sleep, hoping that a new day will bring the change they’re looking for. King Day and King Night in an endless fight, one never winning for more than a few hours. Still, the dreamers dream with each new morning. Maybe this day will be profound, maybe this is the day that something great will occur. The morning fires are lit, and for now all is well.
InsecurityWrapped up in layersOf expected behaviorsAnd veils of normalcy,And masks of secrecy.No one else can knowOf the inner life lived deep below.Seen and tested,Copied and pastedIdols in a notebook,It's a patchwork lookOf paragons in a pictureTo imperfect human nature,With smiles, pride, and bold points of view,Layer by layer keep the world from seeing through.Buried deep within the walls,Afraid and feeling small,Fearing they can seeThis crippling insecurity.I worry, worry, worry,For all my walls I'm judge and juryAnd I drop the ax each day,For flaws I cannot hide away.Until I can blend in,And achieve perfection,I build my walls thicker,Taller and quicker;In pictures of paragonsI wrap layer by layer for protection.
vocationsurviving not fittestprogressively listingwe follow the lyric"a willow - now bending"so much of the timewe end up incliningtoward life-living-usslipping downhillwe slide keening shrillythen simply unskillfullygoing with gravityblending the spillnot willfulnor trusting the pushdownward - fall forwardit being preferedthat we not make a fussllp - dA - oct2013