Bleeding Heads

12/20/10

When I try to dive deeply into the pool of our love,

my head cracks open on the cement floor.

See it's only filled with 12 inches of water, but from up here it somehow looks like more.

I keep trying to pretend this ones not shallow,

that its not just butterflies and blue skies but the problem with make believe is that "belief" part,

that leaping even after I look part.

I'm impulsive and deceptive but even I cant build a landing ledge out of wanting.

Free falls aren't my favorite.

Neither are bleeding heads.

So why is it I can't write about the good things?

Why do the lines for you lie limp in the bed?

Is it because the moment is great and I don't need the escape

of ink scratched out on a narrow little page?

no.

Maybe it's part of the curse that started with her,

the one who showed me my rhymes now controls them from space,

a greedy goddess only allowing praise for her good works or anguish at their absence.

Maybe its she who wont let me express to distractions?

no.

Not that easy or mythical.

Even as i write this I'm growing bored.

Anguish and grief fuel my pen, when try and find cleaner fuel I fail.

I feel blood trickle down between my eyes,

touch the red dripping as a sign

of a foolish hope,

it's to no avail.

all that's left is to take a deep breath,

then sigh.

(I can't even find a good last line.)

Dream Stuff

12/21/10

My dreams are made of more than memory

or fantasy.

They have flesh and blood,

a skeleton of human touch.

My dreams are nightmares because

no matter the mood, they always breath real air.

Fiction shouldn't be allowed oxygen.

Makes it too much like skin,

like yours against mine in the attic's summer swelter

or fall's blast of painful surrender.

My dreams are made of more than me

sculpted with pain, love, and history.

And honestly?

Its scary as shit.

Smarties for Breakfast

1/25/11

The fingers of the hand inside you fit perfectly into mine,

a glove designed to warm us on the coldest days.

It was 4* below this morning.

I reached into my pocket but found you missing,

no trace of your skin,

no clue to begin investigation.

Just a roll of Smarties and some change.

Walking to class my fingertips turned icy,

tears on my cheek frozen from streaming

my candy breakfast devoid of sweetness

the fog of my breath keeping me company.

It's no substitute for you.

When we lay hand-in-hand eternity melts into the present,

a gift I shouldn't have taken for granted but no one warned of changing plans.

No one hit the silent alarm.

No one came close to describing the harm it could cause, the letting go.

The power of a mind like memory foam reliving every indent you left in the bed.

Your shape on the mattress.

Your head to my chest.

Room silent, just our breathing soundtrack keeping time.

Holding tight, intertwined, the hands we keep inside our deepest selves.

I made it through a day where you rode shotgun

kept creeping up to remind me... of what? I'm not sure

but your company was heaven sent,

though hellish and hollow the memo has meaning

as my mind finally rests.

Today brought back the comfort of velvet gloves,

of thick woollen mittens

that I can sew myself with effort and patience.

You showed me a pattern that I'll follow for now.

It may be cold again tomorrow,

but spring's a stone's throw away

and I've got quite the pitcher's arm.

Icicles

1/22/11

I heard the sound of shattering today,

turned 'round to see a row of icicles

danging from an apse across the alley,

with one spot (second to the right) now empty.

Shouldn't be surprising that with this sun out,

shining,

the daggers of winter's delight would begin to thin,

their descent slinking closer.

A lifespan depending on the temperamental weather

and the will of the wind.

Sent a shock through my system,

a wave of worry that while I think I'm a wall,

solid stone, brick red,

I may instead be a frail weapon of ice

clinging to a rooftop,

in inch thick of life.

Made me dread sunshine and heat,

wonder if God's bones felt any sympathy

for me, my predicament, my desire to fill

a home instead of watching through curtains,

cursing windows and truth.

Speaking of homes I drove by yours today,

not on purpose (but sort of)... it was on my way

(that's the lie I swear by).

It looked cozy and safe.

