Archive for April, 2015


How can I catch your eye,
and cause you to be smitten?
How can I be the apple in
the center of your vision?

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Nothing to Do

You’re a poem I’ve read a hundred times,
but until now I’d missed crucial lines.

My vision of you is fresh, brand new,
and now I’m in love with nothing to do.

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My scruffy-haired, six-year-old self is sitting on a swing,
smiling toward the Polaroid camera my mother
holds in her hands, capturing a morsel of that balmy day,
the flashes of each photo being taken like mere dust
off the sun’s vast surface, the reason for my squinting.

The garden behind me is brimming with wildflowers,
a rainbow that fell from the sky and took root in the soil,
shades of orange, purple, red, yellow, blue, and green
the perfect backdrop for this impromptu photo shoot.

Where were these memories hiding until now?
Did they escape into the cozy house of my subconscious,
falling asleep with the television still on?
Or were they simply here all along, stuck in the chemicals,
waiting for someone to press a thought into their flesh?

The plastic swing, the glorious sun, the vibrant flowers,
and, most of all, my beautiful mother, have surely
given me much to reminisce about, but it’s you, father–
you who wasn’t there that day, of whom I

am now thinking, because later that evening,
when I jumped from the swing to see how far I could fly,
I wasn’t able to reach your arms–
those arms, along with the rest of your 6’4” frame,
that were in a place I didn’t know, for reasons I didn’t understand,

until I became a little older.
Though I will admit that even now I don’t completely understand,
a part of me still the boy you used to push
on that swing long-removed from the backyard.

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Get Lifted

Introverted words,
they’re written and ignored,
without any music
to lift them from the floor.

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Ode to Toothpaste

My teeth are gliding along
the silken river of mint leaves,
an oar with bristles at the head
directing these pawns
toward a smile one can smell,
fresh breath’s bouquet intoxicating–
the familiar, tingly burn of the strong, ivory paste
calling me to repose.

I sneak into sleep’s room,
closing the door gently behind me
so as not to disturb those
who are already in the midst of dreaming
when I begin to feel
my teeth tumbling out, one by one,
like loose change escaping
through a pocket riddled with holes,
dropping anchor at my feet.

I give chase, but they’re much faster–
fleeing, highly-trained soldiers,
while I, weak-legged and unfit for running,
can’t close the distance
between myself and their shadows,
the gap growing wider until there, up ahead,
I’m blinded for a moment by the sparkling Gleem,
the tube emptied of its thick substance,
laid neatly across the path of the speedy pearls,
apprehending them with ease,
like ants ensnared in maple syrup.

Once again saved by toothpaste,
I pull each tooth from its gummy trap,
replacing the entire set in the confines of my mouth,
catching the scent of mint
as I wake up from my recurring hallucination.

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Dead End

Here we sit with nothing to say,
desensitized to silence.
I just don’t get why we remain,
a most mundane alliance.

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Dirt Sky

The cold wind slices a twisting path,
with no resistance from my flesh.
Numbness strikes my aching bones,
leaving me frozen, far from fresh.

Drops of blood along the ground
mark the progress that’s been made.
Crimson stars of a dirt sky
wreathed around my lover’s braid.

Who stole the light inside her eyes?
Home is nowhere to be found.
It’s just a heap of burnt remains,
lids hiding such pretty brown.

Bitterness is throwing stones.
Soon I’ll be back on my way.
Headed toward her soft whisper,
a feather pillow free of flame.

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I Could

I could build a cozy house
and plant a family tree
without stopping to question
if it’s what I truly need.

I could love her forever,
until death do us part,
live a cookie-cutter life
that disregards my heart.

I could be on autopilot,
a Monday through Friday bore,
working somewhere I despise
just to wage domestic war.

I could be the perfect husband,
play the role of father who can provide,
with that fancy sheet of paper
that proves I did something with my life.

I could put a smile on,
just another piece of my stuffy suit,
convince myself this is bliss,
that a pile of shit is choice fruit.

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Is there anything that’s sacred,
anyone who will not fold?
Sandwiched between love and hatred,
existence getting old.

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It isn’t meant to be right now,
but maybe in a few years’ time
I’ll be the one you want to hold
instead of just a cliché rhyme.

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