Monday, March 26, 2012

the sound inside oneself

the sound inside oneself

there never were enough poems written
to make the dead feel loved; to make her
arms stop bleeding, praying for her bones to be different.

but revolutions are too quiet; too
mellow from the bullets, not hard
enough to stop him from jumping.

crawl through their ashes and spray paint
what the dead so desperately needed
before they were pushed so far out
that the cliff never existed; before all the love had left their faces.

sometimes the revolt starts with the sound inside oneself. 

Friday, March 23, 2012



soak me in kerosene,
light me on fire and
watch me drown before I burn.

our bodies shake and
squirm together—violent
energy as the fire grows in rhythm.

we must have danced all
night; hands touching,
grabbing, caressing each
other. but we never said a word.

Sunday, March 18, 2012



there were days I could not breathe.
like the dreams, they left me frozen—
waiting for a home that is not sealed inside a goodbye kiss.

I put a flower inside a soda bottle,
filled it with water and placed it inside the window.
it still burns like the day I bought it.

water can make anything grow.
make anything breathe, even for a moment
as it warms my hands; the ice cleansed away.

such are the simple things. 

Saturday, March 10, 2012



i placed stems in a cup filled with water,
set it underneath the moon, and hoped
for a leaf to grow. they have never needed
love more than a heart living on grease and
morphine before, but they are lost. they
have lost their roots from the earth and their
bones have become brittle from the fall.

the stars are flashlights for the lost spirits of the
sky.  lives only wanting to return back to
the solace but are afraid of what is there to welcome
them; and though my stems are lost they have
already jumped into the caverns of that scarred stone.

i tried to drown myself once. the water caressed my heart
as i stopped breathing, but i could still hear the waves
rowing against the tabs of my spine until sand clotted
against my skin—love was etched along my body when i awoke.

the stems, the spirits, all wrote love on their bellies,
followed the stars like i followed the waves.
aimlessly. we had all heard the same thing that took
us too far. the same words that turned our bones
to ash—sometimes love is the one who’s wrong.

my bones, my roots in this earth, they tell me otherwise!