I hope they used Estee Lauder

I can barely remember your voice
at the top of the stair, Mozart on the air;
the days when, given a choice, I would sit
beneath the Baby Grand and stare
at your feet pushing pedals

I didn’t want to know what you looked like,
didn’t want to keep you that way,
still and silent and full of holes; but now,
upon closing my eyes, all I see is imagined
paleness and cheeks too rouged to be true

I stood outside the curtains, fighting with knowing,
coming or going, waiting or tearing them down

when all I wanted to do was crawl in
and hold you, cold in your coffin

04.24.2010

whimsy

laced appendages posed to unravel
grips slip, skip steps and stages

this is not a body, it’s a time capsule

submerged, inside it’s only pages
yellowed, scented, tender, tearing,
teasing and jarring, wide-eyed, staring,
blank and uncaring, anxious to hint
but someone is biting my tongue

this is my carbon fingerprint,
graphite powder sighs over silver

strong, distilled spider silk sings along
until white rays graze the surface

no shadows over my shoulder,
my chest is open, my toes are cold

04.10.2010

Opal Hour (after Medbh McGuckian's "Captain Lavender")

Sun-showers. The peak of a crescent moon
hovers over the artists’ chaos
of a sailor’s sea.

Major notes, minor notes, unfold their ties
together. You only half-remembered
your theme song, of a lighter measure.

Visualize my voice. I’ll be your north-
star, your soft-serve heartbeat,
your coral-scented island-mind.

04.14.2010

neologism

rhymes intertwine in pulses and shocks,
pick-pocket pornography, clicks of the clock
you were all but a word in the parking lot
before the new age wore you down, down

the arteries never found energy,
lacked forward momentum and empathy,
euphony meets cacophony meets euphemism
and parody, falling upstairs was only funny
‘til the rug was stained with wine

the metronome was ticking strong, but it was time
that tuned us wrong, and the piano forgot how to
follow along, the mallet, the strings misaligned

but your miracle was Pont Neuf, a sign,
my eyes were the moon, this was meant to be mine

NS 04.12.2010

The least obvious of erotic encounters

In sunrise, sounds evade our tender lips;
a stilted rhyme scheme surrounds the silk, the down, the summer…
in succession, a car door slams and a kiss is thrown.
Before them, the dogwood tree blossoms and weeps.

Your silence overwhelms me;
side by side with misplaced dignity,
conflicting questions court me;
always, I find my courage hiding at the foot of my unmade bed.

Eros has set up camp here just to plague me;
the sharpened tips of arrows,
the weak, the lonely, the codependent –
this awkward abyss, the walls of which we grip, is appalled by our desperate “us”.

I am going to continue to sigh,
for in our moments, cogitations should well remain hidden.

NS 04.06.2010

Not Quite Monotony - Experimenting with Tankas

A man with dreadlocks

spoke warmly of pheromones,

stance nonchalant, wide

open; and I’ve heard tell that

true love smells like chocolate.

~

Courting sleep is a

long-distance romance: I touch

New York City, but

he breathes in London; just one

small white pill before bedtime.

~

Epiphany was

holding a pen, realizing

I had failed to count

syllables; knowing that my

mind depended on a form.

~

Eyes shot open in

shock, looking glace chortled as

spider froze on face;

and when did my life become

a morbid nursery rhyme?

~

Heart halts, veins pulse, palms

sweat, breath stops, jaw drops, voice cracks.

What’s going on here?

Heart pounds, veins burst, palms clench, breath

heaves, mouth swears. You are nothing.

~

Buried in feathers,

je n’ai jamais t’entendu,

bare-back, broken exposé.

Ton coeur est parti dans la nuit :

screen door slams, distant highway purr.

~

One hot venti white

chocolate peppermint mocha,

please, with a shot of

raspberry syrup; I need

to wake up to a sweet taste.

~

Je me souviens

the scent, our steps, cobble-stones;

la lune dont j’ai peur,

left for mourning – c’est ce qui

me manquera, ton cologne.

~

Moi, j’adore jouer

aux billes, jouer le jeu ; et

quand je peux, je joue

d’oreille ! Et quel mot est-ce que

je préfère? C’est ornithorynque.

~

Quelquefois, on doit

grandir avant qu’on ne

soit prêt – ne laissez

point tomber vos yeux ; ne perdez

point votre rire dans le sable.

~

Some evenings, resting

on snowflakes, mind left lost to

wander through meadows

misted with white, I break

and breathe, deep, just for you.

Three packs a day.

Play me like your favorite record,
throw me down, play me over and over;
scratched up, so much friction I’m smoking
almost as much as your girlfriend. Now
don’t you pretend you are better than me –
you’re glass, just a window; I’ll break you.

Break in.
Break down.
Break even.

02.25.2010

Wire and String

The walls are plastered
with wasted dreams
covered over in paint,
but the color is still uneven –
we never stopped believing
even though there were deterrents,
currents and willful waters
wearing us out with an undertow.

So we drew stripes on the tiles like tigers
and ripped out all the sockets
to look like spiders working their way
out of woodwork that will never be wood.

