Old love letters paper the walls of my study.
Faded and peeling,
a few fall into the shadows
while most remain,
stubborn, insistent,
unyielding and unapologetic.

Oh, how the ink has begun to bleed!
To tattoo the dull, white paint in glimpses
between the letters,
as if I can hear their words
humming in a melody of minor chords.

I've stopped checking the mailbox,
full and lonely,
we are enemies.

Bookshelves surround me as well,
keepers of cluttered wisdom,
tomes of goodbyes, adieus,
and one or two apologies.

The stale air holds a minor chord--
the fermata of my early twenties
extends in a one significant pause:

You tell me,
We are not our history.
And then light the single match
illuminating
certain, brown eyes
and too much ruined papers.

Flames singe and curl the wallpaper
The fire sings over the sounds of my past.

We are alive in the crucible,
flames caressing my memories
now only in the fireplace
you have found in the corner.

Silent warmth and bare walls,
We sit down to write a new book,
bound in autumn leaves and cold rain,
and in a new handwriting,
You begin:
*We are alive in the crucible.

Never Have I Ever (Slam Poem)
5/27/2014

Having a best friend makes you think of weird things.

Stuff like:
Getting slapped in the face with a fish is more about smell than texture.
13 nights in a row drinking isn't so bad if you save cash not using mixers.
A stranger hitting on you is a storyline for tomorrow's lunch.
Redecorating my room is just for you, nobody else will see it.
You asked me to go shop with you, are you saying I need new clothes?
Crushing Ritalin in a bathroom, because we stayed up 'til 6am before work.
Pooping is like extra time in the day set aside to call you on the phone.
Why do we play Never Have I Ever when we already know the ever's?
People think we constantly say inside jokes, but we're just telepathic.
I get into shape before you visit town, because you're my best wingman.
If we ever stop being friends, I really hope you don't blackmail me.
Can I designate you to speak at my wedding, babyshower, and funeral?
... or is it too soon to do that?

Losing friends can make you think of weird things, I imagine.

Stuff like:
1. I should stop ordering carne asada fries - I can't finish a whole portion.
2. I keep my curtains closed - I know your car won't randomly be outside.
3. Having lunch alone ***** - I shared a crazy story with the cashier today.
4. I take my poops with the stereo on now - I never could go in silence.
5. My voicemail inbox is full - I can't delete any when your voice pops up.
6. Maybe I should call you.
7. I need to talk to you.
8. I wish I could call you.
9. If only you'd come visit town.
10. Maybe I should go visit the cemetery.
11. I have a new least favorite Never Have I Ever.
12. Never Have I Ever had a best friend die.

And I hope I never ever will put that finger down.

I think he’s worried that if he gives me the keys I will walk into his heart and immediately start redecorating. He has things set up the way he likes and he doesn’t want his posters torn down for wall decals of birds and quotes about love. He knows (it’s happened before) that most people can’t help but want to change things. No matter how much they like the way it looks, they can’t help but get started thinking what if… They have their ideas about how it should look. They want to put in their night tables and their paper lanterns. They want to make your heart theirs.
And when they leave (which they inevitably do, we are all some sort of nomad) they take some parts and leave others and you are left with a half full, cluttered heart. You have to make the long and painful decisions about what belongs there; try to remember what was there before she came. You try to sift out which parts of you she built, and which parts are worth keeping.

What he doesn’t understand about me is that I am not in the habit of making homes. I don’t like too much to stay. A blanket, bed and books are all I need. So he can keep his posters, and hang whatever lights he wants. If I admire the décor its only because I can see the way it lights up his eyes.
So I keep knocking, I keep peeking in the windows. And he keeps stalling, putting things in their right place, worried that if he lets me in I’ll start knocking things down.  And I can’t claim to not be a master of messes. I can’t claim I wont throw my laundry on the floor, and forget to scrub the toilet, and get sugar in the crevices of all the kitchen appliances for some late night cupcakes.
But I am not the type to move furniture. And when I’m gone it will be all yours again, every quiet corner. Maybe just a fingerful of sugar lingering behind a clean coffee mug will remind you that I was ever there at all.

