Sunday, October 11, 2015

crying didn’t help me.
it made your skin crawl and I,
well, I do think you liked it.

because you can’t cry. No,
I know that
your tears have waterlogged your weary head.
All that pressure sealed your 
pulsing eyelids
and kept you silent,
but thrust my legs (left-toe to right-heel)
all the way out the front door.
I saw a
hard, cold, little rabbit.
I picked it up 
and laughed right at it.
I even made myself sick 
when I decided
what I was going to do then.
so I picked up that ceramic piece
of what she called art.
i
t was fired in her summer-camp kiln.
it was fired in the fire that she lacked.
…I thought it would explode,
that pink little rabbit.
I thought her unhinged desire 
would burst 
into a fine display of 
passion-under-pressure
erupting.
I project.
I projected my
foaming,
fizzing,
volcanic-fear-ready-to-burst-into 
an ugly display of
childish panic.
The ceramic piece of
art,
(that pastel bunny with the chip on its shoulder,
a deep pit that we used as a cigarette holder),
her kiln-fired, summer-camp, funny 
bunny
was NOT 
the catharsis for my 
rage parade
It did not light up the streets
when I heaved it 
with all of my clandestine hate
put behind it
Instead, 
it crumbled into ten dusty pieces
that I swept up
all alone
the next morning.

Thursday, January 15, 2015

The birds speak louder than your words
and I can't even understand theirs.
Funny thing, that is.
A story about a monster will outlive anything
you've ever had to say
and it was written by a girl five years your junior.
You were the monster all along(?)
But she wasn't to know that, some two-hundred
years ago,
or so.
I hear the birds louder than I hear your
monstrous voice;
you're so quiet in your terror.
But perhaps it doesn't ring so loudly in my ears
because it's dampened by the fast
thud-thud, thud-thud of my heart.
You animal, you seem so large!
But the birds are larger, not when I hear them caw,
but when they come together in a mass
that screams,
"We are here,
and why are you down there, so alone?"

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

My life is petty and the people are scary.
My arms got wet as I said,
"it's okay, baby,"
the day after my mattress lost the shape of my body.
The people are scary and my life is petty
but I blow smoke out my mouth in pretty shapes
and feel comfy.
You never knew that I knew but I watched...
from two-hundred miles away, through the blacks
of the backs of my eyelids...
while I bundled up into a blanket cocoon
to keep my heart silent.
You never knew that I knew
until I told you,

and after all of it the gas continues to be lit.