And you can’t tell me why we ended up
at the edge of the crack that runs
from the door to the kitchen
and back again with more conviction
than had ever been in your voice
when you used to tell me you loved me
and would always be happy
as long as we were together.

We’re still together, but weights
are weighing and waiting works wonders
only until you’ve wasted your will just
waiting, wrapped up, getting wasted,
and smoking too many cigarettes.

Just give us some time to fall
in love, with our new apartment.

02.21.2010

Watch out for this one.

Stare into eyes that could shoot spines;
burn in the event horizon of each pupil.
Do you know his appetite for supple skin?
Taste yourself in his mouth – a salty revelation.
Dive in: swim in each iris like an oil spill;
fear not the icy depths of a solid glacial gaze.
Instead, listen to a voice with the power to save;
heed and feed his hunger with drops of morning dew.
But, though he craves meat, give him none:
leave him wanting flesh he cannot chew.

His excitement pours like summer rain
on sole-scorching pavement from August skies.
Sense hands as rough as those of slaves
caress your cheek, in a curious game.
You’ll find, as ripe as an autumn fig,
his heart pump-pumping in his chest;
trace veins entwined with lovers’ bliss and breath.
Acquaint yourself with two tender lips…
As a pair, they are twins which continually kiss.
Clear waterfalls are what he lacks;
he won’t take me as his ‘til my feathers turn black.

He believes in absolutes; he is sure that truth exists;
frown lines appear with sarcasm that’s thick,
but he smiles, always, at the warm touch of spirit.
He mulls over temples, and laughs over church bells;
he adapts like a chameleon escapee,
stopping, occasionally, to paint house that Jack built –
but one almost expects this unconventional graffiti.
He juggles, and jokes in mere Mother Gooseries.
As he travels, he moves from tomb to tomb.
He self-modifies (to maintain his disguise)
but does not keep the smoky smell of lies.
He dreams in forgotten colors,
and strikes only within them
as the unfortunate, lost author of an apocalyptic anthem.

If he shouts, it’s the Battle at Lexington Green;
but if he shouts my name, it’s in a dense crowd, at best.
If he loves in moderation; if he lives with reckless abandon;
if he creates chaos in candlelight and trips over syllables;
then he only falls one step back on the stair,
and the rest simply fall in line.
They love him, for he speaks in riddles and rocket ships,
whispers winter wind through tunnels
and channels it to their ears.
If he bends, it’s a contortionist’s nightmare -
he’ll note this in Freudian reflection,
after categorizing cravings (for a buzz and black coffee)
and their satisfaction as a hedonistic tendency.

His faults cause earthquakes as often as heartaches;
and if he, himself, needs, it is a white pickup truck.
If he weeps, it’s the tree that no one heard fall;
and though I can’t see him out of luck,
I imagine his tears are rarely small.
If he lights a match, he burns a city to soot.
If he tries, it’s a train wreck of the deadliest sort;
his fingerprints are faded reminders of the storm
which left a prism sky and capsized ship drifting to port.
He molds like clay to meet each end;
but when he chooses to trust, it’s mere graphite to diamond.

02.16.2010

strike a match

were we by the venom of passion
to our insidious bitterness burned;
engulfed in paper butterflies -
we made them, every one a monarch. swear,
under your breath, every light’s not fire
but every fire is light.

in limp longing, did you lose what light
once reached for you with passion
and pride? go, now: I demand that you fire
your wicked, why-ing eyes, burned
out by an evil cuss, the soft swear
that cunningly carved vengeful butterflies

who melt and mold more butterflies –
cut them from cardboard in what little light
is offered. darling, I swear,
I lick your mouth with purpose, passion
so dark, disturbing, delicious, disgusting: eternal love burned
into luscious lust, the internal infernal fire.

do you claim rights to the fire
within you, you bitch, the butterflies
from your stomach burned
into your rosy, roughed cheeks; your light
skin, and a red lip bleeds passion.
as heat builds, it leads you to swear

you are better; swear, swear
to god you are better, even after the fire
has chosen to char your lungs and passion
devours your swollen heart; butterflies’
kisses nibble the nose of your life’s light
(dead, now; scarlet fever, and it burned.)

what have I done, my dear, to be burned?
I gave you one word; and you made me swear
on us, on the flames of our minds, on feverous nights, on the light
that keeps us, on the fervor that feeds us, on the savage fire
that gorged itself on each of your precious butterflies
the day you bled me dry in rage and passion.

disaster-prone passion! this is the word of the world that burned,
an excuse to torch butterflies and watch them smolder, to swear,
in my face: “my love, every light’s not fire, but every fire is light.”

02.02.10

Tá tuirse orm.

You cried when I asked you to sift through my ashes,
handful by handful, in a bittersweet dream,
knees bloodied from kneeling, crawling, begging for mercy.
Dsia dhuit². I pray for your heart
as it dries in the summer sun, as it dies in the desert
of your yesterdays and tomorrows, a shriveled cactus rose.

