Friday, September 28, 2012

the story of an hour

she watched the towers burn.

from that tiny kitchen television, she had been
smoking and writing, like a proper sylvia Plath. stupid tiny t.v. from the 
eighties. she hated it. the rejection letters from publishers graced the walls like family photographs. he hated that, how she hung them for everyone to see. he would say "have some shame, don't announce it to the world" and she was laugh, cry for a few hours and tape another one up. She had a bad habit of sleeping all day and it was sheer
that she was up when the alarms went off. when the news reporters called her attention from two rooms over. an accident, a plane and a fire. an explosion, a tragedy. the death toll had already hit hundreds, the city was in flames and he was inside of it all.

she collapsed onto the floor but instead of tears came only the annoying feel of dust digging into her knees. the television blared, trying to scream her into devastation. his briefcase, his occasionally soft hands and his stupid eyes. his ignorant eyes. she'd always wished for more art in him, more passion, more desire. no, he was content with a neatly stacked desk and a picture of her forced smile. he was content with a long island commute while she always longed for brooklyn. on that floor hours later, still posed with her back arched towards the ground, she supposed it was the position to assume. as if cursing Hell, cursing the hardwood floors. the towers, gone. him, gone. what had flipped? how had reality inverted itself so quickly. him, gone. his sometimes affectionate smile, his straight spine and white teeth. his boringness, his chains. gone. and very suddenly, out of nowhere, the world felt open, the world felt as if it cracked down the center like a 
walnut shell
and inside, the glint of something loud and bright and wonderful . she saw brooklyn, she saw a forest. and it hit her, the story of a lifetime, the words of a thousand poets- an epiphany of literature. she would write a masterpiece and as she ran to her typewriter the eighties 
caught her eye with firemen and hoses and the story was gone. the only words she found that she could spare were

"sometimes the boat has to sink"

and she stilled, as the lock on the door hears a fidget. a scraping key, a terrible realization. he comes running inside, eyes all wide with panic and soot on his jacket. she falls into his stupid business arms once again, she falls into her old life. forces joy on herself, thanks the deities and cries with him. and theres something odd about the way that all she can think about is the dust on the floor. later, she locks herself in the bathroom and promptly bleeds out the fire buildings, bleeds out her old life.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

no better than a puppy dog, you melt for her like an ice cream cone in June. she looks to the corner, past you, and laughs
at a joke you (wouldn't) couldn't 
looks at her new friends with light eyes, ones you
looks at you with starving 
african child pity, walks past your puddle-
like an ice cream cone in June.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

and list your trophies by the most prized
and tell me where my heart is
on your shelf. 

Saturday, September 22, 2012

i had the angriest words
and then you touched me.

Friday, September 21, 2012

in the space next to her
eyes that you wish to touch, to cry

friday armchair kind of love
and darling i fear
we won't know how to breathe 
without each other.

Thursday, September 20, 2012

i give up.
god, all these years
how funny it is that my life should come full circle.
pictures of old people your
kept close. you touched me like a day old
orange peel,
I touched you like water,
like a drowning man.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

god came down from the sky and saved
why is everything turning to
rocks in my mouth

Thursday, September 6, 2012

how strange it is to think,
i remember the first time i saw you
crouched, voices above port authority speaking about
something that i couldn't bother to hear
i saw you and everything else became quite
in comparison.

Monday, September 3, 2012


she carved you into a cavern and kissed you
because she loved you

and she destroyed you because you were too beautiful to die. 
i was ground wet coffee and everything tasted like
5:43 p.m. Sunday and she scooped the puddle of me back into a jar
everything is beautiful
the sky is sore
your back is a painting
i prayed to your fresh cut 
grass eyes
caves of hollowed out marrow in the
bones of your ring finger when he says the words with 
mouth and not eyes and all the girlfriend's are
braiding the hair of their sisters and telling stories of 
sky castles and boyfriends with leather jackets while
the dogs pace by their windows
and the cars tick their way to parking lot hulks.

empty your pride
into your lovers.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

long hair, curling at the 
little spot on her back where all the bones
connect together, bind like a ladder and
climbs, climbs to the eyelashes and at the peaks
i fall,

i fall a very long way down, nothing has begun to feel
like anything at all. 
where am i
what is this life
my eyes have begun to see strange.

Saturday, September 1, 2012

use your fingers on her spine and count the breaks as 
clouds in the park with her cheeks wind bitten red and she's
standing by the window now and she's licking her lips and
she's a coffee cup and a sidewalk smudge and a single pen and
your parents tried to keep you around but they
failed and you floated up to the ocean in the sky
and its terrible, to leave such a life, and it's wonderful 
to have had it this long.
it creeps as a vine, the lacking, it is
waking up wednesday morning and realizing you're more 'not' than
'is', its waking up thursday morning caring
less about that fact. it is a daze of changing, it is a broken teeth skyline
and warm pushing, heavy humid breathing. something
is different, that is all.

neither good nor bad, just different. it is waking up friday morning wondering and aching,
fishing for something that is no longer there that you can't quite pinpoint
the name of and coming up completely

you'll wait for her in gardens of metal
rose bushes, electric flowers growing from the teeth
of a guitar and you'll tell her of oil drums outside the corner store and she'll
nod and smile and she won't feel your words