the damned

Down, down, down
By the river I cast
my shadow, my glance, my face

Wave, after wave, after wave
After every gallant peaceful wave
I see more smoke and pebbles
above my grave

But it doesn’t matter truthfully
what the heavens demand nor
what hell for me awaits

So long as I know
and I know only what we all know
that we are the damned
and damnation is only ours
to take.


Her Excuse

“I knew I was different from them. Or maybe there was something wrong with me. Or maybe I was the only who admitted openly how fucked up everything really was. I don’t know, really. I had no idea.

Either way, I just copied them -how they react, how they do things. That way I would feel less alone. I thought I’d learn by trying to be like them. Know what I found? Nobody knows exactly what they’re doing. Can you imagine that? So I ran away. They disgust me, all of them. And since I was a cheap imitation. I was disgusted with myself too.”

Be wary of me

Be wary of me
Bare to me your soul and I’ll damn you for your sincerity
I am a far more better liar than I say myself to be.

Be wary of me
There are shadows underneath my limbs and cracks in between my fingerprints.
There are secrets I’ll refuse to tell in between icecream and story spills.

I’m unhealthy as they expect me to be.
I can’t promise you anything except hurting you.
For as much as I hurt me.

Be wary of me
I have a prison scratched deep in my lips and thorns stitched tight in my skin.
My love carries no beauty than than the tortured mind within.

Be wary of me
(as I am of you)

It’s funny isn’t it?

It’s funny isn’t it?

Or maybe the joke is only for me
that I suppose
the lids that had damned me continuously
will flutter to a close in a heartbeat
(or so perhaps someday
hopefully  when I’m safely tucked
to sleep) never to open, but only
to shadows pin-pricked in
champagne bliss.

Someday perhaps
parting flesh and dimples and moles
and droopy lashes and tacky lines and ghost
Fair pale turning ash, turning cold
turning stone and I’d have to dance
the rest of my gray-scale life
six feet above your cement grove.

Someday perhaps
My saints, my demons, my creaking bones.

What a Shame

What a shame

if there are a million ticking clocks
turning my seconds into hours
drawing miles of silence and
stillness between the have-beens
and the should-bes we could be

if there are pillows waiting behind
every bedroom door for the slightness
of our waking twirling our nightmares
and dreams together into a song we
could be humming as our heads
bend together despite the distance
of our breathing.

If there are
countless lips searching
for the words we should be
speaking or the warmth
we should be shedding for each other
come midnight time or daylight hours.

If there are
endless beer bottles underneath the
smiles that we are weaving and the laughter
that we are howling despite the sleeplessness
of the could-haves and the should-haves
that we keep on silently repeating.

If we only
had torn ourselves away from the
scars we kept on stitching or the wounds
we kept on licking to find the galaxies
hidden in the softness of our fingertips.

If we could’ve been
braver than we believe ourselves to be
or cowardly enough not to admit what we
should or can be.

Maybe I wouldn’t be
waking by dawn and shaking for how
happy I must’ve been just to be sitting
in the shadow of your subtleties.

Maybe you wouldn’t be
finding yourself another set of eyes
to duel with your ideologies or
whatever it is that you may be doing
as I curl into a ball beneath
my sheets and my poetry

I wouldn’t be missing
you this greatly.

I would know how wonderful
It must be to share French toast
In the honey light of early mornings

We are better broken by each other

There are a handful reasons greater
than our wanting, maybe I am happier
resting in the love of another human being.

there never was, maybe we could’ve been

Maybe we’d try again, maybe that’s all
there is to our story

Maybe, maybe, maybe..

Maybe, we almost made it.


For Edie

I’ve had enough of you writers -you poets
who try to capture me with beautiful words
that hang loosely around my neck
like a string of stolen pearls, iridescent
and used.

I’ve had enough of you artists -you painters
who imprison me in wood or canvas
my face a teardrop of promise,
my body a soft curve- a map, a mountain,
an atlas.

I would like you to know.

That I was never February flowers laid bare
in varnished antique pottery, nor
summertime breeze dancing between trees
strong, warm to the bone and free.

I would like you to know.

I was never lips meant solely for kissing
or long lashed eyes meant only for dreaming.
I was never just curves made for touching
or fingers made solely for soothing.

I am speeding headlights, unfulfilled dreams
and unsmoked cigarettes stacked neatly
underneath pillows I never slept in.
I am books unread and 3 mugs of tea
in midnights and mornings.

I am muffled curses in traffic,
wrong turns, loose swerves and ghostly
dusty attics. I am emptied coin purses,
rattling bones and wrinkled
book covers.

I am a flurry of tangled sheets in the evenings
I am unmade beds that last til noons.
I am spilled milk on the kitchen linoleum,
I am bright, hot lights in hospital rooms