a hole swallowed me up

plummeting, like every year.
it seems even love cannot save me
from the unbeatable
weight of winter.
i shove anything imaginable
down my throat.
vitamins,
raw foods.
desperately trying to cleanse
an uncleansable body.
and nothing
helps.

i'm falling i'm falling i'm falling
the clench in my belly
from the descent
makes bile rise to the
taste-bud covered alley
of my mouth.




i've hit the floor and when i look up,
all i see is a pinprick of light.
a tunnel.

i've come down with the seasonal
brain-chemistry flu.
my body shakes like an old car in weakness
aches all over like a heartbroken teenager.

my feelings well up behind my eyes and in my throat
blocked by epithelium and epiglottis,
respectively.

i can feel it i can feel it
there's a fucking parasite clenched around my cardiovascular core.
i scream, but it's silent, there's no sound matched up
to the movement of my jaw;
it's sucking away my pulse.


it's hard to even continue this string of words
it's hard to stand up
when your body has melted to the couch
and moving causes the petrified pieces to crack.
it's hard to leave the house
when the gravity inside has increased ten-fold
and all you can do is crawl.

it's hard to even continue-

cold feet, literally

it was a november day
but it wasn't snowing.
which isn't uncommon.
but it was uncommonly
warm,
commonly breezy.
black clouds were moving in from the east.
 
it was about to storm.

i hit every light on the main road.
at each inhibiting, red beacon
the fat raindrops caught up with me.
and with each turning of the green
i evaded the worst of the clouds.
i was literally running from the storm;
running in a gas powered crunch-wagon.
the sky in front of me was powder blue and bright
obscured by my river-run windshield.

leaves fell, unyielding.
it's not winter, yet.

completely different outcome than expected

i opened my take-out box from three days ago. half the fries had been eaten, the sandwich untouched, the pickel shriveled. she had eaten them, like i knew she would. this time it didn't anger me, but rather, the emotion got caught somewhere between my upset stomach and my parched lips. the latter of the two trembled and moistened as my nose ran. i tasted salt and closed the box.

the girl who ate my leftovers had been my lover. most of them time we spent together passed at my apartment in the pseudo-city that neighbored suburban new england. we often would lay in bed staring out the sky-light at night, or when it rained. we'd make bets on which raindrop would be the quickest to to hit the bottom of the window.

we were in love but we never said it. she always reminded me to never fall in love with her. i always reminded her that it was too late. it's  twisted because she loved me and didn't want me to get hurt by falling for her. she had a boyfriend, you see, and the details of our relationship had to stay a secret. and there was always the possibility that one day, maybe soon, we would have to end. to her boyfriend and everyone else, we were just mere acquaintances. in fact, no one knew us, but us.

you may already hate us for being in this situation, but give me a chance to explain. Casandra, my lover, did not allow boundaries to contain her compassion, understanding and love for human beings. though she was committed, in a non-traditional sense, to one man, she would tell me all time, "what a shame it is to not fall in love at every possible moment." Casandra's life mate was only partially whole. that is to say, he was very broken. though she could see it hurt me, she could not help but gush about her mate when we were together. he was as wonderful to her as he could be, but it took a lot out of her to care for him. but she would never give up on him.

we met due to our mutual, albeit abnormal, interest in taxidermy. at a convention in march, we had both been browsing examination tools at a vendor's booth. the attraction, both physical and mental, was instant. i'm pretty sure her boyfriend hated me from the beginning, because he knew deep down that i yearned for her. however, he was always amicable upon encounter, but only for her sake.

only a few days after the convention, i found myself incredibly hungry for this young woman. after finding out she was in a relationship, my desires faltered, and i grew weak in my hunt. but i never lost contact with her, and after months i knew her enough to realize that our love could blossom no matter the circumstances.

the fridge door was still open, illuminating my kitchen. i was no longer hungry, but i didn't dare close the fridge since it was my only source of light. at four in the morning, almost anything will make sense if you think hard enough about it.

