There are certain things that we don’t talk about
She’ll take you to the drive through if you want
to get that milkshake you said that they sell.
But you’ll forget to drink it ‘cause you can’t
Get it down. You’re sick- nauseous from the smell
of you draped over porcelain all day.
A self-inflicted-ego-death- type ill.
But it won’t work. Square pupils gone away,
still reeling from the dirty bathroom floor,
you’ll speak in dead languages. Ancient clay
emerging from your mouth- biblical lore
that only the prophets could understand.
And she is no prophet. So she’ll ignore
the way the I.V. looks inside your hand,
then ask if you think your french fries taste bland.
you’ll always be such a fond love of mine
mild days burn up without your piercing lips like
fading sunsets, only around long enough to tickle your
patiently waiting for
the first time we kissed, my naked body pressed
against the sheets when the world
for the first time.
so, go on, choke my veins like the
lifeless scum i am
to you. but i will still
love your pulsing rock Substance, melting
under the flame.
and maybe if i’m lucky,
i’ll die with you
Grade six phys-ed class, middle school teacher can’t
Stop his staring through my gym child size sweat-shirt.
Basketball’s the lesson for class today. I
Cover my chest and
Cross my arms over, hoping that his staring
Stops. I’m only eleven, yet I know he
Thinks of me as grown up. A woman hiding,
Within my body
“Ode to Ephemeral”
There’s an undeniable beauty to some words
That even a divorce lawyer reading monotonally from a prenup couldn’t wring
His odious gob
Green cloaked maidens on mint ice cream colored hills
And pulpy, floating, glowing blue algae
On the crests of waves at night,
Receding and swelling
But as a piano chord is struck and immediately chased to death by its tail
So too, ephemeral dies like a breeze
Holding its last breathless, noiseless pose
For as long as the tongue stays perched upon the narrow incisors
Is tragically autological
Its body, its eulogy
Spoken softly and snuffed out
“Life of a Television Star”
Against my will, the camera resumes
its stare, even after the low rating,
dreadful improv, lonely reading rooms,
self-inflicted plot holes, viewers waiting
for character development, the lack
of creativity, the frustrating
critics I turned into cast members, black
screens polluted by my tarnished landfill
of doubt, a writer that doesn’t keep track
of past storylines, cliffhangers that still
remain unresolved, attempts at extending
the length of time, diminishing the will
to play my part, the constant defending,
and conflicts that feels so never-ending.
driving after rain, thinking
the amber waves erupt from earthen skin
like daffodils, or any other flow’r
who might sneak fragile petals through a tin-
can foster home on some windowsill tow’r.
I often note how sun-gold arrows pass
me by like raindrops falling from above,
and how they tickle heaven, then amass
more velocity each second in love
fluttering, together, palpitations
they dance to solid ground, and for almost
a lifetime, celebrating salvations
until they sink to nothingness— just ghosts
‘til warm embrace and angel-light repair;
I take a moment to watch the grass grow there
My life resides between two withered trees,
Created for… I know not. My painted smile,
Cracks at the cheeks. My eyes seem lost, sun-bleached.
Each night that comes I cannot, in fear, cowl,
When the lilies wrinkle and snap away,
While children mice wail—eyes clawed by the owl.
If only heaven would cry once a day
So I can feel the rain hit my brow, fall,
Run down my cheeks, and gift me a tear stain.
But few are those days, in this tombed garden.
Stuck constantly smiling, my creator
Knows not of my life. Toiled by all the dead.
There is but one, I pray, that has my favor.
So I’ll put my faith in Him, the Maker.
Why I take so many photos
There will always be words left
Unsaid. Feelings unhashed. But that doesn’t
Make it any easier when it comes time to say goodbye.
But is it worth it ruining the good time you had by acknowledging it’s
the end? Understanding that an era has passed, never intended to be relived.
To live in the present,
Is to miss the opportunity to
Plan for the future
And remember the past.
A winter pond, cocooned in birch and pine
And shoveled clear enough for kids to skate
Awakens to the cries of schoolboys’ late
Morning arrivals. As blades clatter, whine
Against the rough surface, carving serpentine
Declarations of youthful joy, they consecrate
This place. This here. This now. They won’t forget
The crystal light, and air like holy wine.
I stop to watch, shouts echoing from below;
The game is on! As the boys circle and sway,
Surging towards the net, I’m there – then I’m lost,
Feeling the rush in my chest, that soft glow:
A quick flick of the wrist that won the day
Still tucked behind the decades I have crossed.
bobistraveling, CC BY 2.0 Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons