be gone
singy
same songiness

there is life for words
once they've crawled outside of crates

there is rhythm
where rhyme has ceased

and meaning
when
phrases breathe
from out of iron bars

blanket of snow
love from up above

unwind yourself

               unfold

and dare to float
unhinged
like e.e.

in his majesty

bursting            out
of
the cliche
 

sweet purging

there was that time
where, detangled she spun on
cold linoleum,

clammy hair
dripping
down porcelain,

an effort to disgorge
the cancer of you
from her ailing ribs.

her father, in the door frame,
blurred through tears and helpless there,

           his heavy shield, found weak
           against this
           glass explosion
                     within her,
           the fragments rupturing her skin,

whispering shoulder promises
that he knew she could not hear.

you are not to blame, child,
for your love of the poisoned cup,
or the inferno in her gut.

Later in dreams she would find
that she needed you
        
to drown
her

Foolish
wont for love.

where you are not king

she will sing.

You might,
With your strong arm
smash a lesser embryo

but not she.

she.
will.
sing. in your face
like a scream,
defying all the worlds
you hold in your hand

and when you press down slow
And she is aching,
her beautiful rage
will only grow
into flames
you
Can't squelch
with
Your waterless ego
or your calcium
critique

her bones flex
beneath your forceful palm-
your insignificant
Attempt at
her ruin.

Sure, she might cry once
but her heart is dry of you.

and the desert
creates a song of lace
that binds around
your
Haughty
head

simple

I would rather have

art pencils
than diamonds

worn photos
than new leather

paper scraps
than shiny shoes

coffee stains
& You

 

this Saturday

I am 30.
And I just jumped a car, myself, for the first time.
So proud
I told my hairdresser,
who waits to blow dry
so we can keep chatting.

afterward,
lost in magazines,
my heart alive
with inspiration
i forget about
16 shelves
of toys
and orange bowls
to remember
something with substance

Art.
and Me.

beauty
&
meaning

I am 30.
and so
Glad to still be growing.
so glad that I am glowing
          within

imperishable

you are

the unwanted
ephemera

the un-erasable
un-trashable
day
that I can't throw away

      it never fades,

the ticket for a ballet
wished unseen
the postcard
to a place,
                 obscene

won't you please
resist
from
tucking yourself
in the bed
of my
       
Memory
 

dream everywhere.

The potent marker is
damned
by the
continuous weight of
Real Life

becoming a dull
scratch art knife,
simply
scraping away
at a stranger's design.

Yet...
             in bathtub and hot tea moments
ink e x p a n d s within its fervent chamber,
remembering the fiber of the
pregnant point in time

Scribbles
snap
          a splash

             of meaning

amidst
a world
of monochrome

Floating sphere of joy
ever out of reach
you're a
mouthful of hope
but I'm clenching iron teeth

Braced, paced
level with the facts
That every glimpse we have
of You
will never last

Me; a craving tree
with hallow trunk
wrestling with the earthly truth-
of fading flowers

sweet cream

hungry and
haunted
gestures of love so often eluded

by fear of exposure,
And a soiled soul's
enclosure.

thorny coils choke the
cry within the throat
concealing
the famished
Dove
so aware of all her
blood-
guilt
iness
and

stains

crowbar fingers and
sweet cream of syllables
"let me love"
drenches
shredded heart tendons

and thickened layers
delicate
tumble from skies
and yearning eyes;

beneath the prickly veil
a humble
child
cries
so grateful
to know
she is
truly
alive

guns like roses

my fingers gather dust
from days without sun
sitting in a chair of tears
spinning, spiraling, a patchwork of
fears
about who you are
and where you'll go
with that leavenous message on your sleeve
with that feigned trumpet of humility
that blasts apart
the truth
with guns like roses

Guns like roses
sweetly stealing
surety

from the pockets
of starving
orphans

Food Stamps

that mother with the three kids
and the food stamps
didn't ask her husband to leave
when her
daughter was only three
months old
so I really don't appreciate
you thinking you have any right
to scold her

and when she applied for 6 jobs this week
because she's worked so hard for her degree
and they seemed impressed except
they think it's best if she starts on overnights
and weekends
       so that her kids can
       ache for their father
and now their mother too
        and so that she can pay
more than her wages
       for childcare
that she cannot find
       in a world that works from five to nine
I'm pretty sure I'd like to slap
anyone who scoffs at her for turning down
that great 'opportunity'

you think that because you can choose how to spend your days and dollars
that she has the same choice right?
except that since he left, she's been in a house that she can't pay for
with a landlord knocking on the door
and no money or credibility for a deposit
            elsewhere (
            Aston Martin tires squeal loudly in the background here)
               
