me

two lips press together
dry, but not chapped
to try and smooth
what is already soft

small hands grasp
big cameras
metaphors for bigger dreams

with nails chipped and
painted gold
attached to arms
that wrap around
shoulder, waists
the same nails drag along
concrete streets
and wish to save
a dozen lives a day
when they can’t save themselves

inconsistency is the consistency
of your flesh and bones
for singularity is never enough
but it’s always what you
go back to

made of paper-maché
solid, yet hollow
lightweight, yet keeps it’s place
you are magazines held together
with paste

brown matching brown
and a face forever
somber

sometimes you find yourself
walking unfamiliar paths
but you trust your feet
to lead you straight
for they understand better
than your own head

sometimes
you’re a singular body
in a sea of multiples
vision tunnels and corners turn
white

calculus

the class buzzed
with not conversation,
but silence.
there was a distant hum
as if you could hear
everyone around you think.

calculus, a vile subject
that slowly cooked the mind
and caused time to tick;
the second hand lurched
as if you flick a distant pain
away.

all around you were somber eyes,
half closed, half moons
eyelashes sweep
left to right, like a broom.
they blink away
saline and hide in peripheral
vision.

bones clatter onto desks
a miss in the search for
numbered buttons, plus signs
and equals.

every being in that room
a hallow bird or broken feather
the teacher stood, yard stick in hand.
each twist of her wrist
brought it down with a smack
into her open palm.
a quiet smack.

and whilst pencils scratch
in time with the second hand's tick
in time with the yard stick's smack
the room's still abuzz with
silence and the mess math makes
in one's mind

reader

as if chopping carrots
crisp, fresh
his teeth bite down
awful sounds
and nails break off
at the quick
almost too short
almost too painful

his hands are calloused
rough and tattered
from both work and play
but mostly from
the wood he commands
with his palms curled around

it's not that
every time you see the sky
you think of him
but really
every time you see his eyes
you think of the sky

the air moves with him
and not around him
as if he carries it with him
in a jar

movements quick
like a shutter released
and speech that tumbles
tongue over teeth
sharp, yet melted together

at bus stops or train stations
he is who you see alone
daydreaming up another life
and whispering to the clouds

creativity

“the C-41 developer”
she says
“for the color film”

she may have the wrong
impression of you.
every time she comes
you’re upset
or tired
or out of touch with reality.
it seems the best of days
she’s never there.

everything she creates is beautiful.
even things she has
no control of:
her voice, her hair
the features of her face.

with hair aflame
and eyes alight
she breathes words
from her mouth to yours;
Cardiopulmonary Resuscitation.

barely with words she speaks
more with gestures
and slight of hand

but at the end of the day
you’ll shake hands
and promise to meet again.

you can't save anyone