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