Wednesday, November 24, 2010

When I think of Munch

What would it feel like to be on fire?
It's mentioned in desire and hatred equally,
in areas of lust and in moments of pain,
where loathing or passion consume.

I can close my eyes and imagine mouths
distorted in mishapen Os of misery,
flesh melting like candle wax,
crisping like turkey skin, well-done.

In my mind, fingers blacken and curl,
over-ripe bananas that burst at the tip,
and blisters colonize tender areas like
upper lips and forearms.

Right now, I feel as if I've doused myself
in a barrel of water after the burn,
and I'm screaming soundlessly underwater
as my skin sloughs off in tallow chunks,
rising to the surface.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Stomach Virus

Inside the braces laden molars
you tripped a trap that left me
sprawling, falling, tumbling, head
over hells, that sprung in 9 circles
of geometric unpleasantness.

Brick fences popped up like daisies
which swung wildly back and forth
while chanting radio jingles
and spewing fortune cookies axioms
that cracked my skull into confetti.

I trolled the Claddagh for foreign tongues
and slanted eyes and skin thick enough
to stave off the burn of gas lamps and pocket
rockets and a sun bright enough to let me
see you clearly.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Just the Two of Us

You'll grind my bones to make your bread.
I'll leave the bread until it molds.
We'll eat sandwiches from dawn to dusk,
and toss away the crusts.

A penny saved is a penny pinched,
and you'll pinch copper 'till it bleeds.
Leave fear shaped footprints in your wake
and me to sit and seethe.

Saturday, November 13, 2010

I Haven't Eaten Breakfast Yet

If I could weave together words-
the way our fingers spliced,
filling gaps between our palms
and creating bridges from flesh-
maybe you would whisper
about things you'd forgotten fifteen
years ago and I would not be
clearing dishes from our wobbly
kitchen table.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


Lay my head down to sleep,
eyes lashes flutter against splintered boards
and an anvil cools the side of my cheek
I'll wake at intervals of twenty minutes.

Instead of sheep I count sorries
that stack up like bricks
and dance on my throat;
I'll fix it tomorrow.

Dreams creep like poison ivy,
infect with an itch, that lasts
'till they're gone, and you're
left with the scars.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Because I'm Rich

Mr. Hughes smelt like mothballs. He collected crumbs in his beard the way coin collectors coveted rare Buffalo Silver Dollars. His house was filled with pictures of celebrities that he took the time to meticulously cut from magazine covers and then showcase in outrageously expensive frames. On Fridays, he would squire up and coming starlets around town in his mother's Rolls Royce. However, on every third Friday of the month he would call up the Sex Phone Hotline and spend his night panting into the receiver while clipping his toenails. Mr. Hughes did not have many redeeming qualities. However, he was very very rich, and usually that helped.

His mother, Mrs. Hughes, spent her days directing invisible orchestras in the NYC OldFeller's Retirement center. She believed that the orderlies regularly poisoned her lime jello and would squirrel it back to her room, where she sneakily deposited it in a hat box in her closet. She lived for the second Tuesday of the month when her son, little Jimmy, would visit for the afternoon. He would sit in the mustard colored chair in the corner of the room, sniffing distastefully as he asked her how she was doing. Mrs. Hughes would berate him for his growing beer belly, his lack of style, his insistence of wearing a comb-over, his stooped shoulders. It was the happiest part of her month.

Your Face Looks Funny

On early curly cue Tuesday mornings,
(they say it's the most productive
day of the week) I would sit
with cheese puff sesame pastries
that shocked and dissappointed
with every bite.

I would attack the pastry
with the same enthusiasm and drive
people saved for their Sunday
yoga classes or their Thursday
window washing, but instead of
elbow grease I employed
molars and spit.

In this way, I would prep and stretch
for the week ahead. An endless monotony
of moments where one is expecting sweet
cream cheese, and instead delivered Velveeta.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Today I'm Drinking Tea Instead of Coffee

You cradled me from near infancy
and had me believing in a world
that shouted change from roof
tops high enough to eat the sky.

I brought you presents of nail
polished turtle shells and wild
flower bouqets and torn and scabby
knees ripped on blacktop barricades.

Once I knocked the binoculars
from the kitchen table and you shouted
until your face turned red and locked
me outside until my hands turned blue.

I'm pretty sure you're shrinking while
I grow and that my nose now rests
on your collar bones instead of halfway
down your arm and suddenly I'm afraid of heights.