my middle name is Mae
             I 'd lost it for a while

wondering
             "what's your middle name?"

as from a stranger
             "what's your middle name?"

"Mae."
             m  a  e   like the month
             but with an "e"

an "e" because
            I wear it for my
            great grandmother
            who shrugged off the
            "y" in the 30's

(I think)
            I'd lost it for a while
            I took it off
            I let it float away
            it felt a little tired

I needed it to be
            what it used to

But I'll wear it today
            an old dress
            from a distant summer
            a middle name

I'll keep it near
            hold it sacred
            lest I forget

those who wore it before me

I don't like what life has made me
but I like what you have made me

I don't like to believe that anyone can change me
but I like what you have made me

I don't like that I'm blind and lazy
but I like what you have made me

I wish our lives weren't so far apart
so vastly different
you're a tough one
I learned to read people
before I learned to read books
and your face is a foreign language

I wish you weren't so, I don't know,
somewhere else
you'll disappear, vanish for days
you stay with me but leave so early
that my eyes are still adjusting to morning
as you step out the door

I wish that you would talk to me
that you would tell me who you are
because I don't know who you are
not at all, I just know
that if I did, I would like you
and so I like you

I wish when I was with you
when we're drinking
I could just shut the **** up
just for a minute
I might hear you wondering in silent volumes
like I know you do

you're like that one thing
that I have so close I can feel a pulse
but that I just can't hold on to
and I'm afraid, so scared I can't sleep
that I won't be able to hold on to you

and what if I can't hold on?
what if I was wrong?
what if you're just like them?
the other ones
the parade of dead-weight wastes
deflated infatuations
that tie me to the ground
and turn my eyes down

but this wasn't a sad poem
I'm sorry. let me tell you
I don't like how much being takes out of me
but I like what you have made me

I no longer write poems
I write lists
I write thoughts
I write myself with symbols
that we are conditioned
to recognize
as something meaningful; beautiful

nothing I make
is pretty, nice, beautiful anymore
I just make a picture
and hope there's something of me in it
then I wait until someone says it means something
I stopped making decisions; from now on, only conclusions

I found a leaf
I drew on it
for an hour I was inspired to make something beautiful
I made it for you
I was afraid and I kept it
first I pinned it to my desk
then it fell, because it was fall
I lost it. When I found it in my laundry pile,
it was broken, and torn.
I can't help but thinking;
maybe that's why I'm confused.
I can't tell, maybe I'm hurt
maybe I'm a leaf.

I'm thinking out of order
last things first,
the middle at the end.
help me stay alive
my eyes are open wide
images are blurred,
ideas, they collide

I'm hoping
that somehow
out of this
I can write out my
indecision and my crippling over-inspiration
beauty and detail
are leaves
shivering and sidling
up to me in the wind
trembling, and swiftly
only just out of my grasp
when i reach out to muse
upon their frail lace,
veins of understanding
an intricacy for which I am greedy

distractions are taking me
on paths I never desired
to walk
they're dark
and unfeeling
though endearing,
engulfing, whispering, promising

I find wonder
in nothings
diction is taking me
I am kidnapped
the ransom is specificity

I'm falling further
into impermanence
reaching for reality

a while ago,
I stopped picking up pennies
on the ground
with the thought in mind
that it would be kinder
to leave them
for someone in more need
of luck than me.
and just a day ago,
I saw a penny that I hadn't
picked up.
on the ground,
ten feet from where it had been
a week before;
in the middle of a major walkway,
it sat neglected, dejected,
scratched and worn.
it's the pennies that need pennies.

sometimes, when I'm in a crowded place
and the voices just get too loud
I just wanna leave. in that moment of
panic
I wanna walk away
just turnaround walkaway
and never come back
go find a rock somewhere
in front of the ocean
and I wanna just sit there and smoke like
six cigarettes

but I never do
I just let my eyes cloud over
and cringe at the peak
of every over-rehearsed laugh

sometimes it gets so bad
I grind my teeth til my bones hurt
like, on the inside

like when my dad told me today
"you know, you should try making more eye contact with people"
and I nearly lost it
I swear my teeth are still humming
and I try to tell him why without crying
and he doesn't understand
and he keeps trying to catch my eye

don't try to help me
and for god's sake don't
please don't
try to ******* fix me

you have my will power
sewn to you
so that when you walk away
it does too

"just don't break his heart"
they say

that's not going to be a problem,
I think

"I won't, I'll try not to"

but I won't
I'll never be the girl
who wrenches you in two

because even if I tried
even if I wanted to
(and I really don't want to)
I would be the one to break
I'd shatter on impact
I'm just not strong enough
to break your heart
the glue I used to patch myself up
the first, second, and last time
doesn't stay too well
I worked quickly
so he one, two, and three wouldn't see

