UnawareWhen you are two and five and ten
you are unaware ––
of the cactus in the windowsill,
how, fragile, each quill bends
and breaks and falls apart.––
Twelve years later, on a Tuesday,
you dream about a boy
who bumps his head
on an iron slate and you wake
in a cold sweat.
You are twelve when you are
always bumping shoulders.
Twenty-two years of Thursday.
There is nothing at all.
And you wonder (and
you wonder why)
each time you wake.
The cactus in the window bleeds
with you when you bump it.
No one ever mentioned
frightened things bite.
So you have always been unaware.
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the Knight
Whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the Knight,
Whose armor is dull and broken.
Whose horse is weary,
Whose heart is heavy.
Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,
For that dragon has done nothing,
And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.
Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,
By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,
But wants to free the dragon,
Who does not wish to marry her savior--
Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,
Who wants to live and to learn.
For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,
Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,
But to see the world and live in the light.
Do not give me the evil dragon,
Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.
No, give me the dragon who is weary,
Who longs for the freedom of the sky,
Whose leg is burdened with chains,
And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
SurrenderI remember the colors
that night on the porch
when the fireflies claimed
the air around us -
the bright blue
blazing between your fingers
as you said
breathing was a trick
of the night.
I raised your hand
to touch my face,
feeling the pink trail
of the morning
yet to come
humming on your palm
and the deep pulse
of orchid staining my mouth
in soft surrender.
each one of us carries cemeteries beneath our skinyou are not the only one
to walk like there are
who looks both ways
before crossing the road
"knew a girl who";
you are alive
and you will experience
hurt, and you will
be so thankful
for every painful breath you take
because it's better than when
everything goes quiet
and all you feel is exhaustion.
there is more than just
one cold snap
before you enter
the winter of your life.
there are spells
of sadness and rage,
hate and denial
of all that you know
and all that you deserve;
and you are not the only one
to fight for everyday you are here,
alive and breathing
and striving to thrive
on such an unforgiving planet,
in such a world
that births emotional deserts
in its people;
you are not the only one
love letters to introvertsi.
To the boy who prefers spending Friday nights at home:
the world does not understand how beautiful silence sounds
As you crack open that book you've been waiting to read,
or plug in your computer,
or listen to music,
or just maybe stare at the night sky from your bedroom window-
(please) remember what everyone else seems to forget;
that being alone does not always equal lonely--
and that sometimes no company is the best company there is.
To the girl who does not speak up in class:
I was once you.
You are not deficient, I promise, despite everyone telling you otherwise.
You might be the only one who will ever know the universes
tucked inside your head,
because they are beautiful secrets you cannot bring yourself to share,
for fear that they might be vandalized.
When you speak,
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernova
to let the stardust and
slide down my parched throat and
wash over my intestines,
like a pebble
drowning in the sound--
soft as waterthis is the funeral
where grey ash spreads
& in the air, a traffic of kites stream across the horizon,
the ash of sails, ghostly non existent,
sails set wide, slicing across the Hudson river
the water heals itself
rescinding wounds, sowing back together the places
where edges meet, and we become soft as water
doves sow the horizon thus, weaving through the kites on fire
& the lovers on fire
and the burns and burns and ink stains
on quiet carpets
everything became a silent memory buried under graves
in the cemetery sails bloom in deathly renaissance.
overpopulation expands exponentially
underground, in empty spaces
(between the sand, rivers, dust storms)
waves recede and seagulls echo
and the shivering saline sea is rough
(baring our naked spines against the asphalt
of the shore, the seagulls soaring echo
more truth than we'll ever know)
they know about:
recessions, receding shorelines and horizons,
and men retreating within,
Lust and love...A lust for thinness,
for what society deems as perfect,
that lust can sometimes turn love ugly,
can make it seem so, so -
so filled with self-hatred
and violence against one's own flesh.
But when one's lust is for softness, for roundness
for the beauty of bulging blubber,
for luscious love handles,
for pulchritudinous potbellies,
or cute soft rolls and folds of chub
growing in just the right places,
or the lust for thick creamy thighs or wide wobbly hips,
or delectable double chins,
or a lust, a desire really, for adipose covered bodies,
reclining in satisfaction, or hungrily rising,
waddling toward tables heavy laden with tempting foods,
or staggering away from finished feast, the empty plates,
a big fat lust and addictive desire
for round billowy breasts and sensuously soft pliable flab,
the kind of flab you can feel, you can measure between thumb and forefinger,
a lust for life itself, for food and feasting,
for what makes us all human,
our hunger and our