Going to Nick's...naked

Every night,
After my work was done,
I would shower
Letting the water
Rain down on my head
Drag through straggly strands of hair
And wash over my back
Letting it rinse away
The dirt and grime of the day’s work
Then I would take a walk
Downtown to Nick’s Tavern
Find an empty booth
And sit there for hours writing.
Just writing.
Writing until my fingers hurt
And my wrist ached
And my heart bled
And my mind was so full
Of jumbled-up words
That ran together so much
That I couldn’t even think straight anymore.
And the only thing that could ever heal me…
Didn’t want me.
What was one supposed to do
When that happened?

I always left Nick’s early too.
Around eight or so,
Making sure they never saw me there.
I never wanted my friends to see me like that.
I had been avoiding them.
Seeing them
In their happy pairings
And lovely couples
In their easy friendship
And light banter
Was more than I can bear
And more than I can admit to bearing
So I always left early
Taking my heartache
And silent musings
My naked emotions
With me
(And like me)
Away into the night
And lost unto the world.

Heartfelt

You hold my heart
And my heart is a rose
Inside it hides things
It's too afraid to show.

It can be a pleasure to have
Or a thorn in the side
Something so small
With mystery inside.

Rich in beauty
But planted with secrets
Dripping in symbolism
Though it's hard to see it.

It's wanted by few
Despite being rare
It lives with seclusion
But blossoms with care.

But it blooms in your presence
Both its sun and its rain
It withers when you're away
Its life force is drained.

You make my heart tender
And paint it with blush
It's yours for the taking
To accept or to crush.

With one single touch
You render it anew
I know it's not much
But I offer it to you.

"autumn fire" tanka sequence

yellow moon fever—
children clap, fireflies go dark.
summer snapped shut.
the sun plummets, leaves catch fire.
falling! the crack of the noose.

autumn smells like tea—
spices and billowing leaves.
trees perish in fire,
halloween masks of bone-mouths
drinking the ash of summer.

noon—fire in the fields;
a checkered picnic blanket
____cartwheels, abandoned.
i blow smoke out the window,
____my lover rides the train home.

About siblings

Ask and you shall receive
(Boy, was I deceived)
A pain in the butt at best
But a gift nonetheless.

Author's Note: Possibly one of the shortest poems I've ever written. But to the point, no doubt.

"dragon bone poetry"

figurine small, tiny
dancer legs, spin, spin, spin,
a gravity well gathering—
light, pooling where achingly
small palms draw the water-threads,

silver with moon.
quicksilver

strings on a violin,
the tap, tap, tap of chemical
rain on the windowpane,
a sliver of dawn, the tap, tap, tap
of my fingers, acrobatic and
fluid, drumming the typewriter.

words like golden needles,
each stitch of ink, delicate
bones of a dragon, oracle
bones in an ancient sea, buried in silt
and silver shards of fish scales, the quiet
well of the dust-blue water beyond

the fingers of the moon.

oh, the skeletal form, the
wish, wish sounds of wings
brushing the night, each hooked
and clever bone, keen ivory in the jade
sea of constellations, oh golden
dragon billowing on the eastern wind,
oh song of my heart, violin words
dancing on the paper like

moon on water.

"field, bloom"

I appologize for the delay. I've been feeling quite ill the last couple of days-- actually, I'm not too much better today, but I really need to catch up-- so, yeah, I abandoned my poor poetry. I'm trying to get back on schedule as quickly as possible, so forgive me if my next poems come out like nonsensical existential ramblings like this one. Hope you enjoy it anyway!

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“field, bloom”

amidst the fields
of clover and
honey, the bees.

my nectar, my
breath, soothing sounds
and a balm on this
heat, the drag, the face in
the splintered core
of summer, the hot,
restless core.

coo, owl.
am i?

field, field, field,
there is a field
below. and all the thrushes
paint their songs
on the wind,
and all the flowers
bloom and willow on my
skin, and the magma
blooms and bellows from

within. am i?
here, or wherever,
the dark succeeds the day.
here, or wherever,
my lover’s face of clay.

bloom, bloom, bloom,
gamma bursts of fireflies
in the field below.
soon, soon, soon,
the dark succeeds the day.

am i?

To My Muse, My Nymph, My Orgy

While others write songs
About chasing pavements
And the mercy of love
I writhe and write
As I wait for you

“It’s hard to hope for something that may never happen.
But it’s even harder to give it up
Especially when it’s everything you’ve ever hoped for.”

Here’s what I wait for…

The crescendo of your hips
The vines of flowers in your hair
There is a poetry to your words
That lends an ethereal magic to the air
You are
The perfect woman
The perfect muse
Perfect in all your imperfections
Whining in soft tones
And intertwining in high whistles
Where did all the music go?
Why wouldst it retreat like so?
If not for you, there would be no notes
Nothing left in the bars of your bones
And the staff of your eminent figure
The treble of your voice
And the bass of your murmur
The context of your eyes
And the lines of your skin
Will it ought not be mine?
Just to touch
If only for an eternity.
The thread of your smile
And the squares of colors
I see in your fabric
Hangs loosely on your skin
And grips tightly to my aching heart
Never let me go
O Nymph of the Grey Waters
For how will I ever see again
When my light is taken away from me?