Looked like it could protect you, better than I did I'm sure

but then I read you have doubts,

that your heart orbits round

several gravities, a weightless body

drifting in the celestial sway,

counting on shooting stars

to guide you - how's that working so far?

I believe in you, in your right to dream big and live it,

to have wishes erupt into reality every day,

to deserve each pancake your lover has made.

It aches when I hear you question your worth,

reminded of my Irish grandmother's warning that

"if these walls could see into our minds,

the house would fall to pieces."

Well I believe your house would go on standing,

not crumble, speechless at your thoughts

but kind to your pain.

Don't be made insane running circles into carpet.

you'll regret it in the morning.

While I worry I'm an icicle and quiver at the sun

you doubt that your deserving of the two-story Victorian

that loves you.

What a pair we always make.

Your walls won't fall sweet Samson.

The lumber's strong enough to take the darkness you hide,

the gusts that may blow.

Just because you cut your hair doesn't mean it'll all fall down.

So smile and enjoy it,

the beauty that has found you.

The chance is your's to take.

Your walls won't fall down sweet Samson

and my icicle won't break.

I think we just may turn out okay.

Baby Blue

1/17/11

Twisted, tangled in a mangled mess

Your dark blue while my skin's colorless in this lighting,

like lightening on pause,

see the absence of blood flow under my cheeks,

proof that my heartbeat stopped 400 miles from

empty.

There's dirt under your fingernails

from an attempt to dig me out from a mound

of suffocating negotiating with no one but myself,

though I was convinced it was Hades with me underground,

giving my soul a trial through ice,

a last appeal for life,

a final scream to sound my victory over the renowned ruler of eternal night.

That's the way you found me,

on your knees pleading with mud caked elbows by my soil tomb,

face tear stained as I broke through into a winter's eve

not expecting air to cause such panic,

my deer in a headlight eyes beaming, startled from hypnotic sleep.

Most surprising of all is you by my grave, cuz last night you were on the other side.

I watched them pull you from the riverbed,

your body painted navy, 23 hours worth of dead coloring from toe to head.

It's Juliet and Romeo flipped on end,

the climactic realization that I was safer on vacation playing fetch with Cerebus,

whistling Alanis Morissette,

my toes dangling in The River Styx

Now I'm two dimensions away

from graham crackers, chocolate, marshmallows on sticks

thats the trick of desire to instill arrogance.

Thought I knew what real was now I'm two floors below

with no one to hold but my baby blue.

Let's go get you washed up.

Let's go gaze at the moon.

I'm surprised it still shines here, maybe the sun's here too.

You laugh when I say this

(that's probably not a good sign).

Hand-in-hand we walk off stage as the curtain closes behind us,

but no applause to follow, no bow or reprise.

No tidy happy ending.

We had better luck last time.

Hostage

1/16/11

Her hands they seem to cover me

with fingers pressed into my flesh.

They hold me tight against

a torso hot with sweat.

Sticky, sweet, these palms burn holes into my jeans.

With fire, a molten heat,

a wave in each celestial breath she gifts upon my trembling neck.

My sighing silenced by the pounding.

DJ covering up my longing

too heavy to bear, she sways my way.

These knees buckle, begging to kneel and pray

that she wont stop,

that I'll survive,

my lungs held hostage in her eyes.

She dictates each gulp within her gaze

I'm left breathless, a helpless fate

wrapped up in each iris, each colorless saint

inhale, exhale, in sync with her blinks

gasping for freedom but desperate to cling

to this dance floor shadow,

a romance of now,

a passion lasting just up to last call.

Then it's done like a shot,

her hands drop from my thighs.

But I remain her prisoner,

my lungs held hostage in her eyes.

Flawed Logic

12/10/10

Remember that time

that I stopped looking to people for a reflection,

a mirrored image of the convictions I was

sure I wished to feel, and the morality

that somehow it seems I lost or never had?

Remember that time?

Yeah, me neither.