I don't want any trouble
it's no one's fault but mine
for throwing fragile things
at walls dressed as men

I don't want anyone to think
to know that they broke me
so if you want me to go
I'll go without a fuss
although I might steal
some duct tape on the way out

I'd rather be taped-up-heart broken and lonely
than knowing I am the one
holding you back

you know those times
when there is a rapidly expanding
cloud of nothing
and you're stuck in it?
yeah, those times when you know
that your fingertips
are so close to reaching inspiration
that you can feel
that addictive electricity
jumping into your bones

but too far to make a circuit


I ask of my pills of delusion
give me light
give me time
give me color
give me god
give me the darkness behind my eyelids
so that I may see everything that isn't there
and that was never mine to know

the drought is over
this is the rain
I am the dust

you can't possibly know
what you're doing
to me

I'm tripping and falling
over false hopes
and promises

I'm so close
to giving up
sinking to the bottom
staying on the floor
to putting my arms at my sides
and letting myself lean
and step off my
sewing thread tightrope

and all you'd have to do
to bring me back
is say hello.

I might be
    the lines under my eyes
    racing each other down my face
    and dreaming of being beautiful

I might be
    an ant stuck in paint
    suffocated, confused,
    hopelessly devoted,
    but ultimately wrong

I might be
    moths in a stairwell
    predisposed to believe that a flickering
    wall lamp is the one and only sun
    then repeatedly flying into it

The whole point of running in circles is giving up.

I wait
I wonder why
the life
       blood
has stopped
flowing from my
hands

I am a sapling in winter
stunted
frozen
brittle

I miss this
the photosynthesis

the static whisper
between paper
and finger

smudges
scorches

come spring
come forth

and I am a tree

it's a brown paper bag poetry kind of day --
one of those with multitudes of foggy fleeting
passive agressive hypotheticals

and I realize, that all I have to share
are half-assed transcriptions
of an intangible boredom
only born of a self-inflicted state of stagnation

this isn't a poem.
but my guess is that you're
indifferent anyway

my guess is that the words are
flowing through you
passing right through
no time to sink in

no, people like me
thoughts like mine
they're so tired
used up -- old news
no, we don't stick

you'll forget soon enough
what it is that brought you here
to this place
of tired hypotheticals

I hold time
at the tips of my fingers
it twists and pulls
spinning away
all sinew and seconds
I reach
I grasp
it just slips away faster
it is solid and I am not
it passes through me
leaves me drowsy,
and regretting

learn the world
inside and out
read the book
          through and
                    between the lines
gather your moments:
with those of chaos
                    put to rest
with those of silence
                    build safety
                    a sanctuary

my life
has been colored,
painted, drawn. erased,
torn and thrown away,
lost and then found.
I like it that way.

a vow
I made a vow
to myself

that I
would
take
my
mind
back

that I
once again
would try to make
music on the
wrong kind of keys

that I
once again
would desperately
with clumsy ignorance
capture in vain
small pieces of
ephemeral beauty
in my trembling hands

that I
once again
would fail to
find words
to carry a thought
to definition
a foggy memory
into focus

that I
once again
would find
that I can hide
comfortably
in phrases

that beauty
is audible
in silence

a virtacle scratch
right down the spine
around and around
a glitch every  time
a word skipped
for every line
your head's intact
but what about mine

the fog lifts
and the heavens rise
from around our ankles
and takes with them
no one

you were a fair distraction
I kept you close
I knew you'd stay and
wait for me to reach to you
and I thought I was an empty promise
I thought I was cruel

I kept you closer
I stayed my distance
we were so different

I said yes
and still empty

but now…

now the little things
the things that swim in
and through all my moments
blinding me daydream
by daydream

you might save me
just by being
I'm afraid of this
of falling too far

I can't stop
your eyelids
the tiny gap in your teeth
your stepping stone vertebrae
your immaculate jawline

you
are a whisper from the top of a well
faintly echoing
all the way down
to me

the skinny beggar man
stands across the street
his hands open for lack of words
his knees and words falter-- stutter
next to him
a middle-aged lady
impatiently presses the crosswalk button
every day that I'm here
I see him. greeting
pleading, thanking
leaving, head hanging
and repeating
just for loose change
today he is wearing a shirt that
in big gothic letters
reads "royalty"
and I smile.
he is.
he is the king of frantic hellos
he is the king of pointy, unkempt hair
he is the king of politely harassing
he is the king of asking for what you can spare
he is the king of your reluctance, your refusal
he is the king of disappointed gestures
he is the king of gracefully moving on
he is the king of Piedmont Avenue

