Spit it Out

Spit it Out

we don't walk
on eggshells;
we eat them

our ingested truths
broken inside of us

jagged, unattended;
they fester in folds
buried, ignored

all that negligence
nourishment for
the eventual
rampant, piercing
infection of a being
that refuses
to forget or accept

surfacing more excruciating
than the swallowing

New Beauty

she feasts on air, insatiably hungry
for bony hips and nipples without breasts

she eats herself smaller, enemy flesh falls away
her sinewed arms hang like claws

this is not how she sees herself
her body forgets it is female

Missing Persons

the discarded wander
layered in remnants
things we cast off

shrugged from our shoulders
like ragged sweaters
full of holes and torn elbows

like all things treasured
they arrived gift-wrapped
in the film of afterbirth

slipping into the world
through the same tunnel
souls cast into a shell
foreign, cold with longing

most were happy
they'd arrived
shared the intimacy
of family whole or fractured

today he is the only one
able to contact Major Tom
his visible hand holds
a cloaked transmitter
the blue napkin in his
nostril blocks our interference

she praises nicotine
too made up for daylight
her nails betray
the street beneath them
her sweet voice sings a
wish that her daughter,
that bitch, would die

they sit like filled trash bags
poised to go out
felled by chemicals
a hunger that holds
them in between here
and no where
how do they go missing?

all good intentions
spent on other beings

If only, if only

it's always been
a serious assignment,
self-inflicted

one of analyzing,
the loose pieces
thrown, scattered;
the puzzle of us

mistaken shapes
that seemed to fit
then didn't

others so quickly
perfect, like
a promise we might
still solve things

unable to see
what was right
in front of us,
words might have
saved us all

empathy sits
at another table,
begs to be asked;
patient, true

Equations

memorization always fails me;
the idothisudothat equations
solve themselves while
I stand on sidelines
doubting the obvious

despair shows up
uninvited, to squander
foolish hope that we
might arrive at
different answers

lost in our mathematics,
any epiphany I ever had,
how we x and y and z
remain an abstract
I can't get a grip on

we speak in tongues;
your words float in my mind
like figures in a times table

I respond with my best guess,
waving from another corner
fingers crossed behind my back

Truth

a certain strain of
runs like veins 
through stone

history so grand, 
you might wish 
you'd been there

the romance of suffering
enviable to one outside of

fractured tales shift
with the landscape of
location, audience

a poverty of promise
not unique or eloquent
in being unfulfilled

every only-if the 
tragic, reliable constant

we are not so
special, after all

what lies behind 
the facade is still
less than ordinary 

turn, face our simple, 
humble truths;
the reality of us 
far more lovely
than all of 
our prior fiction

know that we are
collectively magnificent

The Music Room

we are exiting rooms quickly,

much faster than it took 

for us to fill them with life, 

things we loved, thought 

we needed and finally, didn't

it comes down to walls; 

they stare back at me 

devoid of art or purpose 

alone in the basement this morning

I hear voices, laughter

and an imagined wall of sound 

hits me as I close the door 

that only partially stopped 

the waves of amplified guitars, 

boom of bass and drum; 

the poetry of my sons' lives 

overcome, I turn to climb
three flights of stairs 

with a last load of laundry

I will never be a lucky witness 

to those moments again, 

thankful beyond these few 

inadequate words

that I had such times 

Sometimes

It is a week to say goodbye

what I don't understand
outweighs all the chips
I stacked on the side
of what I thought connected us

the story I drafted, played at,
half-way believed, was just
a wish for who I hoped you were

to whom I'm
saying goodbye
I still can't say

Sons

I sit in reluctant sun today
on a porch weathered
by greens of every color
at the house we lived in
before we ever thought of you,
our limbs like tendrils
of the wisteria that
caress the pergola

in her house, we talk of you;
your quiet sweetness
like her patient chickadees,
your ferocious determination
as you push into the world
insistent as finches rushing

I've watched you walk away;
your shoulders sharp as
the corners of a square,
strong enough to bear any load,
emotional or otherwise

the shape of your nose
a shadow of our ancients,
your deep eyes lit from within,
the remnant of another fire

I praise the DNA
that runs through you,
a singular stream forged
through the debris of
a thousand lives

I pay homage to the men
who've gone before you;
those boys and men
we've loved, would open
arms and legs for, again

Boundaries

this morning, toxins
reached cumulative levels

I can do melancholy
with the best of them,

but I'm desperate for
an emotional ipecac;
I can't stomach you

you rant a pointless rage,
tell me what-it-is,
preach the as-i-see-it gospel,
diss on, disregard, dismiss

you stop me right there, cause
you've lost interest in the story,
do an about-face to school me
with a self-declared loving intention
that feels like punishment

I won't allow it any longer;
my push back more
instinctual of late,
lines drawn impenetrable

you, one more lesson that
I need not suffer to love;
that I've learned - independent
of anything you could ever tell me

If You Don't Know, Then You Don't

words string
like a tether;
thoughts slow,
linear, measured

few follow;
most rush ahead

the moment
an unnecessary
assignment
memorized for
the short-term

just enough
attention granted
to glean praise,
glory, a sense
one matters

the gravity of
message lost

all that's beneath
like clouds; what
was important
yesterday, vanished

only the listener
fails to dismiss;
learns to read code

powerless, perhaps
wiser for the deciphering

Crazy, I Know

he was scrawny
with a rubbery,
smart-alecky face
stuck at 15

he always wore a hat,
bit his nails and smoked
the minute we left class

he drank liberally
smoked too much weed
and didn't bathe

a stereotypical
tortured sort
with a twist of
too much light
to make him dark

as he read/rapped,
he looked my way
with eyes that
broke me bright

I felt he thought
I might be the
only one listening

he rhymed rich,
quirky and quick;
if you didn't stay with him
you'd miss the brilliance,
the nugget of the message
of the words
he was laying down

the night I read,
the poem that frightened me most,
his unexpected praise
made me feel kin
to the best kind of crazy

once he sent his poems to me;
the image of his lover so real
I felt awkward, as if I'd
stumbled in on them,
his funny face transformed
to one of worship

sometimes I try to find him;
search for a blog, a post or
a scrap of one of those
string of words that
knocked me out

I fear he may have vanished,
that all of his goodness
is gone from the world;
his mother the only one
besides me, who knows

crazy, I know

Evolving

as imagined or intended
I am a figment of your older story

all that bound, I tear at with 
teeth persistent, true like knives

for a lifetime, strands glistened;
so seductive, the supposed
fragile threads, the truth far stickier

remnants on soul sleeves
stranded in our lineage of code
mutable, after all

believe that