I finally died on a Wednesday night

My dad was in Atlanta with his family
But that’s the way it’s always been
And that’s the way it will always be

My mother was at her boyfriend’s house 15 minutes away
Starting her new life
The one where she tries to forget about me
Maybe if she keeps redecorating his house
She can find a way to hide me in the corner
Collecting dust and spider webs
My picture on the wall hidden by a sea blue curtain

And my siblings were in his basement watching TV
Probably fighting and getting ready to sleep
I never knew that every time I refused dinner or a movie with them
I was sealing my fate like my coffin lid

I was born on a Wednesday evening
5:15 pm at 4 pounds
I entered this world early and that’s how I left it

I killed myself on a Wednesday

I left behind cabinets full of pills I always said I would take
I left 19 notebooks of half written poetry
A few finished paintings and pastel scribbles
And a bowl of almost empty cereal left in my drawer

I left with scars on my body and burns

I left three bobby pins in my boyfriend’s window sill
Locks of my hair still in the kitchen trash
Lighters and pipes still hidden under my mattress

I left my bath water in the tub, turning cold as my body
***** socks crumpled in the corners of my sheets
I left my favorite shirt on my floor

I left my books opened
Underlined all the words I never could say aloud
I kept my favorite CD in the player in my car

I left my toothbrush out and my window open

I left an unfinished prophecy

Tonight my anxiety is too bad to sleep
so I am repainting the walls of my heart,
so long over-due
and I have already decorated pink
over the scars you left,
and blue
on the fresh wounds
he cut me with tonight
and I've put both your names in the shredder,
because I just tidied up the living space
and I'm through
with all this ******* chaos.

Once a feral kitten, that hubby took pity on
Found in a scrap yard, to hubby, he did bond.

I carry jars of homemade jam, down the basement stairs.
He swipes at my legs, I drop the jars.  He doesn't care.
I'm straitening the bathroom drawer, he gets all frenzied.
Later on that day, I find, all the contents emptied.

I pick fresh flowers, neatly arrange them in a vase,
it only took few seconds.  There's petals on his face.
Our, brand new, leather furniture arrives, to our joy.
He claws the cushion up, looking for his catnip toy.

Christmas tree full of lights, with my antique ornaments.
He attacked!  Maybe he thought he was protecting us?

You might ask why it is we keep such a rascal cat.
Look at that innocent face.  I couldn't refuse that.
When it is, that we think about redecorating,
we just point and say, "This is why we can't have nice things"

I died back in '85
but I was told my whole life
I was alive

the mattress I sleep on
is stained with my tears
multiplied with the years
of emotional trauma and fear
fear of dying alone

I pour my heart into different bowls
add some water and mix it with a brush
then sling it onto the blank walls
of the asylum
I built inside of myself
where I go to forget
that I have died before
and this is hell

the colors bent with the corners of the room
a different part of myself is in bloom
I'm redecorating my mind
as an abstract collage of everything I've learned so far
in my short amount of time

I entered back in '85
and it took twenty eight years to realize
that I have been dead this entire time

It had been raining for ten years—
just after our vows too, when the life
of the party shouted “Drop dead.”
What aplomb! All those faithless Springs
suddenly worthless. Years of abandonment
counting for nothing. Oh horrors of
enchantment, beauty of truculence.
You can always depend upon the hostility of lovers
But we, a glamorous, shuddering chorus,
eyes averted, move en pointe past
the confessional’s lurid glow,
that peep-show of self-pity. Really, Mary!

As if our holy yawns don’t prove
we’re simply riddled with purity
and will float softly, silently
as the dreams of the inconsolable rhinoceri,
pitiable as the tears of lost seagulls,
sure as Adam’s apple pie, straight to heaven.
The angels’ impatience says we’ve
all prayed for too little and they
can’t wait to scold us. God’s redecorating.
He wants all his darlings back.

Oh Frank. Have you missed us terribly,
whom you never met? I picture your daily
grand jeté over the sun, knowing the moon
never tires of loving you. I long to change
costumes and visit. Let’s see. Blandishments,
pitchforks, foreskins. Well! But then Edward
told me you had the longest he’d ever seen.
My mother loved me so I got to keep mine,
ensuring that there I would always be a goy.
Just knowing that I’ve kissed lips that once
kissed yours—but enough. Discretion is
the better part of careerism. Now there
is only one poet I love to read while dreaming.