To stop asking for opinions on my wayward logic

means trusting my words and emptying my pockets

of lies I take too much for truth

of merry go rounds and loopholes,

the rhymes of youth.

Cuz my reason, it's wrong.

You don't think I know that?

You wonder why I ask at all?

It's because the other option to accepting my bullshit as perfume

is to stop caring for smells at all,

to say "fuck it" to truth.

Who needs a conscience? I'm fine as a monster of impulse

a bandit of moments

a faulty wire in your house that at any moment

might spark all the kinder that lies in your walls.

Smell the smoke as my embers now smolder out farther.

I hit phone lines, wallpaper, curtains, all garbage.

You don't need enclosure

you need excitement and heat,

at least you thought this much when you reached out for me.

Seems so fun at first as you look for marshmallows

but once your eyebrows singe the quiver of regret

starts screaming to escape and don't worry, I'll let you leave.

Cuz who needs a mirror when your face is just scars?

Who needs to trust hopes, emotions, or gods?

I'm fine twiddling thumbs, biding time,

fine to hum that old tune

'til my lungs fill with smoke,

then I'll smile, know who woke.

Its the dragon, the demon, the fire-breathing hound

come to kick up the party, blast the bass, pound the sound.

feel it in my bones

that'll let me know

more than any reflection, lame advice, or stop sign.

Yeah this might be flawed logic,

but fuck it.

It's mine.

Marketplace

1/11/11

Desire.

The longing.

The pressing squeezing suffocating feeling

of market streets but empty pockets,

of lover's eyes with other's lockets,

of thirst no mortal brew will quench,

of homeless hearts still paying rent.

To pray for nothing.

To pray to be.

The only desires I believe will never come to afflict me.

Confusion With a K

1/6/11

Words.

Yours still weave with mine, still ring in my ears. The love songs and robberies and even Michael (who was never me) play on repeat without you here. The back beat of a piano melody, knowing its your hands on those ivory keys makes a typhoon erupt in my gut, a swoon so soft even a pin couldn't hear it drop, a pain in my eyes of tears no longer deserving daylight. So I choke them back with another pill. The promise I made is one I will live up to. (This time at least).

The vow to remove my fingers from your hair, thrust them back into my pockets, to allow you air (though I've learned now it was never mine to give. You breathe without me and my control is like a little kid thinking his open sesame makes that store door slide by). I'm going to be different this time.

I'm going to stop believing my mind reading is an all knowing unfailing absolute truth finding tool, replacing analysis with listening, doubt with trusting, realize you know you better than my arrogance ever grasped. That there's a reason you stand in front of the class and my clowning might get attention but can't compare to the insights I've ignored out of high school fear.

I'm going to come to terms with the new name on your lips, the one you whisper to touch the stars, the one who holds your hand and squeezes back and reminds you of the million springs in your step while warming the hundred winters of your past. Someone whose name will last instead of sway, kneel instead of pray, will still ring sweet on the pillow the morning after and promise that yesterday can come again with more laughter and light then before, renew your trust in change as possible and your faith in self as unstoppable, a name you can build statues with as each new city street unfolds.

A name to replace mine, which was always written in pencil with an eraser nearby since the first porch conversation to the last kiss goodbye. A fact I see too late as the case always is, that you're written on my body but I can't turn that to gold. That you're perfect in my eyes but to you I'm the flu, a cold with symptoms ranging from fatal to beautiful, that infection is no way to win affection and my parasitic behavior is selfish not protection. That behind my use of "Love" is an odyssey of fine print with terms and conditions that rewrite the script. That you were right (as the case always is) about the cutting the cord to allow us to live.

So I promise I'm going to be different this time. No roadblocks or trap doors or misleading rhymes. Just a bon voyage and one final tear, as you go into the sunset I'll take extra care to fold up this picture of us in black and white, to tuck it in an album, then walk out of sight.

If you need me I'm here, if you miss me then don't.

I was never a savior, just a stop in the road.