I'd Like to Take a Moment

Hearts in motion, here I come

in love.

we need to be reunited soon. I can’t handle it anymore.

I’m too excited and nervous to wait for you.

eating life and drinking coffee,

hungry but too afraid to say something.

I’m selling donuts if you’re interested.

If anyone finds my motivation, please return it to me.

My motto for the next week and a half:

casi el fin.

The night is here and the day is gone.

The human resistance hangs by a thread;

she was told she was a very good bleeder.

What are you doing?
Is it appropriate to drink a smoothie while listening to a Holocaust survivor?
It tastes like fireworks.

He starts off asking for something and ends asking if I need any money,

that joke is weaker than FDR’s legs.

Maybe I deserve to lose my wallet, but I could really use it about now.

an obedient slut would really brighten up my night.

One day I want to copy someone word for word and see if they notice.

It’s nice to hear the word twerp has survived the millennium.

I remember you saying you hated being treated that way,

but now that’s how you treat me,

as if I don’t have enough to manage already, whores.

Hide all evidence that I’ve missed him, and

leave.me.alone. it’s really as simple as that.

What’s left is right, and sometimes wrong is righter,

but love will decide everything.

Planning all nighters for the weekend is depressing.

Done with basic training,

I’m bound and determined to ace this damn test.

I will conquer it.

Would everyone in the world please take note:

it’s Noah’s ark all over again.

Someone stole my umbrella today, rude.

My house is probably flooded by now.

Shit, I don’t know how to do this.

Who has a tent I can sleep in?

Finger Painting [revised]

The pale winter blue seems to paint itself for miles.

She stares out to the solitary track, the

outline of nothing in front of them,

skeleton of the scene dusted bone white

by the weather he feels a need to comment on—

it’s snowing—                                     

as they stand on a wooden platform

waiting for a train that, honestly,

neither of them are sure will come.

He folds his frame around the railing,

gray stained sticky green from gum,

and his head subjects to gravity’s rule that

everything must go down.

Yeah, it is, she says out loud,

only thinking how lucky the sky is

to have found a way to cry

when tears won’t come.

Dead grass and a gravel road brought them here,

his beat up Saturn parked at the station

a few hundred “sorry”s behind them.

Gloved hands press under her chin,

elbows aching on the rough bar,

she turns her attention from the sky,

watches his down-turned face

from behind the dark veil of hair

the wind keeps closing on her.

His knees bend, stretching against dark denim,

and as his forehead rests near her jacketed elbows,

she sees his winter skies begin to rain.

No…don’t, thick gloves on his shaking shoulder.

His face fights against rules to look up

at her,

thick pools of blue gray paint

dripping down his face.

Then brown, from his mouth,

and black and red and green

from chest, legs, hands,

body painting in the canvas of snow.

I’m a mess, he whispers,

bitter stares to the stains around him.

She pulls off her gloves,

dips bare fingers into the wooden palette,

paints a line on the ground.

You’ll be okay, wraps him in paint splattered arms,

stands, wipes her hands clean, and

leaves the paint to dry. 

Take These Scissors, You'll Need Them

I'm the policeman of players,

not that anyone has called 911.

These days, you're told to yell fire

even if you mean help or rape, because

people only come running for flames.

Maybe I only lay down the rules

because I've been played too much,

like piano keys and marionette strings.

And honey, they've got your strings tied so tight

that you can't even see what they want you to.

All you can see is yourself, and

what's tied up behind your paper doll eyes.

Anger, betrayal, lost love,

dancing in front of you,

acting out what you refuse to believe.

But I've got a lighter and a little time

to try and make you understand

that while your life is burning down around you,

mine is just getting started.

And what's more, I've got all the pieces

of my heart in one place.

See, I learned to run, girl,

while you just learned to sleep

with any boy who says three pretty words

in your direction.

No, I'm not jealous, and there's no envy here;

sure, maybe I'm a bit bitter, 

but I've played those songs that make me cry enough times

to see him screw you without leaking a tear.

And while you cry because the boy you're with

isn't the boy you love, but that boy you love

used you as a cheap fix experiment,

I'm turning heads and laughing my way

to being happy with being just me. 

So don't feel sorry for me, because rest assured,

I'm not the one who needs pity.

Wisdom comes with experience, 

and you're no exception to the rules.
Cut yourself down, get away, and grow up.

And until you do,

love will only be another four letter word.

Colorado

We wound our way through pine-encrusted roads,

past the white paint that promised

restrooms and all the conveniences

that make roughing it pretty easy.

Our car settled, exhausted from its mountain climb,

in the middle of somewhere,

emptied its contents onto damp grass

of the mountain top Dad chose.

I don’t remember much of what we did,

just a cerulean crayon blue sky

that chased the snow up the mountain tops.

When you’re that far out,

you breathe spring water,

nothing like the heavy air of home.

We introduced our man-made tent to the field,

lassoed in by trees that climbed to the sun,

pointed out the stars at night.