For all the world I trade it not
To hear the linger of your thoughts
Left alone in the bask sunshade
Let my night become your day
I would traverse the seas
In time and bare feet
Just to be near (yet blown away!)
From the sultry temptress of your sighs
Days gone by and nights within
Without the taste of fervent tries
To touch the sky
With your fingers wrapped
Around my trembling wrist
What punishment could be worse than this…
Feel of your unending bliss?

My muse, my nymph, my fervor galore
Please say it one more time, I implore
If it weren’t these galaxies that separate the time and place
I would gladly stumble and fall
Into your boundless grace

Let it linger, no, let it go
There can be nothing happier
Than this, my woe.

Feelings

Your heart is a golden moment
Your smile is entrancing.
What I wouldn't give to own it
And set it alight and dancing.

You’re exhilarating, liberating,
Complicating, exacerbating,
Who knows how long I've been waiting
For this, for this
A taste of bliss?

Feelings of sadness, feelings of woe
I kiss them good-bye, out the window they go
That’s how I feel with one glimpse of you
My day becomes better, my skies turn blue.

One glimpse, one glance
That’s all I need
I laugh, I dance
You feed my greed.

You are my sunshine
My warmth, my help
But best of all,
You make me want
To love myself.

You are my umbrella
To drink in the rain
I don't want anyone else
Ever again.

"The Romantic"

This is a bit of a departure in style for me. I just wanted to do something humourous, and try to start using rhyme again. Tell me what you think!

I’m a bibliophile, versatile, rage and bile,
sweet love, I’d make you a
pedophile, so wait a while ‘cause
I could make it good, good, good

mmmyeah,
didn’t know I could feel this,
tongue kiss, hold your
tongue miss—like this, its hit or miss
but, but, but
I’ve always wanted this, this

Cradle your head like, oh,
burning hands never let go, oh,
you didn’t know, oh,
but I like men like, sweet nectar, like,
or Napoleon men, small, angry men,
or boys in glasses, chubby hands
and chubby asses, Neville Longbottom
boys, oi, boys.

and i do believe, do believe,
i have enough love for you all.

It’s not like I’m a whore or—
no, no—it’s something more
like, like, like

drinking in art, drowning your hair,
an angle of light, pearly light like
a necklace of sweat, a sweater of hands
a stitching of fingers, sweet swaying love,
or the poetry of a glance, soft lingering mornings,
the bells of your voice, love for the world,
the bowl of your neck, the peach of your breasts,
buds of fists unfurling into flowers, basking me,
the architecture of words that arch and sing
against the sky, glorious, glorious, cavernous
love that makes my heart swell and sound
swing round, round. round face, blue eyes, pale
lace dresses, curling tresses, hot messes,
yes, yes, yes, yeses, my baby.

and i do believe,
do do believe,
i have enough love for you all.

All you boys, and all you girls,
manly men with bayonets and gin,
deep voiced men with Mr. Darcy grins, or
hippy girls with sixties sensibilities,
psychedelic sex, herpes simplex,
psychotherapy with her ex, its complex.

i have so much love, so, so much love,
so much love for you all.

my sunny babe sprawled in bed,
sweet baby still has bedhead,
you’re a pothead, giving head,
somehow, someday you’ll be
dead. brown-skinned darling rest your head,
and i’ll give this absinthe soaked lullaby
to you, my poet muse. ill-used, abused,
pouting and bruised. babe, i’ve got this,
i’ve got you.

I’ve got crushes on teachers, public speakers,
girls in white sneakers, the boys on the bleachers,
we can, dream, dream, dream and count the clouds.
How can I choose? With eclectic tastes, it seems a waste.
I’ll be your waitress, you mistress, your dominatrix.
like mortar and bricks, we stick, we mix. These tricks
are not for kids. Ha, ha, ha.

I’m not a whore, I swear.

Wow, my first pantoum is really morbid

Drugs, procedures, and operations never allowed us to leap this high.
Barbed lightning discharged an undercurrent to the earth-worn sky
There is nothing left to alleviate the strangled cries of the smoking flesh.
Or amphetamine would have shot us to the rush of yesteryear.

Barbed lightning discharged an undercurrent to the earth-worn sky
We lied in rain puddles, holding brittle hands encased in thick gloves
Or amphetamine would have shot us to the rush of yesteryear
And all the justices of the world could never make it right again.

We lied in rain puddles, holding brittle hands encased in thick gloves
Mother Nature was paying the toll of the shifting tones of our self-pollution
And all the justices of the world could never make it right again.
Our bodies were dying, the urban seas dried up like wrinkly prunes.

Mother Nature was paying the toll of the shifting tones of our self-pollution
There is nothing left to alleviate the strangled cries of the smoking flesh
Our bodies were dying, the urban seas dried up like wrinkly prunes.
Drugs, procedures, and operations never allowed us to leap this high.