postcards

I burn the edges of postcards.
Snarky remarks on the backs
written in the script of someone with nothing.
Alienated in a place not your own.
No sway there,
no pull, no power, no prominence.
Going unnoticed.
Getting a smile only when you put down the strange coins
to purchase the postcards.

I see you sitting outside
beneath a streetlight in the daylight,
or under a prehistoric tree in a park
writing quickly
so no one sees.
Do you think out your words?
No.
Do you know what you say to me?
Maybe.
Do my lips curl to see them burn?
Yes.

Smelling the putrid chemicals of picture paper,
seeing the golden green scenery ash and blacken
makes me think of your heart.
Go when you want,
see me when you please.

Do I keep your letters, your pictures, your notes
sent across oceans,
sent across distances that cannot be
mended by planes or boats?
No.
I watch the edges burn and send you my best wishes.

For you I lost my composure.
You don't know me that way.
With one simple question it rang clear
that for you, I am onesided.
I want to know your dimensions:
your eyes, your lips, your lack of depth.
"I don't know."
Words burst through my eyes
strangling my brain
with dancing strands of your hair
ridding me of breath.
I do know.
You will never see my words again.

unproven.

I stare from across the room at your
dark eyes
and darker hair
and imagine.
I imagine your smile
and it comes
in a flash.
I wink back.
My spirits sink as a stone
as you giggle.
I imagine us in a month-
wandering the streets of a foreign metropolis.
Perhaps I'll buy you a flower
from a vendor.
Perhaps I'll walk silently next to you,
hands at my side.
But I watch you anyway.
You live up to your name-
rare, almost impossible.
I promise to remember you exist.

Consider the Artist

You’d do anything to be considered an artist.
Anything.
You told me the pain you’ve inflicted on yourself and your friends
In order to get the perfect brush stroke,
Perfect flash,
Perfect smudge.
Throw away your jewelry
For a hermit house life
But keep your watch in a drawer
To keep your mind.
You unhinged your jaw
For a mouthful of charcoal.
Dry lips sputter and reverse
Onto a canvas.
Stand back and study,
Black lines, Rorschach shapes and
Empty dusted spaces.
Wrinkle your brow, stamp out the picture.
Look at your feet and cut off a toe.
You’d do anything to be considered an artist.

apartment profile

August 12th 2009

We’re hiding in a new place
where no bricks, nor traffic can distract our waves.
No sparks traverse these walls,
only flames on stalks mar the paint.
A web from the ceiling collects our things,
from glory hats to acrobats with thread bobs in between.
On entering the room, there’s a tangy smell,
soon hampered by the dust and smoke,
but brought back up by peels in colors from side to side.
Clay for our stick-ash and a bed on the rug,
everything we need is presented.
It stripped from us the will to buy, the will to walk
and the need for change.
In minutes, we knew that we wanted to add our stain.
We wanted to mark like the flames
and we wanted the untainted rooms
to drink our taint.

arctic bones

Arctic Bones

You smell like sugar cane.
The raw, coarse scent strung between my nose and tongue
Was carried on the ship powered by the wind and rain,
From whose decks you wished to be flung.

Fog crept over the salty seas,
Brine water soaking your dress.
The dampening cloth clung to your knees,
And your sharpened heart it did possess.

I picture you standing at the bow,
Fists clenching the corroded wood,
So far from the field and the farmer’s plow.
So far from the place where we both stood.

Now the warm air caresses your cheek,
And closing your eyes, you think.
Perhaps the skeleton of the boat is rotting and weak,
And the ship will surely sink.

The destination is still a looming mystery,
For you boarded the ship with no shore in mind.
Maybe awaiting you is a land of history,
With a buried treasure for you to find.

You mirror the waves lapping the frame;
With a silky exterior that will drag you under
And leave you open for blame,
A prime target for thunder.

You yearn to throw yourself into the tossing grey ocean,
To sink down among the sandy stones.
But the heat and the ice would cause a commotion,
Because you’ve got arctic bones.

Lady, run.

Lady, run through the tall grass
and let your sweet hair fall down.
Your ankles are bitten and your fingers are raw
and stained with blood and a berry’s juice.
It’s been days since you’ve been seen,
Days since anyone has told you what color the sun is,
And what smell the river gives off at dawn.
You’ve been too busy trailing your way off of pages
And into the eyes of wilderness fighters,
Torturous spiders and half-hearted builders.
Still you curl and burn with your eyes closed
And your mouth open to taste the scenery and sense
The way the world moves about you.
You anchor the trees through braided roots,
Bended branches and sculpted groves.
You are mud, you are dry and you stick the world
To the sky and hold it.
Like Atlas you stand, proud but haunted
For if you open your eyes, you will surely
Burst at the seams.
Lady, run through the bleached bark
And let your sweet hair be singed.