the last time i saw her, she was in the middle of a sea of linen, her cheeks rosy from orgasm. she never looked more beautiful. dark brows, dark hair, dark lips. dark, dark, dark. but with skin that matched my linen bed coverings. bare, unblemished skin. very unlike my own, which is covered in scars and different colored inks. i remember she looked at me, pleadingly, whispered, "even if i die you can't let Paul know how much you care for me. He dislikes you already, because he fears that you fancy me. if he really saw, in your eyes, the truth.... he'd sock you right in the jaw. i know he would."

i had brushed off her concern because it seemed irrelevant. when would that situation ever arise? "you're not going to die," i said. "because i love you" hung unspoken between us.

of course, she took her own life shortly after our conversation. her funeral is in a few days time. i still haven't decided if i will attend.

---

but i did. i felt out of place, barely knowing anyone there. i felt as if every look sent my way was dirty. i wanted someone, anyone, to know how much i cared for this young woman. i wanted to speak, but could not find my voice. i wanted to take to the podium but could not overcome my stage-fright. when Paul saw me, he immediately came my way.

"it's pathetic and cruel, not to mention offensive to Cassie's memory, that you are here. you barely knew her, or cared about her, yet now she is dead and you show up?"

i tried not to look him in the eye as i thought up a response. "listen," i started. "i did know her, and she was wonderful and it's awful that any of us have to be here..."

"look at me when i'm talking to you, motherfucker!" he exploded. i looked into his eyes and saw insanity. his eyes were bulging and i tasted blood as i bit my tongue. but he knew without me having to say anything.

and that douchebag socked me in the jaw just like she said he would.

---

i still haven't throw away the take-out box with the half sandwich and half-eaten fries. by now i am sure it's mold-covered; hard as a rock. i wrote a poem on the box that outlines Casandra's message of universal, limitless love. i hope that one day, at least one person gets the chance to read and understand it. i hope one day that more people will love the way she did.

hiding from the world

i am Happy &
you are Tempting
in the new play i am writing.
i'm an expert at reading people
but fail when it comes to intentions.
but how can you blame me
when most people keep their's hidden?
maybe i am just missing the secret.

i'm just trying to stay innocent.

that particular feeling of fall version 1.0

driving on wet pavement,
windshield wipers
just
not good enough
to just
barely see out the windshield.
leaves blowing into the street,
they litter the pavement
and fleetingly kiss
the double paned glass.
double paned,
with plastic in between
so if, seatbelt-less
one day,
your body rockets at the windshield,
your cranium wont get stuck in the
smashed out hole.
you'll just
s m a s h
at 60mph
into impermeable, tortoise-pased liquid.

everything's grey and moody
and never stationary.
and the wind hugs you;
chilly on the brink of goosebumps
but your skin stays flat.
maybe, your nipples raise.
the wind tells you
that fall is coming
and that, for a few months
you will be okay,

at least until winter.

at least for now.


at least--


until the leaves cycle through;
all the way through.
to brown.
and separate from their
many-armed, frail
and skeletal mothers
(who shiver, brown in their nudity, over the worst season).

ddrip drip dripp

earth
shattering
quake.
green bank lamp hangs limp.
sad, it's hanging its head.
it's perched atop stacked speakers
on its one good leg.
clubbed foot more stable than it seems.

positivity.

the light inside is the
brightest i have ever seen.
oh so LED.
we sit rhomboidal.
all twitching with electricity.
but only my hair is
reminiscent of Einstein.

a crackling wave,
donut-shaped
makes its way from behind my
weak teeth,
down my throat.
OOOOAAAAAKKKKKKK.
doesn't taste as good as bark.
but i'll admit it smells just as sweet.

boy to the left sits
with blank page in an open book upon his lap.
pen in hand,
he hovers,
hesitates.
i see him make anorexic linework.
the pen advertises "0.1"
but he manipulates it into .005

my love to the right sits empty-handed.
earlier, he drew.
watching his hands move in creativity
sends beauty shivers down my spine.
he is perfect through my dull,
brown eyes.