she's the woman who
looks like summer
in another country

unheard lines
words
resting on her lips

hands that
carried too many scripts
never to read

only see

she's an actress

although here she never speaks

I saw a girl today
on the bus today
she was beautiful
in a  broken-a-little-bit-too-young
kind of way

her face a beacon
a mast rising above a restless sea

she was beautiful
musta been about 16
I saw for a second
fleeting, the child she coulda been

a cheap haircut
ill-fitting jeans
but she was beautiful
a story worth telling

and I couldn't tell her
no, not a single word

I know that I belong to the ocean

that I belong to the gray
to the ankle deep foam
to the barnacles that cut tiny feet
as they scurry, searching for tide pools
to the miles and miles of sand and stones
and plastic memories of boat parties
to the age old trees washed up like whales
as dead as whales
to the treacherous rocks
jutting out, the bones of the earth
that are islands when the moon says so
to the things that live just out of sight
to the pebbles and shells in hands and pockets
to the cold that bites in the crashing waves
the mist of watery knives, cutting at my face
the seaweed pulling me down
the riptide stealing me out to sea

to the ocean, the ocean
alive beyond the sum of it's parts

and I am better
I haven't been this happy
since I was too young

but there's a blank in the sentence
that makes up my mind

I thought "happy"
was the one that fit best
but maybe not

at a loss and with empty words

maybe I'm not meant
to find meaning this young

I am a child
I am barefoot
and I am wandering

the professor
name's John, I think
every day a goatee
a ponytail
and an honest smile
brings me flowers
sometimes.
pays in nickels
sometimes.
"have an easy day"
he says to me

man in the same brown
suit, mismatching
every day
coffee, hunched over
with something under
his arm
sometimes.
never seen him speak
just a scowl
and a solemn shuffle

the owner
of the bar next door
I think.
out for a cigarette
every 30 minutes or so
or move his car
he gets our mail
sometimes.
glasses on his forehead
never on his face
always a fleeting
noncommittal smile
pacing past the door
sly eyes.

there's the guy
stuck in the 70s.
every day
bell bottoms
a black bowl cut
it's a wig
I think.
a leather jacket
sometimes.
walks like he owns
the sidewalk
he doesn't.

the old man
the half-blind one
orders the same thing
always.
with his walker
his hands searching
haven't seen him
in a while

the big guy from
the burger place
across the street
no, not the famous one
the other place.
took his suggestion
got a burger
wasn't very good
but he's always so
cheery, gotta be nice

the one guy
blue shorts guy
stops by during his
run, to check
the selection.  back
an hour later in
pants and
a jacket now.
never buys a thing
wearing those blue shorts

the woman with
oddly spaced teeth
and hair
the short witchy kind
lots of shawls
and oversized tote bags
and cargo-capri's.
complained of
an allergic reaction
once
to god knows what.
keeps coming back though

a mother and son
mother, tired.
ten year old
private school boy
asks for too much
and too many questions
"did you make this?"
"are you really 20?"
"do you go to school?"
he asks so many questions
"yes, yes, no."
"why not?"
"well…"
mom saves me
distracts him away

the poor skinny one
the homeless man.
ill-fitting clothes
always.
women's
sometimes.
begging, cigarettes and money
has a tic, says
"hello! hi! hello!"
every few seconds
he's very persistent.
and very polite.
gracefully insane, I'd say

it's 1:03
in the morning
and i'm so cold
my skin
looks like lace
i'm frozen
numb at the fingertips,
nails blue.
i'm reduced
to this: splinters
and a shuddering
ribcage

this is a different kind of starving

I can feel my patience
fading away
frustration with cold
and loud
and hot
and waiting
and hunger
I started tapping my
feet and fingers again
unrest for the weary
doubts and happiness
equally fleeting
disproportionately
resonating
through caverns
vast to hold
worlds
I have not maintained
patience falls ill
patience dies
patience waits for no one

there are days when time is too much
when mornings are aeons and evenings are millennia
watch fingers mindlessly forage for cigarettes
hands shaking watch them pull up socks
fix hat
push stay hairs out of face
mind runs wild
and hands like spiders
and then it's tomorrow
there are days when time is too much
when mornings are moments and evenings are wisps smoke
passing through consciousness and into the night

the truth is held only by those
who bare no impressions
and leave none
behind

there are no good mirrors
mirrors are full
of morality and preconceived notions

mirrors induce nausea
mirrors take what is true
and turn it around

and around
and around
and around

the more mirrors
the merry-go-round

the kids who get their heads stuck
spinning in time
with turnaround mirrors

there are no good mirrors
leave them behind
with the roundabout children
breaking turnaway faces
to wear the new ones
they've taken
newly born to turn-of-phrase places
all made of glass

all walking a thread
hauling D-I-Y lies
every give-it-up day

there are no good mirrors
only bad-for-you windows

inspiration:
a collection of thoughts/papers/dreams.
with missing letters/words

I stay up for hours
filling in the blanks

I need __.  

