26 June 2014

We are at most stolen shadows
borrowed without asking
from a stardust closet
full of sackcloth and ashes.

An unforgiving sun names us
marking our days, slanted
some of us lost around corners
others thrown off the edges of buildings
always falling
never piercing
despite our clawing efforts
to stand still.

18 June 2014

I wanted to open this
old library book on constellations
and slide out the card
     stamped in red and black ink
     documenting due dates
     from years gone by
     fingertips grazing the Smith-Corona typeface
     as if it was Braille
     the edges being held
     with just one finger each
     to see how much force it takes to bend
and on the back write a very good hello
then lay it in a tiny skiff decorated in red and black ink
and let the current carry it across your welcome mat
and under your door
on a winter morning
so that you'd know
 - despite the fact
    that some things are too beautiful for this world
    and that's why they fade in your hands
    when you are trying so hard to hold on
that someone was looking at The Archer
and thinking about you.

17 June 2014

The tiny bones of birds
mixed with sticks
strewn across the only path.
You keep pedaling.

What did anyone expect
you to do?
Why did you expect
anything else?
You keep pedaling.

A shrill wind, so angry
but never with you
that cuts through the pines
until their limbs stop praying
and start resisting in earnest.
You keep pedaling.

Just ahead, a clearing -
A black light lake
slanted black smooth stones for resting
black birds keeping watch
at the edges, but they don't see you.
A bright light shines through
making everything seem undiscovered,
having waited for you all this time.
Clarity descends, talons extended
candy pills rain down in ocean blue and sea mist green -
there never was any bike, of course.
The crackling of bones from beneath
is very far away and the light
is just a pale dot in the distance.
Head, hot.
Sweat, stinging.
You are thinking about how cool the lake might be
but when the thunder rolls in
the birds shift nervously on their perches and you realize
there is no time.
You keep pedaling.

5 June 2014

As soon as you set that cracked teacup
atop the butterfly display case
and that unholy resonance of porcelain and acrylic
held the briefest of folded moments, I knew
you were for the fall.
This always made you uncomfortable
in your clothes and underneath.
It was the reason for your headaches,
it was why you never finished anything
and the justification for your drinking.

But I couldn't help it anymore than you
could stop yourself from cutting me down,
cutting me out
until I was a paper doll begrudgingly holding back
half the pages
in a book too heavy to take off the shelf
with any care or consistency.

The dusty outline of us
left on the chipped plaster
of a heaving wall, sagging
under the weight of everything
is not all that's left.
It's just the main thing people notice
when they first pull off the wings.

Cliche

I come to your table to take your order.
You notice my pink uniform and tired eyes.

We get randomly paired at karaoke.
My stealthy side-eye, adoring gaze is captured
on someone's phone.

You drive me to the airport and realize
you don't want me to go.
You tap me on the shoulder in the security line.

People who saw the movie wanted to
read something into the final shot
of your hand on my shoulder
but I always like to tell our story backwards
so that it starts out loud and rough and sharp
but ends showing two people meeting for the first time
and all that quiet hope that never settles.