Punch One Love

You should remember,
Right?
The way it Hits me
in photographs
against the light.
Where the marks make me,
and the toll takes me
& I'm left to the river by the sea.
Just a sandlot,
with a speck of me.

Reborn

Make haste...

I was living for yesterday;

all this time 

I have wasted.

Rebirth my eyes,

& I will breathe for today;

it is the day 

I become infinity,

the day 

nothing touches my body.

My brain feeds my inner purity

& I reach for the stars,

that were always mine.

Crazy Aunt Curry

Nothing

    good...

nothing good ever came

from a branch

stuck 

in the window

of your aunt's house.

Black tangled 

ivy, running

through eyelashes.

Sweating 

lips.

Crumbs

on the soap

of dishes last-night...

Nothing

   good

can come.

A Song for Saturday

So sweet were the branches,

the perches for folks,

who laugh and sing

at thoughtful jokes.

Who sit & give you

all their smiles.

On this simple summer's Saturday.

The Wrongs of Gods In Sheep's Clothing

Before the light, before the rain,

before we had anyone;

They came by Nile during the day

to benefit the wrong-love.

Been versed in violence; held, be vain-

until yesterday came upon them...

Erase Me

I want to be free, like the ocean.

Erase all the salt,

be covered in milk.

Pure white, like oppression.

There is a spot,

it's land.

Yet all I see

is water.

Dense as a sand storm

pulling me  to the bottom;

down

down

into all of its pity.

Letting go

the last breath.

A bubble of air.

I smile

as the sea takes me

in my tangled glory.

& I give it myself.

Thanking me;

my body goes

down

down.

Poet

On my most open page

I have been hiding.

Beneath the folds

of the library's master -

I sheltered there...

lapped the ink,

dried the page.

How I loved it.

Not a soul

hath tasted the nature

of my organic words -

Though,

they breathe for you.

At sanity's end,
I closed the book!

&, oh,

how it did defeat me to...

I lain,
a misery.

Until paper found my palm again...

Heaven, Haels! My ill-forgotten friend.

I was mistaken.

It is this pen

I live in.

ELIZABETH by Edgar Allan Poe

Elizabeth, it surely is most fit

(Logic and common usage so commanding)

In thy own book that first thy name be writ,

Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
(Called anything, its meaning is the same)
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

(Zeno, a philosopher who said "that one's own name should never appear in one's own book")

The Girl Who Reads Slam Poetry

I never chose to be what I am,

some woman of poetry;

a victim of slam?
& never meant I,

to take this road,

.

.

.

down.

But fate led me.

My parents wrote the diary:

Yes, they who,

laid hands...

Just to escape the world's way,

their day to day.

&

It kinda grows on you,

the way the world disapproves

of, a slammed down, me,

except in poetry...

& I never asked for this,

unenlightened sense,

of

only me.

The Girl Who Reads Slam Poetry.

Normal - Almost that

Such a conglomeration of nonsense
my day-to-day seems
to always consist of.

If only I could turn off the noise:
The vehicles rushing,
buildings growing
empty,
and the hushed tone
of my happiness
sobbing in the corner.

If only
the way this life changed
was normal.
Maybe I would be too...
maybe.

An Ode To Elevators

Thank you,
for bringing me up
when I was down.
I began there,
long ago,
stagnant
at level one
Now here I stand,
a successful level three.
You are so uplifting!
Oh elevator,
how I look up to thee.