Je me souviens³… The very first rose
to whom I spoke could not talk, only coughed, only wrote, with ashes
flying form its throat; the garden was a desert,
no rain in days and only a meaningless dream,
a simple wish from a fleeting love and a foolish heart,
lowered buckets of crystal clear mercy

to its parched and cracking lips, my lips. “Sweet, savor this mercy
in the shape of one small flower,” you whispered, “a rose
the color of blood, a ruby as grand as my heart,
a symbol of my love when ashes
are all that remain of this abstract dream
we carry on struggling shoulders, shift to the back of our minds. Do you dare desert

me in this desert?
My dearest, where is that mercy
you showed me in our dream,
the one in which you rose
from the ashes
of a burned and burdened heart?”

Dsia is Muire dhuit⁴. Take heart,
even in this wasteland, si seulement pour le moment⁵: this desert
is more than dirt, more than smoky quartz and ashes
of burn victims; te amo⁶, and God showed mercy
to the Catholic cactus rose:
He lifted its head toward heaven and allowed it to dream

in Technicolor, to visit erotic, exotic dream-
lands filled with l’amour, la jeunesse, la beauté⁷, old heart-
throbs and another capullo de rosa⁸, now a rose
of a different color. If anything, let the desert
guide your mercy
to another flower: ouvres grand ton cœur blessé⁹, bathe it in my ashes.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down; do not be angry with me. Dream
of me while you still are able, show me this mercy. Find solace in the steadfast heart
of a distant, desert rose.

1. (Title) Tiredness is upon me; 2. God be with you; 3. I remember; 4. God and Mary be with you; 5. If only for the moment; 6. I love you; 7. love, youth, beauty; 8. rosebud; 9. open wide your wounded heart

Am I the city

She cried in her sleep.
Her pillow soaked,
mascara stained when she awoke.

Let it go, they don’t know.

The stars laugh lightly at luckless lovers.
The roads bow lower to welcome wanderers.
If the sky could catch anything, it would catch fire.
They say, to be human is to be a liar.

Every window wishes for some Windex.
Every storefront wants to mimic Macy’s.
Every corner is terrified of taxis.
And every crosswalk secretly hopes
a pedestrian won’t be so lucky.
Yeah – that’ll teach them for jaywalking.

I think I saw some buildings on Third Avenue holding hands.

They don’t know who you are; who are you?

26.01.2010

This is personal

She was myopic.
When I showed her
Monet,
she saw spots.

I can’t feel my arms, sometimes,
when I wake up; I can’t feel anything
but sunlight and buzzing –
my head is a hive of hornets,
constrained and restless; but
patient:
waiting for a child with a bat
and bad humor
to release the militia.

We will all flail wildly.
We will all fail wildly,
dramatically, emphatically;

and you will feel vibrations in all the wrong places
leaving nociceptors susceptible,
open to the sting,
the realization: you are “mind.”

Where do you go when your body is gone?

I planted you in the soil and watched you grow.
My hands were not my hands
but they pulled you from the earth
as a flower is plucked
and de-petaled.

And then I wake up.
I can’t feel my arms,
sometimes –
I can’t feel anything
but sunlight
and buzzing.

01.26.2010

The day we met

I wasn’t trying to impress you
with crescendos
or my wingspan;
what do you think I am?
The contortionist,
center ring –
bend over backwards
and lick your ankles.

How does it taste?

01.26.2010

The final image

The bathroom floor is a Hermann grid
'til tide comes in;
this sea of red would part...
but Moses isn't watching.

God has him cleaning
the corners of heaven
for guests,
but guests are always coming.
They don’t even knock
anymore, and St. Peter
gave up taking names
after Hell overflowed
and Lucifer started
shipping sinners to Heaven
in UPS brown boxes.

He keeps telling God
to lower his standards –
Hell should be hell,
but if so full that even the
Dark Angel, after retreating
to his chambers, is forced
to feng shui souls in order
to reach his bed and slip
beneath the sheets, then,
obviously,
there is a problem.

I wish I could have been there
to see God roll his eyes
(that’s why Satan
turned into a smuggler).
God’s got an ego, you see,
from everyone saying
He’s so great all the time;
I think He actually believes
He created his mortal minions
from dust, when in fact it was
He who was borne of a pulse
and a current.

NS 12.30.2009

Vampyre

If you bit me and found

That my blood tasted sweet

Would you drink me all up

To the very last drop?

If you bit me once more

And my blood tasted bitter

Would my vinegar cell count

Compel you to stop?

If I asked you to kill me

By drinking me dry

And I tasted like sugar

And sweet cherry pie

Would you even think twice

Before watching me die?

NS 10.31.2009

Cauchemar du Jour (Nightmare of the Day)

last night i dreamed

of a basement room

a cave of sorts

with a center abyss

and rows of chairs

surrounding it

hundreds of chairs

like movie theater seating

and the people come in

and they walk in thin lines

on thin ledges

to reach their seats

so they can sit for a spell

and sleep

i held a kitten to my chest

and watched it

grow in my arms

dreading the day

when we would lose

our strength

and balance

and fall

NS 10.31.2009