I’m supposed to be happy right now
Fitting into dresses and stretch pants
And eating pickles
I’m supposed to be glowing
Watching my tummy grow
And picking out the perfect name
I would’ve known by now
Whether you’d be born a girl or boy
What color your room might be
I’m supposed to be emotional
But a different type than I am now
I’m supposed to cry over things
Like spilled milk
And unlikely animal friends
But I’m crying over emptiness instead
Loneliness
Fear
I’m not supposed to be sad right now
I’m supposed to be measuring my belly
And eating lots of fruit
Going to doctors
And listening to your tiny heartbeat
I’m supposed to be there
I’m supposed to be overjoyed
And excited
And worried
I’m supposed to be making plans
And decorating and redecorating
And driving your daddy crazy
I am supposed to be a mom
I should be looking at tiny clothes
And little shoes we’ll use once
Buying dehumidifiers and strollers
Reading pamphlets and dodging cravings
I should be complaining
About stretch marks and growing feet and sweaty palms
I should be loving every inch of you already
And struggling with stupid simple tasks
I should be moody
And impossible
And hungry
And eager to meet my tiny human
My sweet baby
My whole heart...
But I’m not.
I’m supposed to be pregnant
And I’m not
I’m supposed to be waiting for you
And I can’t
Because I lost you.
Because you’re already gone.
And all I have left of you is memories
Of cravings and emotions and ideas
A doctors visit and a photo of my first test
A faint pink line
I’m supposed to be halfway there...
And I’m not

There's a cat living in my head
and he's redecorating.
Clawing at the sides of my skull,
tearing down the wall paper that was there.
But he doesn't seem fond of putting up something new,
just wants to leave the gouges so the pain can seep through.

He doesn't travel far.
To the back and then the front again,
but he never strays to the left.
He hugs the right wall of my head
like he'll die if he tries to leave
Just digging new trenches as he goes

When he feels really inspired
he gets a hammer and
BANG
BANG
BANG
new places that throb and throb for hours
never leaving me at peace
but he's happy with what he's created

I've been told there's a piece of metal I can get
to lock him out, keep him out, and throw away the key
some people say it worked for them and I'm just hoping
that it also works for me

Happiness can be bought.
One rises, one falls.
Children starve, blood is spilt and wars are fought
Over what shade of cream adorns our walls

you pull me in so deep
until i don't want to find a way out

you say make myself at home
and then i start redecorating all the walls

you are a magnet with a north pole
but i remagnetize both my poles to only be south

you welcome me with open arms
until i recognize that as the only form of greeting

you say my clothes are yours
and i reinvent your whole fashion line

you say what's mine is yours
and i write my name on everything to commemorate

your eyes are the ones i stare into
until they are the only ones i still recognize

and when you say LEAVE
i say you are the one in

MY
house

Can't i **** ....your ....Mind?
I promise to go deeper than anybody that came before me. If I give you the gift of mental stimulation , only thing I ask in return is your loyalty.
It's been a minute since you met somebody that wanted to get in your head before they wanted to feel the rest of you
It's been even longer since you fell in love with somebody before they fell in love with having *** with you. I want to see what you look like when you're naked . I want to be so deep and wide that you're willing to testify before god that with everybody else you let inside your walls , you must have been faking it.
When is the last time you had a conversational ******?
The kind that has you redecorating my place while you're at  work, picking out color schemes and floor patterns
Can we eat each other?
I want to swallow your dreams and quench your thirst for greatness with my motivation of your ambitions.
I want to feed your fears with my consistency. All I ask in return is that on your way home from work you stop and pick up some new positions.

it’s a daiquiri colored morn, countlessly
as I, gazing never tiring, of a vista I’ve seen,
awoken to, endlessly changing, voyagers of
birds and boats, the redecorating minimalists,
moving pieces on a latticed shadow lawn

the Sun eastern, asking the trees to turn and bow,
hence the shadows their branches cast are a waffling,
hopscotch pattern irregular, so jumping from/to
yellow-green sunspots, the children are delighted by a
new game, moving to and from and between an ever
changing crazy chessboard of light-patches unsquared

described, written of, yet here I am, once again, a servant
despairing, looking for new combinations of superlatives,
though I never spoke before of it as a vista,
until today, wondering why, perhaps because
it’s here, one lives, one doesn’t conceive of  being
part and parcel of a vista, humans, just visitors,
pawn observers, gallery visitors, art appreciators,
transient hobos after forty years, truthfully claiming
that they’re merely still, passing thru, passing by

9:40 am, respectable hour to meander over
to the throne room, the four Adirondacks, them,
the year round poetry nook authorities, are equal
sunned, shaded, simultaneous, stately shadowing,
observing, advertising as perfect for composing,
willing to make verbal suggestions, rhyming notions,
especially when the poem pays proper obeisance

and so it does, and so it is, as you can clearly read


9:53am Sunday Jun 14
Year of the Pandemic

Listen please,
  I hear the call
As the paint drips
  From the wall and
Onto the floor.

