A notebook like me

Do what you love, and you'll never get a break.

I've slept on the same mattress for six years

and it still doesn't know my first name.

You'll never have good ideas while you're still awake.

They just come seconds before your eyes finally close

and if you're lucky you'll scribble them down on

a scratch piece of A4 before they escape back to

the recesses of your skull from which they stemmed.

And by the time you've finish scrawling tired-eyed

bullshit in your notebook, the sun shines in and it

shows every ugly flaw, everywhere your #2 slipped,

every stain, and every scar.

 

Nothing you do will ever be good enough for yourself.

Every mistake you make will be permanently burned

into your brain like the brand on my arm I got in 12th

grade with a friend I don't talk to anymore. Another

reminder of the mistakes I made and what I did or

didn't do to keep him close like on that surprisingly

sober summer Sunday night we pressed the white

hot steel to our skin.

 

I am the reminder I wrote half asleep in my notebook

My pencil slipped on my skin and left freckles, scars,

and shitty tattoos in its wake. And they will never

leave me. They're here to wallow in my spite forever.

 

But then I met a girl who didn't mind. She was the sun

that shone through my bedroom windows and loved

every scar she saw. I may not see it but if I'm good

enough for another maybe I'm missing something.

 

She liked the tattoos sparsely scattered on my body

and even though I'll never be as sober as that summer

Sunday night she'll cheer on as I press another white hot

mistake to my arm because I'm proud of every pockmark

and freckle in my notebook. Even though It's marred,

It's not crumpled. Every blemish in a notebook like me is

just another savor to love

 

 

Digital Age

 

Digital Age

The good old days

O, to see the world in newer ways

And express emotions in a haze

 

We have more than we could ever know

Though no contentment can we show

Beyond an emblem to tell us so

While life is planned to cease to grow

 

Digital Age

A façade of protection

Can obstruct progression

And since your direction

We’ve faced a deep depression

Digital Age

Filled with hate

Everyone wants to see you break

And all the mistakes we’re destined to make

 

When all our lives are just one big game

It turns out we’re all one and the same

Living just to drag you down

And force the mask of yet another clown

 

Digital Age

527 Squares

(Wound on the Core of Discovery)

 

It comes in one color

hoary, hoarded, held

and God forgive me,

bought beyond reason.

 

It’s a scroll charged

with punishments

for bad blankets,

a crummy cow,

 

hacked hair—

for the boarded,

flooded, violated,

sidelined, pipelined,

 

isolated, terminated,

land and peoples

right here, always here,

have been, now are, will be.

 

If I stop the story now

I cannot wash

my left hand with

the discarded right—

 

So let the meek inherit

what bores the proud.

Occupied territory—

we’re on it.

 

growth/decay

 

i think

that flower bouquets

are quite sad

 

flowers themselves

are happy and bright

but to take

these growing wonders

and cut them

from the ground

that gave them life

to place them

in water so

they might die slower

 

how could

such a thing

inspire joy

or wellness?

 

and then

their blooms

are stained with

dyes and colorings

so they stay bright

instead of brown

 

as if a layer of

pink, orange, and blue

can paint them

immortal

 

no matter what

the leaves wither

the petals fall

and all that remains

is a vase of water

and an envelope

“get well soon”

 

 

How do you fall in love?

Do you make a wish on a fallen eye lash?

Or a dandelion blown into the wind?

How about a wish upon the first star you see tonight?

Or on a wishbone broken in two?

Is it like learning how to tie a shoe, ride a bike, or drive a car?

Is it like cooking a three-course meal or as simple as boiling ice?

Is there a recipe?

How about a YouTube tutorial?

Is it like dancing the tango?

Or maybe just the two step?

 Is there a class?

Sign me up

Or a subscription?

I’d take it in the mail.

Or maybe,

Just whisper it to me in my ear.

Quick.

Nobody is watching.

 

If some warm night I were to walk the wood

at the edge of town, alone, hoping that I could

find a fairy queen who would my calling hear

and lie in the leaves beside me, stroke my hairy ear

 

and call me love, ignore my braying and my plight,

despite this bleak appearance in the moonlit night,

then I would bring that vision to the eye of day,

and form with it a path to light a poor man’s way.

 

I would play a lover who would her nectar bring,

be Pyramus to her Thisbe, be her fairy king,

I would climb atop the crannied wall and beam

with joy midsummer night, when even weavers dream.

 

Rhythms

after G. M. Hopkins

 

The neighbors’ laughter from behind

my fence is senseless: is my mind

a plaything, tossed about by wind

like drying laundry, stoutly pinned

to clotheslines, or sails, when, in a tack,

are only for a second slack?

