Category: Poetry

there’s this place where my emotions
push my tongue against my sealed lips
and no sound emanantes from my throat
but the gargle of pushed back tears
((you’ve always been))exactlyright((about me)).

Naive glances, fam-
iliar reaching, suggest the
motives of yr lips.

maybe it’s true,
there’s no poetry
in the meaningless
and yet,
five years later
words are all i have:

i’m making a name
for myself
and i want to find the letters of yours
clutching my hand
when fall
turns from summer
to winter,

(that’s when)
they’re gonna
match the brown in my dress
to the color of yr eyes
or the rhythm in my step
to the curvature
of your smile.

maybe it’s true,
there’s no poetry
in the meaningless
and yet,
five years later
words are all i have:

i’m making a name
for myself
and i want to find the letters of yours
clutching my hand
when fall
turns from summer
to winter,

(that’s when)
they’re gonna
match the brown in my dress
to the color of yr eyes
or the rhythm in my step
to the curvature
of your smile.

lifesize,
recursive replicas rise
beneath the resonance
of a muted trumpet
silenced
so long ago

between the firing
explosion
of a handgun
   (or handguns as the violence
    takes us by surprise
    like innocent bystanders)
our mouths agape
our eyes wide
our hearts closed
as we pray
in refrains
of agonizing screams
for love agape
our mouths opened wide
with the full moon dance
of a summer blockbuster,
documentary

history weaves
around trellises
of reality
echoing

no matter what i planned to do on tuesday
the tears of friday built a barrier
between me and my ideal
so on wendesday
the pronounced ache of a week prior
still laid moot in our bedroom

maybe because i assigned myself value in words
i am now meaningless like the language that brought me here
or maybe there’s a bigger picture
i just keep missing it.

i wanted to ask for help,
i want to say something
but love is like catching sand
and i’ve always been the one who
is hard to hold on to.

though i’m not glad that you’re gone,
as i expected,
i must say i was not exactly sad to see you go:

so what then of all these conversations
leaving you feeling satisfied
while reminding me,
i am the eternal
procrastinator?

beneath the rough skin on my feet
there is a history of walking
through the differences
of midtowns, downtowns, uptowns
and these toes dancing
onto scars-made-by-glass
such that imperfect skin
is now the softest because
it maintains no record.

i notice the shift in the beat
as i turn up the volume,
the track calls my name, you say
and tom you were right
i’ve made a lot of mistakes.
but in another world
of music
one track at a time
until track four-five-six
and i’m wanting you
how much
as all of these sloppy phone calls
leave me desperate
and wishing
for next time