there's a picture of sunflowers, my favorite

by far. one 

leans apart from the bunch, rests

it's head on the wooden fence.

in my mind's eye, 

a visible sigh in it's face

it's posture affects --

and though time accelerates, 

there is still gold in the lines of my face,

some days    the light catches

and warmth Ihold in my pockets

for days like today, I drizzle it on my tongue. 

&my insides are wrapped in dusty glow

from eons before

I began to wilt

“Sometimes I can feel my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living.” -- Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

for as much as I want to be wanted

, I want more
your cradling arms, your
pushagainst, small brush in passing
that sends a warmth crawling    up      my neck

as much as I am young & new
and pink and yellow just as bright as
a daisy! sometimes

I long, too
for the softness of longevity
like wind on my cheek, you

are almost all light, sometimes, I never
expected--

somedays, I'm sure the hue of your skin is
all filter, and I am just romanticizing,
as always

but the red in your beard is all the harshness in the world, sometimes.
and the sound of your laughter fills my head, echoes as if this small room
were an abandoned cathedral and

your voice
the first prayer heard in a hundred years.

At times, I forget to utilize my patience.
And it costs much more than a passing moment of my discomfort.
It costs peace and amiability in relationships. It can sometimes cost entire relationships.

I have to deal. I am learning how to deal.

Blue Eye by Jacob Lange

I have love for you
Rooted in my jawbone

Your secret perfume
Convection heat in a back seat

I want your thin fingers
Tangled in the web of my ribs

I want to lose you
In the honeycombed purple layers of my heart tissue

I will cradle your head on my sternum
Letting my lungs do the work

If only 
Your elbows were not so sharp

Then I would crave the dig of your fingernails
Your pastures of hair
The butterfly tremble of your lips

Speechless- words no longer hold the weight
My tongue on the novel curves of your sigh
Tasting the twenty summers of your growth

Trembling due to lack of oxygen
Trembling at the onset of lust

The kneading want of knuckle bones 
Drawing me ever closer to the colors of light 

Static in the stereo of the 
Cerebral cortex 

Bunched nerves 
Shocked into submission 
By your bleached bone canines


Open and breathe 
The quick pinch endocrine valves 
Releasing steam 


Drape me with your skin
Wrap me up in your pulsing warm veins

I bleed blue 
On every day of the week 

I am deafened
By the rage of your heartbeat 

I am stricken dumb 
The symphony of your eyelids
Swelling in my chest a familiar lust

The wind from your eyelashes 
Could blow us out of this winter 
And right into spring 

All the days of the year
I bleed blue

The dedication of your palm 
On my cheek
Warms me like a leaf in sunlight

Peel me layer from layer
You will find no lies in between the pages

I am your machine
Waiting to be properly lubricated
I cannot wait for our first day under the sun
I can't wait to get you out of the fluorescent lights
Of the Assembly line 
We will journey together to forgotten realms
And sleep beneath the strange constellations


---------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is one of those things that will always make me cry. 

I think I'd like apprentice a successful sociopath.

I caught myself thinking,

'I hope you died in the bathroom' 

when you didn't come back for a few extra minutes. 

peace, come

I can't blame anyone for not looking after myself 

and I can't look after everyone else. 

You're difficult to romanticize, I think 

that's a good thing. You're difficult to 

filter, to soften, add a couple 'meaningful' words and 

I don't know (mostly because I don't know any

thing   ) if that's a good 

something for me or 

if it's a spinning top and    what if 

 

I fall  ? 

B -

I hope you wear red tomorrow. Soon, at least. 

I'm starting to yearn for your fire. 

As I was leaving this morning --

"And..what did I do to deserve you?"

like to think I have a little moon
behind my lips, that you
could reach in & pluck

and in your eyes, reflecting.
the rare bit of light that slips through
the blankets we cover the windows
with

I never know whether to look away
or to let them fade  
in slow-   motion

Driving, I scan the sleepy city for a diner I’ve never been to. The radio seems to sing, “better versions of you are being born right now.”

Eddy Habib

Born in a singular quantity, I have been divided ever since.

"Some old people are young, and some young people are old. It's all in the roll of the dice."

Aug 31st 2013

always walking sideways        can you imagine? 
living sideways, living with your head tilted in wonder 

living

fake posture like posterboard, folding in on oneself
communicate by bits of conversation, the scraps left like little diamonds
scattering the floor - pick one up, you might strike it rich (!)

follow nothing but what there is in front of you, do not look left 
do not look right. shake your body like a leaf and let that feeling roll off in beads, 
turn green in the morning sunlight, let it feed you.

open your eyes, deep breaths like the wind in a cave. 

find your fingers fascinating as they curl and uncurl themselves, 
you are alive! you are so pink, so yellow, so dark and light and beautiful 
and strange that it can stupefy the senses at times.

weird how so many people can feel the same feeling and feel all 
alone in it. funny, even. hilarious that we all have one another to lean on and yet 
we stand erect as if we were man-made instead of tiny pieces of the universe, tiny pieces of 
energy and dust held together by our own collective will. 

it's funny how we don't realize how beautiful we are.

:3

"You unreadable cat creature, you."

it's such a *feeling

*reaching to hold my hand when we
cross the
street.

Harlem by Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

      And then run?

      Does it stink like rotten meat?

      Or crust and sugar over—

      like a syrupy sweet?

      Maybe it just sags

      like a heavy load.

      Or does it explode?

