Make It Stop

Make It Stop

"Dark and light, bad and good, are not different but one and the same." -Heraclitus

You were smooth

like the blade of a knife,

smooth, like a scroll

slipping down my throat.

I kept secrets

lovers keep,

how your lips were too thin

your nose too sharp,

the small scar on your face.

They were like diamonds

hidden away for me.

You were so smooth

that the sharp bite of pain,

the tearing of my skin

was nothing for the

pleasure of you.

I tell most of my friends

that I don't want to talk about it

because unlike you

I own my responsibility

for my actions,

because I know

when I hold a knife

that if I run my finger

along the blade

it will cut me

and if I eat

the scroll the angels give me,

no matter how good it tastes,

it will always

turn bitter in my stomach.

Freak

Up until today all I could see

was your feathers melting

in a fire you created.

I can say this because

you won't understand

that the fire I created

is gone, that hope like

a phoenix rises up inside,

and beats its wings against

my own survival

my own good sense.

Which is why I put

batteries in the smoke alarm,

to know when I am not

on fire, when I am no longer angry

that I still need to keep running,

because you don't care about me.

Limited Time Offer

With you there is

a hidden ocean,

steely days,

flashes of your eyes,

your words waves beneath me.

If I try to swim into you,

become you, drinking

you in through

my mouth, my nose, my eyes,

afraid to stop struggling,

to be pushed by your passion,

onto the shell-littered shore.

Riis’ Photograph from How the Other Half Lives

What kind of poem is there

for a man who sleeps in a cellar

on a dirty torn mattress

thrown over two boards?

If alive today he would be

one hundred thirty nine

or so

and still on the down and out.

Yet I am drawn in by

the soft sleep in his eyes

amused by my own desire

to run my fingers through

his dirty uneven hair.

Which goes to answer the original question:

It would be a love poem.

Midnight

It’s midnight and

I’m listening to the rain

and though I’m alone

I close my eyes

and feel the weight

of you against me.

I feel your blood

burn through my veins,

your voice shake through me,

your touch tear me apart,

weeping.

It’s midnight and

You’re alone

listening to the rain.

If In Fact

Once there was a girl

who made wishes on

dandelions

stars (shooting or otherwise)

eyelashes

coins in fountains

necklace clasps

birthday candles

things put under her pillow.

She believed in TRUE LOVE

and I hope she was right

for her sake,

wrong,

for my sake,

for how terrible it would be

to live not knowing

TRUE LOVE was real

(if in fact it was).

At Three O’clock

I keep expecting

you to appear in my office

at three o’clock

shaking the rain

out of your hair

or casually walking in,

raising your brows at the red walls

and grinning,

mumbling, “hey”

and touching my right shoulder.

Sometimes I think

the you of two years past

walks up behind me

and watches me work

to shy to speak

And I am praying

for peace for you

and no more three o’clock

visitations from you

so alive and so dead.

My Angel

Rising through the ceiling

like the steam

that comes from

spring grass and

warm rain,

you said you would

take me

to a better place.

If you were to love me

would I see your wings,

or would I see the tears

of feathers falling in the rain?

The Me You Don't Care To Know Speaks:

In a worn out ad for

how everyone is the same

you are the broken part

of the wings I hide.

Today I dreamed

your skeleton

was hollow; painted brass.

The one you chose

filled you with her breath,

and I sneezed as smoke

flowed from your arches,

closed my eyes and stepped back

Aint No Soul Mates Here

Down for a count of five.

You own me for only as long

as it takes for me to skin my knee.

Ten feet off youre waving,

a hummingbird of fingers.

I barely say goodbye.

What's wrong?

Nothing

was going on in room five.

You were hauling boxes,

I was trying to speak

with my mute button depressed,

and sweet lovin' was torn down,

balled up, and thrown away.

You know what they say about

quiet church girls?

Nothing.

Five days after you replayed

through my kitchen joking

about chocolate muffins.

I wasn't completely joking.

For five hours

it could have been you.

I am ten feet off

and waving.

Sigh with relief.

Encounter

Through your mirror,

its curved surface like an eye

distorting the center,

I climb

on a stool and watch

you who would be my left side

if I wasn't split down the center.

Through your mirror,

its grey lense an iris,

its pupil distorted,

I climb

on your bed and watch

you, split down the center,

touch your lips to mine

I Think I’m Winning

The story ends with you jumping into a fish hatchery,

like some kind of strange baptism

and I am holding my breath

until you smile,

the sun on the water,

the fish happy to be left alone for a while.

There can be water inside a rock

and thorn bushes with no fruit nor flower.

You look at me

until I smile,

because we breathe the truth.

The sound roars in the distance.

Your Ears

Your ears distract me

from your story of swimming

like drowning,

and I can see

your small ears

sufforcating for sound,

rushing with the white noise

of water

following your head

like two unwitting barnacles

down

until you can see no light,

and your small ears

pop with the change in pressure.

Your ears are witnesses

that in that darkness

you changed direction

that you struggled towards the light.

They surfaced before you could

take that bursting breath,

like two small handles

on a trophy.

As you walk away, your story finished,

I am thinking of your ears.

The West of You

In search of the you who

was somehow lost

between a cowbell and a laugh,

I forget

to tie myself to the crosspieces,

to deafen my ears with screaming.

Knowing that you don't like most pillowcases,

that mountains make you smile;

cannot get me past that siren,

pleasure.

We are sitting on the dock.

This is before it all happened.

Before I could know that there is no chance

to find the you

who was somehow lost.

You are speaking of the algae

that keeps you from seeing

under the surface

I am searching for you.