I was old enough to know that there were no bathrooms,

but  childish enough to refuse to go—

what if a raccoon was watching—

so we drove into town every day for lunch.

Dad had no problem with it,

put his toilet paper roll on a stick like a hobo sack

and sauntered off into the woods.

I think I remember him whistling.

Smoke follows beauty, so

 dinner’s fire followed us instead of the air.

Hot dogs only taste that good when your day

has been spent throwing rocks into liquid crystal,

trying to splash your sister’s face.

The goldfish crackers were soggy,

someone spilled chicken soup in the box.

I never admitted that it was me.

And like the pokey little puppy,

I still got my dessert

when Mom showed us the strawberries

that were the size of our fingernails.

Then we drove home,

 days of dampness

lingering in our clothes. 

Finger Painting

They are standing on a wooden platform

waiting for a train that, honestly,

neither of them are sure will ever come.

He feels the need to comment on the weather—

it’s snowing—

as he folds his frame around the railing,

gray stained sticky green from gum,

and his head subjects to gravity’s rule that

everything must go down.

Yeah, it is, she says out loud,

only thinking how lucky the sky is

to have found a way to cry

when tears won’t come.

The pale winter blue seems to paint itself for miles

as she stares out to the solitary track, the

outline of the nothing

in front of them,

minus the dead grass and other lifeless things.

Gloved hands press under her chin,

elbows aching on the rough bar,

she turns her attention from the sky,

watches his down-turned face

from behind the dark veil of hair

the wind keeps closing on her.

His knees bend, stretching against dark denim,

and as his forehead rests near her jacketed elbows,

she notices his own winter skies

are shedding rain.

Baby, no…don’t, thick gloves on his shaking shoulder.

His face fights against rules to look up

at her,

thick pools of blue gray paint

dripping down his face.

Then brown, from his mouth,

and black and red and green,

chest, legs, hands,

body painting in the canvas of snow.

I’m a mess, he whispers,

bitter stares to the stains around him.

Darling, no, she pulls off her gloves,

dips bare fingers into the wooden palette,

paints a line on the ground,

wraps paint splattered arms around him.

You’re beautiful.

For Sale

There's a one-bedroom house down the street.

It's not an old house, though some may say

it's old for its age.

There's chipped paint and cracked bricks,

stains from rough weather,

and some holes in the walls

where a thousand words used to hang. 

It's been through a lot.

It'll make it through a lot more.

Spacious rooms are filled with sunlight,

while others are cluttered with knick knacks.

Some rooms have shadows and stuck doors.

It has quirks; squeaky steps,

windows that take a bit of work to open,

and some that open with a simple touch.

It's made of stories,

but there's only the one bedroom.

People come and leave; the front door

closed behind them in regret, or

slammed as they rush out.

The first person to live there didn't stay long,

just settled in and began looking elsewhere.

After a few short months of decreasing attention,

he left the house.

The next person didn't belong at all;

no, the squatter broke a front window,

forced his way in, took advantage

but gave no claim.

Didn't treat it as a home, just 

a temporary replacement

for the house he had lost.

And he was gone,

though he tried to break in again and again.

For awhile, there were just lookers,

offers were made, turned down, regretted,

taken back.

The first buyer came back, but only

out of selfishness, stayed,

giving less than before.

A storm blew through,

leaving incredible damage behind.

He was unable to find value in the house,

and so he moved on.

Someone else saw value, though.

He had put up an offer before.

Seeing the damage to the house he thought was beautiful

broke his heart.

He worked all summer repairing the house,

putting in time and dedication,

saving up, waiting,

until someone new rushed in and bought the house.

This house wasn't a true home to him,

it had work that he couldn't fix.

So he had to move out.

The bidder, buyer, was finally able to call this house his.

During his stay, little things broke,

needed fixing, and he fixed them, but

there were nights where he didn't come back.

The care of the house became harder,

and the brokeness became too much.

He moved out with a promise,

to one day return and make the house his home,

though promises lose credibility with time.

There's a one-bedroom house down the street;

people pass by, some seeing beauty

and some without a second glance.

It has its quirks, and its character,

and its broken parts, but

there's a one-bedroom home down the street.

Imagination Did Not Create the World

There's a lake down the street.
A porch swing hangs at the edge of it,
nudged by the heavy summer air,
towards the starry sheet of water
that holds all the drowned dreams.

Tangents of thoughts may have dreamt this place,
but they didn't coax the beams from the ground.
No, ideas of love didn't bring it to being,
nor was it the fantasy of future days
that made his hand fit with hers.
But it was something.

The timeless world of a room for two,
and here was their room,
with its ceiling of stars
and its walls of cattails, and pine trees,
and a solitary street at the back.
One street light in a fight with the moon
to be a part of the creation,
the culmination,
of the two hands being held,
and what was imagined to happen.

They created this moment perfectly,
and then it fell and shattered
into the world that was already there.
The towering trees,
the cicadas, the July night,
the breeze that carried summer's smell,
created the room that was theirs,
that was there.