"Are you mad at me or something?"
"Nah, I'm just not a big fan in general."

compliment

I remember the first time
you named me “Good morning.”

And how, the night before,
you considered my ceiling,
where the passing cars outside
the passing cars outside
the passing cars outside
cast their shadows and liquid lights
through the slats of my blinds.

You said: “Hey Romeo--
your CD player is skipping again...
but your ceiling’s like fireworks for poor folks!”
And I liked that.

I like the tall pauses you take
when you tell your nephews knock-knock jokes.
And I like your theory
that men and women’s shirts button on opposite sides
so that couples can get dressed facing each other
after making love.

You seem to season your seasons,
your days, your time
with rhyme, not reason,
I’ve seen you. Daily. Nightly.
I’ve watched you housebreak a puppy
just by asking politely.

And your remedy for insomnia?
Is to pile every pillow and blanket into the tub
and you nap there like you’re taking
a patchwork bath,
and I said once: “Oh--I wish I had a PICTURE!”
and you said: “Oh--I wish you and I had HOT SEX,
YOU gave ME a PEDICURE,
and then ELVES showed up at our doorstep,
with a PIZZA, to tell us JESUS just built a TREEHOUSE
in the backyard, and he’d like to meet us both,
so HOP IN HOTSHOT!”

You’re weird,
with a capital “WE.”
And I’m grateful, I marvel,
you’ve helped me hammer
some of my worst manners into manhood,
but I still admit--I like the way your shorts fit,
and how, overall, you’d call me “smart,”
even though sometimes
I do really stupid shit.

And I like how you giggle with your lips closed
like you’ve got a secret little moon in your mouth.

But I’m not insisting you’re some kind of goddess,
(I know you’re suspicious of unspecific love poems).
You’re more like a sunflower,
growing in the courtyard of an old folks home--
you mean things to people on a daily basis,
and this petty poem won’t explain
just how “my favorite” your face is,
(but I wish I’d been your bathroom mirror
the day they took off your braces).

You’re so pretty.

You’re like a vivid video game
and I’m the idiot kid
just trying to get to your next level--
I like your right-shoulder angel,
Hell, I like your left-shoulder devil.
I admire the lively deeds you do.
So if you come through a doorway again,
in a thrift store poncho,
or a drop-dead evening gown,
twirling and asking:
“Well, whaddya think?”
I’m gonna tell you:

“Shit howdy, Sunshine,
sit your fine self down!
If you’re looking for a compliment--

I think you’ve come
to the right place.”

TELEMARKETER by Brett Garcia Myhren

I'm reading on the couch
when she calls, asks for me by name.
I smile at her scripted intimacy,
imagine her cubicle with photos of pets,
the long bend of light
on her lacquered nails.
  
"Listen to this," I reply,
"David kissed the soft inner banks
of women’s thighs."
  
"Pardon?"
  
"Oh, there's more," I say, 
"Thighs like loamy earth
that cup the rivers, or lilies
blooming in rose and mint."
  
"Is this a bad time for you, sir?"
  
"Is it for you?
Tell me something," I insist.
"Tell me anything."
  
A quiet unfolds between us
as though we'd spent our breath
on withering arguments
or lost it
in the scented air of sweat.
  
Finally she says,
"I'm in Lincoln, Nebraska.
Outside, leaves are turning
in the cold."

 

Bluebird by Charles Bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to screw up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

Three Oddest WordS

When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no nonbeing can hold.

- Wislawa Szymborska 

death and tacos by Nathanial Whittemore

Waiting in line at a taco stand for my number to be called
I started talking to a six-year-old kid kicking his little foot against
A curb and waiting for his dad to come out of the bathroom.
                And he said, “Why do you cough so much?”
                And I said, “Because I have cancer.”
                And he said, “Bummer.”
                And I said, “Yep.”
                And he said, “Does it hurt?”
                And I said, “Only when I breathe.”
                And he said, “Why don’t you hold your breath?”
And I puffed out my cheeks like Louis Armstrong and
Let him see it and held it for as long as I could
Before exploding into a hacking eruption of
Stupid sounds and saliva.
                And he laughed.
                And I coughed and laughed.
                And he said, “Feel better?”
                And I said, “A bit.”
And I showed him how much better with my
Thumb and index finger. And pointed at a green thread
of mucous that had dribbled out onto my chin
                He said, “Gross.” And wiping it off
                I said, “Yep.”
                And he said, “My granddaddy had cancer before he died on the hospital.”
                And I said, “You mean in the hospital?”
                And he said, “Yeah on the hospital.”
                And I said, “Oh, yeah?”
                And he said, “He used to give me candy all of the times I ever saw him.”
                And I said, “Sorry kid, I don’t have any candy.”
                And, deflated, he said, “Are you gonna die on the hospital?”
                And I said, “You mean in the hospital?”
                And he said, “Yea, are you gonna die on the hospital?”
                And I said, “Probably.”
                And he said, “OK.”
And, upon giving that gracious consent, the boy’s dad came out and
The boy said, “Well, bye!” And I said, “See ya.”
And he ran off.
And, for a while, between the two of us,
Dying became so very ordinary, like candy or tacos or semantics,
And death itself suddenly just this obnoxious third-wheel
A pitiful nuisance with nothing better to do with his time
Than to tag along with me and this six-year-old kid.
And I sat smiling in the sun and imagining death at the moment,
A sad sack of lonely-self slumped somewhere in the distance,
As I waited for my number to come up.