For You

Smile poisoned apple sliding down my throat

sticking and wrapping around my rib cage to choke each breath.

Barren from my eyes, each laugh scoops a hollow

deep within my breast until a vacuum holds me up.

Cobra slinking within bargain slacks

intent on bruised confidences too small to matter,

tiny hands are held tight behind ruler straight spines.

I'll bend and break beneath the weight of your regard.

Like a cat held by a canary, each aerial rotation

quickens my heartbeat, steals a bit of my resolve

meanwhile she, a cruel puppeteer, is content to orchestrate

my collapse on fraying strings.

Why Rhyming Is For Dr. Seuss

Leave the glasses on the table.

Leave crop circle wine prints on the wood.

Forget to turn off the TV.

Spend one more hour here with me.

Ignore all of the phone calls

that plague us nine to five.

Leave errands for tomorrow-

trust me, they'll survive.

Give me time to memorize

the laugh lines on your face

before you leave tomorrow,

gone without a trace.

And while you'll gone I'll think of

lazy mornings left in bed,

waking to your eyes on mine,

leaving nothing left unsaid.

My Dear, Your Clocks are Melting

When I toe to heel across the marble floors

I ride the echoes of the hall

and run my hands a hairs breadth from the glossy

stucco images of forgotten royalty.

So much is only visible from a distance,

and while I squint at muted water lilies

that float with effortless grace on

pastel waters, I try to internalize

the feeling of peace inherent on a sleepy

swirling town as a supposed God

guides his lost and mortal flock.

Currently, my brain feels like it's

dripping onto desert sands where it

evaporates with a hiss on contact and

my mouth is a oval wind tunnel

frozen in ghoulish screams.

Joining the Workforce

Going to grad school

and teaching full-time

and trying to make friends

is a little like

learning to juggle plates

while breathing fire

if you had one arm

and were twisted in a circle

so that every time you

took a breath,

you burned your feet.

What I Do Instead

When I sit across from you I focus on the names of state capitals

Since I don't know the names of state capitals I transition to filling

my mouth with pumpkin bread and almond pastry and blueberry danish,

ensuring that instead of a retort I concentrate on the number of times

to chew my food for perfect bolus digestion.

I find myself empathizing and drawing inspiration from a bird

outside our window that just happened to smash against the glass

and then laid in the grass looking stunned and confused.

In fifteen minutes it flew away, and I draw hope from that.

These are all probably not good signs.

You Can't Poke Out Your Mind's Eye

My mother never told me that broken hearts

often feel like swallowing a ice cream cone

covered in ground glass.

At first you barely notice it, except for the slight sting,

but after a while it corrodes your insides, burning

from the stomach out, finding its way into your

bloodstream, swimming through your veins as

it places miniscule puncture wounds in each one

until your body is a sprinkled sky, see through and holey.

I want to scrub the inside of my eyelids, so when I

close my eyes they don't show me a picture of your face,

the skin on your cheeks slightly mottled, the crease above your nose.

Tell me how to cut you from my memories, a nostalgic

lobotomy, that would excise you from the last year, leaving

cut-outs of champagne toasts, crumpled sheets, and tear stained tissues.

I Wish I Were Athena

When I was made, they used little dashes of dissatisfaction and mistrust
just a smidgeon of sarcasm and dollops of anger and resentment.
They folded me together with spoons made of compassion
which melted off into the mixture, eventually cracking under the pressure.

When they ripped me apart, they found half-naked barbie dolls,
and ice cream scoops melting on the grass strewn ground,
bee stings that had inflamed my limbs and splinters
which had sunk into my skin to rest next to the bones.

Now when I create, I drip into my creations, leaving behind
spilled water glasses and drops of jealousy and half-forgotten lyrics
of summer time classics that stick in your head like burrs on
a new red felt winter coat.

When I die, I'll leave behind impressions of my head in my pillow
and an unwashed cereal bowl in the sink, and a piles of ashes in my wake.
I'll forget mornings and afternoons spent telling time by the bouncing sun.
I hope I leave tears.