his jade green platters baked in the middle
evade my sight.

my hands tremor to touch the hairs
that grow out of his baby face.

mr. green lamp shade still hangs limp, depressed, used,
but loved.

hotels

lightning in my periphery,
the appliances are all wood furnished.
the armchair sticks its
ottoman-tongue at me.

floral bed sheets.
a moustache of the same pattern
grows over the ground level window.

thunder.

hotel rooms
always tell me to
feel something.
evoke hotel emotions.
act out hotel verbs.

but i remain me.

i feel perfectly centered in this
rectangular room.

two bodies on either side of me
all three (of us)
with pen in hand.

to the left scribbles biblical phrases
and the right draws out his emotions (well, in ink).

my pen runs low.

hospiter

i guess i'm kinda like an old furnace.
overheating
and plagued by fatigue
i crawl up the stairs of my parents house.
it's the second day of summer.

yesterday i was at the hospital;
it wasn't me who was sick.

all i could do in the hospital
was stare into his eyes.
they're jade, but not as matte,
nor as cold.
they're brown right at the pupil.
cooked a bit, i think,
from seeing the truth in the world.

he's been in some pain.

three times is the count
in the past few months.
i've driven him going eighty, twice.
this time we were apart.

he was transported by ambulance.

in my car on the way there
i had body crawling jitters.
i needed to control my breathing.
in, out.
in, out.

after some time, he needed a CAT scan.
i was still looking into his eyes.

they wheeled him out.

i was alone in the bright room,
now big with his absence.
the light bulbs mocked me.

in that moment, in my mind,
i perused the thought of him not returning.
i imagined the nurse arriving empty-handed
having stolen my love away.

i would have killed her.

the minutes elongated.
the room breathed.
i stared at things.
anything.

and then i heard his voice.
distant,
but there.

gosh have i fallen hard this time.
i think i bruised my knees
and scraped my elbows.

it feels good.

this is for you both in a way

today i walked a little lighter
and it's not necessarily a good thing.
i guess you could say
a weights been lifted from my shoulders
but instead of heavy dread,
its your companionship.

im wearing a suit that zips in the back
and i must arch my body like a bow
to rip it off.
but its so humid
that the suit sticks
and i must tear it from my flesh with my nails.
im drowning in my own skin.

we had so many plans
but those have been thrown away;
its all in the past

it's no longer you,
it's somebody new.
i want to know how it feels
in between his arms
how it feels to be touched
and kissed
by him.

calling out to you silently,
seulement pittoresque
can. you. hear. me?

i guess i'm gonna be a little honest

and say i miss the way your face feels
in between my hands;
the short quills of your porcupine jaw
rough against my raw, baby palms.

i'm pretty sad we can't
touch lips, petal to petal, whenever i get the urge
or stroke your cheek,
just 'cause,
while you're driving.

i can't look into your eyes
without doubting a single thing,
because i don't want you to think
that what's there is more than we have
and i don't want to be mistaken
that you feel more than you allow.

it would be easy to terminate
what we've got going,
but even if we can't be together,
why waste a second in love?

we can't form exposed parenthesis
or increase the surface area of skin in contact

but you can show me your world
and i can show you mine,
at least for now.

it'll be a shame when that stops,
too.

i appologize in advance

hello, old friend
we meet again.

the funeral

It was a beautiful day for a funeral.

Awkward hands in pockets converse and leave their hideaways to meet briefly and shake. We all gathered around the hole where two servicemen stood at ease.
Five siblings sat hip to hip in inadequate chairs. One of five stood up and sang strings of pretty prose. She spoke of her father, the deceased. She spoke of his selfless sacrifice to his children. Her words rocketed me into reverie; A premonition of the future.

I was her, speaking of my own dad, another of the siblings. All the words she spoke emanated my own view of my father, working countless hours just to make ends meet. All I could see was myself in her, feeling every emotion that slipped passed her lips.