 

I see a pattern, like the playing boy

whose little skip can show his joy;

the leaves he flings into the sky

drift back, but not before a sigh

assails him.  It creates and kills

and empties out, but then refills

 

To ride the wave the only hope

is weighing anchor; the length of rope

that holds the boat against the tide

will keep, but not prevent the slide

of water seaward, moonlight’s glow,

or seas surging up from below.

 

Let me breathe the suppressed centuries of rage.

It burns and crackles, a fire within my lungs.

 

When you ask why my words come out as smoke, why gasoline and burning are

my language—

 

It's because women who stood where I am have only been able to vote for 100

years.

 

It's because I still carry pepper spray on my keychain.

I walk without my headphones at night.

I still cringe when I hear someone call me baby.

Because someone asked what the importance of consent is.

 

Because we won’t reach equal pay until 2059.

 

It's because I had to walk with hundreds of other women in support, breathing

out our fire.

Where I learned to spit flames and harness my suppression as a weapon.

 

Why do I speak fire and smoke?

It's quite simple honestly.

I’m a dragon.

And I am not your baby.

 

So monsieur you wish to know about my relationship with her late majesty the Queen of France

I will tell you the story, but it is rather a simple one.

For I am a young woman who was one of her maids

I got the position at the palace, Versailles, five years before “the French Revolution”

I remember days serving her tea in the gardens in the summer

 

The sun shone bright and the flowers gave off their sweet scent

I always dressed the table with some of her majesty’s favorite flowers

I made sure that everything was to the queen’s liking

My duties also included helping to find and clean her clothes and accessories

My days were spent as a maid

 

The work was hard, but I gladly did it for my Queen

Then the people of the country began their uprising, known to them and others as a “revolution”

I could have joined them, but I would not betray my queen

She had given me shelter and a position

In return I gave her loyalty and honor

 

In return I gave her loyalty and honor

We watched the king be executed

She cried, and I gave what comfort I could give

Then my Queen went on trial and was found guilty of treason

I cried for hours, knowing that my beloved Queen would be killed by her subjects

 

I was one of the few people allowed to be with her in her final days

I was shocked when she gave me a small necklace that was her mother’s

I said I could not take it but she insisted so in the end I did

On the fateful day I was with her as we walked slowly toward that horrible machine

Some of the common people call it “Madame Guillotine.”

 

I watched as her head was cut off in one swift chop

I could not have to look at the blood!

After that I left France because there was now no reason for me to stay in that god forsaken country

To end I say that I was a humble maid to Marie Antoinette, the last great Queen of France

 

×

I breathe in complement,

Exhale incompleteness.

 

1000 miles distance

But taut between us

Are shared moments,

Secrets,

Tears,

Memories.

 

They aren’t unattached, our hearts;

When mine drags,

Yours sweeps down to console.

When yours soars,

Mine leaps for joy.

When they go different directions

Tug of war arises,

Who will give?

Either way,

We collapse into each other’s arms

So no one ever really loses.

 

Living organisms function better in twos

Think eyes, feet, wings

So it makes sense

That hearts are meant to be paired.

 

A fleece throw blanket

With an image of two young angels

Caught my mother’s eye

And so, from the picture in the magazine

To the package on the porch

The blanket entered our lives.

 

Many mornings

Wrapped around a sleepy child

As she moseyed from her warm bed to the still cool fireplace,

The heavenly peacekeepers let her rest

And warded off any evil that tried to pollute the daylight.

 

Many evenings

Around a campfire

It wrapped us up warm

To the rest of the family reclined on the sofas,

The celestial creatures innocently eavesdropped

And contributed silent prayers of wellbeing.

 

Many nights

Around a campfire

It wrapped us up warm

The little cherubim guarding us with their elegant wings

From the frigid air of a late autumn night.

But one day

When the blanket had fallen out of everyday use

It caught my mother’s eye again

This time to be swiftly carried from dusty storage

To an earthy ditch

 

The blanket was gently placed over his still-warm body

The smell of hot metal and gasoline lingering in the air

The angels covered him as he was lifted into the ambulance

And carried him safely to heaven’s gate.

 

Delicately, gently

Prayers and purity in each detail

 

Her hands always worked

Thoughtfully and thoroughly

When I was the one who benefited.

 

Gleefully, tearfully

Justified emotions woven throughout her work

 

I just know the sorrow and anxiety it must have taken

To guide me and provide for me,

But she always said it was her greatest joy.

 

Intently, clumsily

I try to recreate what I so often saw her do

 

I stumble through loving and living like she did,

Racking my brain to remember every step she took

When she tucked me in at night.

 

She never believed in miracles,

But maybe,

Miracles come naturally to angels.