circle one: (you/help/coffee/a cigarette/sleep)

all i want
really, all i want
is someone to tell me i'm beautiful
who will hold me and
remind me that I matter
who will take me somewhere new
and say "see?"
who will accept me
though i'm not at my best
who will wake me up in the morning
and kiss my forehead
because it's saturday
and i've found
that all i want
really, all i want
is far too much

I remember a time
when we were new
and beautiful

before our lips
were blackened by lies

before the sleepless nights
circled our eyes

before coffee and tar
stained our smiles

before liquor heated
our foreheads and hearts

I remember a time
when we were new
and every breath blink and step
brought me closer to you

you are a pause

you are the second
before the air raid
an anticipation so loud it's deafening

you are the stillness, the static,
pins and needles between lightening
and thunder. 1. . . 2 . . . 3. . .

you are the heartbeat, last blink
separating bullet and flesh
crescent cuts bleed from empty hands

you are red lights. stop
knuckles white through a
raindropped windshield

you are elevators
early morning coffee stains
shifting eyes. look away.

you are the dead air
on a faraway radio station
bent antenna. turn the dial. silence

you are the needle
on that half broken phonograph
sidling arthritically away, back to sleep

you are the skip a beat
nervous lip bitten hesitation, envelope stamped
staring into the letter box. just let go

you are punctuation. . .

you are the hyphen
splitting words in two
leaving lonely nothings on different pages

you are 0:00

you are the force that
draws our eyes together
if only for an instant

In my desperation
for a story that I could tell

I found myself divided into three

the girl out of time
the girl who never slept
the girl made of symbols


one is for the past
when I could see what others could not
and others could not see me

I saw light shadows earth and air
and found my place among them

but assumption and apathy
ignorance and monotony
lured me into false independance

and I simply disappeared
faded to a wisp of self
faded to transparency


one is for the present
when time and dread and overthought
drove me to restless places

I stole my being from moments of calm
and tore it limb from limb

by day I fell ill with stillness of mind
through self-inflicted turmoil and disorder
I found my comfort in the lull of night

I was accustomed to dawn
and the correspondence of birds
insomnia thrived before softly lit grace


one is for the future
when I've found patience and comprehension
long lost in angst and exhaustion

presence and mind in translation
I will live by the stories under my skin

I will become ink, I will become words
I will become the doctrine by which I am governed
I will belong to ideas

I will become a story
I will be forever speaking
however silent

you wrote to me
"are you single?"

"sorry for being so blunt"

when I was little, back when things were as they appeared to be, I had a favorite music box.
there were three on the antique vanity in the master bedroom. there was the silver one, decorated with stars. sounded tinny and abrasive. it had a lid that made the music stop. and feet I remember it had three little feet. there was the wooden one. a fancy box with a fancy building painted over the lid. it opened on hinges to reveal all the tiny metal gears moving behind a pane of glass, making music with sharp metal parts. then there was the black jewelry box, with a red velvet inside. the mechanism was old and slow, would sometimes drift off before the key unwound. this one was my favorite. it played the saddest song I'd ever heard. sometimes though, it wouldn't play unless I moved the parts myself, but that never stopped me. it was the saddest song I'd ever heard, and I would listen to it over and over and over until one day it stopped making any sound at all. when I got a little older, I fixed it, took it apart and found what made it stop. and it still shudders and falters, slowly and fades away, like it can't remember how to play.
it's still the saddest song I've ever heard.
it stays the same.
it plays the same.
it fails the same.
it ties me down.
I need it now.

"so I'm single"

"I'm fine all is well"

"it wasn't fair to her"

can't get the tune out of my head now.
I miss it starting, slowing, resonating, stopping.
a drop of DW-40
a careful nudge
it speaks of me
that my idea of consistency
solidarity
is an unreliable music box.
never know when it'll play
but when it does, it plays the same.

"what are you doing tonight?"

"still in a relationship then?"

"man, I'm an *******"

*I need a melancholy music box tune
the saddest song I've ever heard
tie me down
hold me
and I can hold on too
otherwise I might float away
or fall to the floor.
everything was so good.
and now I can't be sure that I won't do something stupid
that I won't pull the the block from the bottom of the tower
I need the saddest song I've ever heard
to keep separate
what I want
what makes sense
and what is good.