My eyes stung.

The remaining four siblings were solemn down the line. Once the service ended, the wind began to whip and I thought maybe it was his spirit escaping finally from its bodily confines.

Another of the five siblings handed out white roses—the sign of acceptance. She gave them to the children and grandchildren to place on the casket. I knew when I saw my Dad’s turn get close that I wanted to place mine right after his. So I did. My dad placed his rose, and held his hand against the polished wood for a breath’s length. I followed.

Later in the day we went for a walk in the forest to spread half the ashes of the siblings’ mother, who died some years previous. There were thorns aplenty and the branches reached for pieces of my dreadlocks and clothing. We walked along abandoned train tracks consumed by undergrowth.

I saw a small branch that had twisted itself intricately and perfectly around another branch. I had only seen something like it in photographs. Its intricacy reminded me of love.

My cousin found an antler on the ground. It had five prongs. She told of how her deceased boyfriend would've been proud.

At the pine grove is where we spread the ashes. Five siblings had become four, but we spread the gray dust anyway.

“I love you, Mom.” The White Rose sibling whispered.

My father spread the last of the particles, and we left.

crazy

someone veiled the night sky,
replaced it with a copy.
but the copy's a filter;
gaussian blur.

the ribbiting street lamp
pokes fun at me.
all i do all day
is speak to credit cards.
hand to card to hand,
no real connection.
but the old mop
has your silhouette,
your hairstyle,
and there's some feeling there.

i clean the floor with your head,
loving strokes.
i fill your locks with dirt and debris,

until
the sweets in the store container
stop screaming.

chemistry

there's a pile of shovels
next to a couple
of gas cans
outside a school.

and infinity looks good to me.

your face is sculpted butter;
a saturated fat.
you contain no double bonds
comprised of only singles.
your structure packs in
tightly.
stacks and stacks.

who knew poetry
could make such
accurate
connections.

X

these places are mirrors,
the same but different.
separated by an invisible reflective shield.
perhaps they're isomers
or anomers.
both rural highways;
concrete rivers in the middle
of a vast forest.
except one's surrounded by plains,
the other by mountains.
all i see is flat marsh and river,
all he sees is snowy inclining slopes
and tree barriers.

it makes me fucking sick.

- -

i guess i'm like a tree
my leaves falling off for winter.
like mica, pieces slowly breaking off
at the tip of a finger print.
or like many-layered baked brie
brittle, crumbling-

i can feel essence of essentials
being sliced off
piece by piece
fluttering to the floor in a flakey fashion.
like old skin cells and just as dead

dissolve me with a drop of spit.

the party (the first poem that isn't about you)

bourbon bumble bees.
locust congregation in the cold,
underwater kitchen.
so dense it is opaque.

Red hangs dead on her feet,
rag doll on a stiff pole-
pierced right through.

a Clown tips on a broken axis;
equilibrium absent.
louder than the loudest siren,
more extroverted than
saturn's outermost ring.
more extroverted than
the external stratum corneum.

Dreadlocked, professional drinker;
self-talker, performer.
i don't know if i've ever seen him
sans drink in hand.

THAT KID who's falling apart.
brain so altered (but temporary,
TEMPORARY!)
and completely uncontrolled.
cognition: unreachable.
definitely shattered.

plutoid

it's a secret that
i desperately wish you'd ask
me to spend this day with you.
it's a secret even to myself
but i hope, somehow,
you hear it.

yet i must remember
that you are nothing more
than a pretty face.

next,

symbolism: my ipod sitting
on my bed all day.
it means i never stepped a foot out the door
from 12am to 12am.

and i still can't sleep properly.

magnetism

i think
every one of our particles
and even the particles that make up our particles
each have a magnetic charge.
and in a collective majority
(for some of our particles do not match),
our forces, opposite but strong,
attract each other fiercely
in an eternal bind;
forces too strong to pull apart.

magnetism must explain this lack of self control.