The phones been turned off
and
buzzards fly overhead
making sure she stays in debt
by charging
sky-rocket interest
and locking the doors
on a car loan
that will keep her
off the roadside
with
her freezing children
and their thin coats
and
snowpants

grandpa scraped up change to buy them

So as she stands there,
trembling hands
with food stamps
barely able to glance at you...

it is           You
who is
poor,
Ugly and
Hideous.,
Self-righteously
eyeballing the ice cream in her cart
as if her kids should ever have to suffer
even more than
than your indignant eyes

Untitled

she has golden eyes
She's seen the part of you that cries
that part you never knew was broken
but she held your hand                                                     

and helped you tie your shoes,
turn your scribbles
into Somethings
write a story
With the sorrow
that she sat
through with you

Back in
slipper feet
Pajama days
we watched the world
wilt away
from our bunk-bed window
said a prayer together in the snow

and as gingerbread walls
collapsed 
By the wayside
we knew together where
To go

tear streaked
with
naked feet
dancing past
thistles
into a meadow of Once Upon a Times
we flew together
(although sometimes a part)
into the glittery
ashes of fairy tales
     discovering daily
how true they are
despite the wounds

that caused us drink them

i Know that

taciturn eyes
you taunt
when blistered hands plead to find your heart
through a soft scrape against
coarse whiskers
,you play
as if I do not belong to you
and you not to me.

I know
that
if first man had never fallen,
your love would have
grown inside of me,
tender      quick
as canna lilly
underneath my rib;

an echoing extension of you
with the very texture
and stamp of you
and you
would not laugh or cry
without awareness we are real

as it were,
as the dust has seen it,
               there is no blossom here,
just a handful of brambles
a beardful
            of apathy
and a mouthful
            of fears

why didn't you tell me

that God and religion are not the same
that first kisses
are nuclear weapons
trusted to an
impetuous enemy

that ...
sometimes doggedness
is a disease
born from a fear
of the foulest
weakness,

that everyone is capable
of breaking
themselves
and me

especially
everyone
You

angry birds

i don't write angry much
red is not my color
and blue will often do
but when red gets big enough
and hurdles right over rosy
my hand becomes its slave,
to open up the latch
and let
heart heat fly to its home,
on

pure
white paper;

bird flu capped
by the dam of my pen

 

everything you've touched

it's okay

when your eyes are breaking

it's okay to let go of a tear

because we have all 

had moments 

of confusion and fear

there's something warm

about sitting 'round the fire with you,

sharing all the hard things

and how we muddled through

boy it sure feels better

to know you've been there, too

So don't be ashamed

by where you are, 

because I know exactly Who you are

and I see something beautiful,

(though the ashes try to bury you)

               I see something 

               beautiful

No Matter What You Do.

lift your head

and hold a hand

believe that you are beautiful

and 

that everything 

you've touched

remembers you

Please Don't

Please Don't Spend all Week or Six Weeks writing ONE poem. If it isn't stirring enough to demand
you drop all else and finish it within 24 hours, then it isn't worthy enough to ever be written down. @ StrongOpinion.ofme

what Bruises build

when I said to you that you are too sticky,
too blu-tack
pancake stack
syrupy
today

I meant that I've been there
and I have empathy
but that
I am not your remedy

though I recognize you need One.

So i tear apart hot
waffle pieces
with burning fingers
singed

to show you that you're
something better
than a des per ate
syringe

and that

there may just be
something
better
in a phone call,
or another place,
white walls
or a fireplace,

that hope
can arise
from these
pry-bar words,
though they
sear
and scar
and scald
and burn
     
you Must
      Arise
      or
         fall
cry
or
        crawl

crumble
or began to flap your wings

up In lights

the blood left my face
all color
emptied
extracted
by a humorous hand,

Mortar she and pestle he;

concocting a
comical
tutu raping,

vitality suddenly
smashed by
deer-in-headlights-
eyelash

gnashing

swollen daughter swan
Defaced
when you twirl together
In center stage

arterial thumping when
rhythm explodes,
mangled slippers
dangle helpless
here
Beauty transforms into
shameful
mistakes,
applause escapes
like

torrential
Rain