I come here to be inspired.
Hopefully in sharing what sets my mind alight I'll inspire some of you.
Let me know what you think.
Accumulation of Light in EyelidsThere are nights I still can’t talk about because my edges come unstitched. When the air is thick with meaning and my chest strains to hold it in. A creature uncurls inside me, lit gold and full of teeth. My hands clench and my legs shake and I need to walk because it will be a long time before I'll be able to sleep.
This is the way you move when you need to believe you can escape something under your skin. When the only way you can imagine being happy is to break yourself in two. I shed past selves over plane rides and wake up someone new. But old lives boil to the surface and I wake in a fever, alone with my thoughts and the same bad habits.
I don’t want to be an earthquake anymore. I've seen the world behind caution tape, cut off and never certain whether I was victim or catastrophe, even more uncertain how to navigate the spaces between. People who don't know me say I'm calm, because I know more about striking fissures into my skin than I know about saying anythi
Eyes Like Gift HorsesClacking as my train rounds the curve. An arm touches my lap. Near its owner’s mouth, her skin cracks. Her pupils reflect the overhead fluorescent flicker. She smells old.
The Chicago and Franklin stop. My shoe thuds against the wooden planks. A reclined man watches the sun, which is overcooking this city. I throw a quarter at his empty coffee cup.
The store is cool and dark. The cashier defiles the register with her body, creamy blues watching me lift a Shiraz off the top rack. Two thousand dollars. I shrug and leave, cradling the bottle. Outside, mayhem greets me. Cars everywhere, drivers watching their bumpers. Traffic crowds the buildings and river, pigeons cover everything else. Their bellies are distended. There is a sweetness in the air.
Today, it’s the riverfront Hyatt. I take a room for myself and my wine. The bellhop drapes his cart, face layered in shadows. The overhead lights are excessive. I don my sunglasses. The maid by the elevator looks flushed.
OneirusWhy did he hurtle himself
He asked if I was a fragrance
or poison and spoke in couplets.
He cupped a ball of paper;
torn fragments of art and thought,
wings and breath -
a charcoal bird
flew out and backward,
confettied into pencil shavings.
He recited verse after verse -
Why was the sky melting?
He told me the moon was pale, sick
but I thought she never looked
a round, silver coin
beneath a pelt of mink clouds.
I was lonely. I spent too much
time in my own imagination.
I never wanted him,
the concept of him but
that didn't mean I wasn't attached.
Polaris is Dead.windbound,
we were caught and cornered,
underneath the weight
of rocks and hard places
that tore us all but
in this and every maelstrom
we were just waiting
holding hands like they were
and locking palms in prayer ;
we knew an introduction
to the edge of our little world was
and said our goodbyes
every time the ocean's belly
swelled with Neptune's angry squall,
our mouths filled with salt and
all the breathlessness that came
with keeping a weather eye
on that horizon.
you were the light of my life -
every smile a star
and every star a sentinel,
keeping us from keeling over
or charting courses
hellward bound ;
that angel stern,
on every map and
on every midnight journey,
and making sure
we always knew
which way was north,
or a new world,
the storms got the best of us,
our little ship stricken
from bow to stern,
from mizzenmast to bowline,
LessonsIn forty-seven minutes I will be twenty-one years old and my throat is tight with this notion
that every passing moment is a boat taking me further from the boy on the side of the road.
I am terrified of the swelling tide of time, the ripples I will create,
the creases that will be etched into my face
without the laughter lines I know he would have left and
one day someone will ask me how many siblings I have and I will hesitate
because he will be so distant and I can feel it coming.
I never intended to swim without him, but
I am drowning under the weight of pocket-stone-people,
the ones I love who he has never met and won't ever meet
and its forty-four minutes until I turn twenty-one when I realize the relentlessness of this;
how I will age away from him and I am disgusted with myself, with his ashes on the bookshelf,
with this world that keeps making mistakes that can't be fixed.
Twenty one years old and I am a semi-colon, a shuddering pause on the floor,
remembering the time I broke
Throwback ThursdayYou know what I miss?
The simple days
of aimless buses and trains,
like magic carpets
that helped us to escape,
if only for a little while.
I miss the endless walks
that led to hours of
strip mall shenanigans--
spinning in desk chairs,
petting that little blind kitten,
and reading anything
from cheesy joke books
to Frost's melancholic verse.
I miss cheap deli lunches,
discounted coffee house milkshakes, and
midnight conversations on the swings
at your old elementary school,
with the moon so bright that
I could see your T-shirt.
Remember that time when, hot chocolate in hand,
we followed the sound
of live fiesta music
sailing on the hollow winter air
until we nearly crashed
a Hispanic family's party?
Or what about the moments
of heartbroken silence
when we discovered
the ruins of a piano
at the church
that was once your daycare?
I remember climbing, barefoot,
halfway up Ricky's fence
to watch his illegal fireworks
and stealing Mom's car
in the dead of night,
just for store-bought Chines
Time is a human construct ably abetted by the sky, the stars. We looked at the sky and decided to delineate day and night, to make them into two halves, when in fact they were just fine whole.
Prehistory – our prehistory – we were overwhelmed by the sky. Cave paintings and inscriptions are a myriad of hypothetical disasters, stars falling, bursting, chelating. For we saw the Milky Way in all its wonder, all white dust, blue light and rosy curls, a solid mass hanging heavy in the sky.
A girl has prehistory as well. Before she is born, before she is even the star twinkling in her mother’s eye, her parents meet. They fall in love because the stars deem them compatible. The mother, an Aquarius, full of intellect and dreams. The father, a Taurus, rooted so firmly in the ground that he has enough foundation to lift the world. Both are fixed signs, revolving around one another, becoming the binary.
The Kalahari have a myth: deep in the desert, a
EvanescenceYou’re supposed to make love the night of your wedding day, but John and I did not. Frankly, I don’t know how anyone can. We were exhausted. Our day started at the crack of dawn to get ready and was filled with constant adrenaline, standing, travelling, photos, socializing, speeches, dancing; before we knew it, it was 3 am and we had no energy left for anything else.
So, the night of our wedding day, John and I just sprawled our clothes across the chairs in our fancy hotel suite and crawled into bed. Both laying on our backs, looking up at the beautifully painted ceiling, we sleepily recalled our favourite moments of the day. Like when his father was the first to get on the dance floor and make a total fool of himself, and when my maid of honour made half the room tear up with her beautiful speech about how happy we’ve been from the very start.
I nuzzled my face into his collarbone and murmured, “This has been the best day of my lif
I`ll set this life on fire so I can see it clearly before it burns|
Current Residence: first star to the right and straight on till morning
MP3 player of choice: Phone
Shell of choice: kappa
Skin of choice: Chromatophoric