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FLICKERING A blanket drapes oFLICKERING
A blanket drapes over the room, casting a vacant shadow. It is uncomfortable, the way the air is a criminal that victimizes me. It flows indiscriminating and I can’t sit long with the gravity pushing up at me like a mob of pointing fingers. So, I light the tips of my toes like a box of matches that flared at once and burn my way to the flint. While the flames flicker, I see your silhouette shuttering back and forth then my breath is returned to me like an overdue book I never read. my eyes soak in the overexposure of you. I try to stabilize your image. But, when I approach, you are dissonant somehow not loosing your beat. And I began to strum the ratio of you to me. Trying to calm your image. However, it doesn’t respond. I play with broken promises and my instrument becomes a torch between my desires that is burning for you. I drop it to the floor. My dreams are becoming as unrecognizable as the fleeing rapist, whose face you’ll never forget. You are steadi
Shadow PuppetsThis is the light,
in which we meet,
onto the wall.
to imperfect things.
on a candlelit stage,
with slight of hand and shadow,
finding something real in
the things we made.
with suggestions of
a child's art once lost.
Disguising reflections of love
in the shadows that we tossed.
.357 MagnumIn our backyard, my boy cousins kill
each other from behind palmetto
bushes with Daisy BB guns.
In our frontyard, my girl cousins slap
their baby-dolls across the face
and shout at them to shut-up!
Inside my house, I'm standing on my tip-toes
palming the top of Daddy's closet,
my tiny fingers courting the Smith & Wesson.
Dancing with DaddyHe grabbed me by the forearm
pulled up the front steps
slung into our trailer
held steady to be hit
with his belt.
I ran in circles around him
missed the brown carpet
dangled by my armpit
his empty belt loops.
I Should Be Dead by NowApril 20, 2005
I wake up. My hands shake. My skin is numb. My vision is dim and blurry. I take a Prozac, Adderall, and Xanex. I can't say I'm happy or that I've ever been. I go to work. I drink a cup of coffee. I know that eventually my phone will ring and I'll have a tiny heart attack, so I take another Xanex. I go out of my way to the bathroom so that I don't have to talk to anyone. I sit on the toilet and bury my face in my hands, wondering if I should kill myself. Back at my desk, I take another amphetamine, and work a little, enough to prove I was there. At five, I drive home. I don't eat, answer the phone, or open my mail. I sit in the dark. I drink. I smoke. Finally feeling better, I stay up too late again. I fall asleep, or I don't. My hands shake. My skin is numb. I take a Prozac, Adderall, and Xanex. I was supposed to be dead by now.
Where Where You When the Princess Died?I was nearing the possibility
of approaching a reinvented Madonna
to slip a dollar between her man-breasts
when a crowd of gay men outsmarted me,
engulfing the stage.
It's just as well, I thought, as
the bouncy bare-breasted boy
returned with my drink.
Miss P (three-hundred-pounds of
hot pink) shuffles back on stage,
seems her legs were too heavy,
the shiny stuff too tight, or,
she's tossed back too many.
During an earlier performance,
she'd asked a girl in the front row
how long she's been a lesbian:
Since I was born, the girl said.
Then Miss P flapped her tongue
between her smeared red lips, and said,
oh, so you came out of
your momma's pussy—licking!
That was when I decided—
never make eye contact
with Miss P,
who returns to the stage,
props her left wrist on her
pillowed breast, and pants
into the microphone as if
back stage is miles away.
Miss P blots sweat from her forehead,
then she says,
Princess Di was
Path of lifeLife is a dangerous path
Full of twists and traps
A path we're forced to walk
Without turning back
We may regret the past
We may regret the mistakes
But we must learn from them
And keep moving on
We may predict the future
And even fear it
But we never know
What happens next
The only thing we have
Is the present, here and now
So let's live it
And forget about the rest
The mistakes of the past
The mysteries of the future
All part of life
This path we all walk
wordless they succumbAnd they fell -
just like that.
Just like the act of breathing;
soundless and inevitable.
Like an eager girl slipping
straps from her shoulders,
the soft crush of silk at her feet.
We Have No TimeAll we have
Is a sliver
Everything we will
Do in life
We all die before we know it
Its a fact of life
And I am already dying
A slow painful death
One year at a time
One month at a time
One week at a time
One day at a time
Then we flatline
On a metal sheet
Buried in the dirt
To think we were born yesterday
Only to die tomorrow
Winter's GirlI was winter's girl,
frozen under a thick layer of ice.
People tried to break it with their ice picks, but to no avail.
They eventually left me cold and in pieces in my frozen abyss.
You're thawing me out, slowly but surely.
"Summer girls aren't for me, "you say.
"Too full of sick strawberry sweetness."
That was just said to comfort me, but it oddly worked.
Maybe time with you will make me a summer girl,
no more need for thawing,skating with you above my ice.
WonderlandWhen I was little, I knew Wonderland.
Logic was faulty and rules were no more.
Up was down; down was up.
That was how it constantly was.
Fish swam in the air and drowned in water.
Worries were small and dreams were big.
One fell up until they reached the clouds,
Which were then used for soft beds and pillows.
Gender was an unnoticed trait.
Everyone was blind.
Everyone could see.
There were no expectations to uphold.
I was happy.
Then I woke up-or fell asleep-
Into a world with war and prejudice and plague.
I wondered then, and I do now…
Was Wonderland not the real world?
The Answer is Noneplease excuse the crushing
of this conversation
and i'll forgive the wheeze
as my mind's
pinch your windpipe
all but shut
watch my fading blur
as i step like god
and your heels drag
now you're the one
whose able is unned
dissed and nonned
your ghostlungs, my balloon
floating and bumping
and the whether
of pressure differentials
feels true, against
to the girl with the razors in her back pocket,stop. turn around. i understand you,
and i understand the sadness
entrenched in your bones. i understand
the late nights spent in anxious prayer
to the towels, to the creaky floorboard
just outside your parents' room, to the sink
that stains too easily. i understand
the catastrophic glances that people throw you
when you open your mouth and try
to belong. i understand the intense moments
spent in dressing rooms splicing together outfits
that will gracefully sweep past tally-marked wrists and ankles
and hopefully make sense in the dead of summer.
i understand the nights that you carve the emptiness
onto the razor and wonder if it wouldn't be better
to just die tonight instead. no one can be angry...
or disappointed...or judgmental...or sympathetic (because
sometimes forced empathy is the worst)...when you
no longer exist. it just stops. and anything
has to be better than this.
well, you're right about one thing. it does
get better. and not in that corny way
people tell you. you won't se
MICROSCOPIC THINGSAs a child my science class intrigued me.
I still remember the day we learned about germs,
organisms and other microscopic things.
I was fascinated until I realized
that I might smooch some
of these tiny creatures
each time I touched something,
maybe even entire communities.
I looked at down at the pencil in my hand,
then at my palm pressed on the desk.
I kept very still.
Even thinking about it now,
I don't want to move.
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