We are redecorating
Only, we are temporary
As we splatter
To get out the past.
  But hey, I like
  This color
As my hands are
Coated with some
  Thick lacquer
That holds my nails
And wrinkles of my skin.

This hue will go well
With what we don’t have
As the brush smears
The globs
Of pastel
And wipes out
The wallpaper,
Of the previous owner.
Layered away
We discolor,
In layers we
Bury them.

Just last week,
I started making room for the queer in me.
I've been rearranging the furniture
Redecorating the interior
All because I like women.
I have been taught to make room for things all my life
But those things have always tried to **** me
Like diets, exercise that always went a little bit too far
I need more empty space than fat
So they tell me to expand by shrinking my frame down?
Oh, and boys on the street who stitch my mouth shut
Because I have been told to create voids for the words "yes" and "sorry"
Now, the house is finally becoming mine
I am painting the walls the color I want them to be
No one is going to tell me my new living area is just a phase
I can finally hear my own voice and it is saying her name
Like a skipping CD
It can't stop
It doesn't want to
Lost somewhere between her amber eyes
And the ocean
There is an ocean between us dear
The world will try to make it permanent
But I want to close the gap
Between my body and my identity
I will make room in my life
For you.

I've been dreaming about the sun
as far back as one and two.
I've been redecorating my resting place for twenty-one years.
But a grave is a grave is a grave is a grave
no matter the time it takes
to masquerade
my brave.
I've never been brave enough to face the light of day.
I've lived by reflected light.
It easy to stare at the moon by eyesight.
How do I stare at the sun with eyesight?

you came
to me past twilight and watched me redecorate.
I planted flowers in the grave.
but a grave is a grave is a grave is a grave
no matter how many flowers bloom at midnight.
(None of them did)
What then changed?

I took off the mask and let you open the door
and now
The light from the sky floods my grave with a force of a million volts.
I am reminded of the time
I thought I would never run through fields of ultraviolets.
Today I walk out of my grave.
To the day!

To what should I be afraid?
My fields are shot with blue violets.
The roots rip open grounds
as buds blossom with violence.
To what should I be afraid?

Today, because of you,
a grave is not a grave.
Today, because of you,
I wake up to the sun.
I'm staring at the sun without eyesight.
I love you
I feel the warmth of sunlight.

you should have been there
it was all numb ceiling fan talk
while i was tasting all my senses
everything was new

maybe it's no coincidence that autumn gives me new hope
like i am given the chance to ease into frostbite while laughing
like colors caress me while i avoid hibernation
like wood burned memories celebrate anniversaries unforgivably
October is a month to celebrate the death of all things passed
and July is just avoiding my identity

I've been sweating for hours on end
waiting for your return so we can
sing like someone would listen

today i realized that i can't keep redecorating my self taught cage

I’ve never known you
I wish that wasn’t true
You live inside of me
I can hear your footsteps echoing
As they pound against pine wood floors in your bedroom
You’ve must have decided on the room in my head to lay you own
Because when you sleep I can feel your snoring trickling into my jaw bones
And redecorating must not be your forte
It tickles me how you clumsily drop things everyday
You nail at my skull constantly
As you try to get the frames you banged in to stay
And god I hate it when the hammer catches your nail
Because when you yell
Your screams rings in my ear
Like a small child playing with a doorbell
When you dust it’s hell
It gets caught in my nose
Like gum on clothes
Buts it’s all worth it
Because when you laugh it sets a fire In my soul
And makes me wish I wasn’t so cold
It seems as so
Your the girl of my dream
But the thought of loving someone like you
Dies behind my eyes

Right now
it is a beating flesh bowl
****** and hollow,
pumping out
semi precise
kind of nice
percussion.

But it is getting
a little crowded
with all those
love notes
of mellow
melancholia
music
that makes me
forget how
to use it
properly.

So, lately
I have been pondering
redecorating
that useless thing.
I’ve been contemplating
taking
all the red blood
that has been bathing
my system
in oxygen
and replacing it
with chambers
of danger
and dust.

If I must
use it
then I need to
remove
all of you
that have been
living in there
rent free
before I can give it
a gothic reprieve,
all dark, gross,
and gritty.

I might even
just take out
the whole *****.

Might be good for the spacing
like removing
walls we weren’t using
anymore.

What do you think?