Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Monday, September 19, 2011

not going to cry.
not this year.
no.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

this is a poem about sex.

Frustration.
A delicate kiss.
My pink-colored affection leaves a trace,
everywhere I touch him.
Among the debris of the broken building,
next to the Latin Bible,
watching the picture of the holy
woman in purple pumps,
kick up her feet and say 'hey'.
I, too mimicking,
ridiculously laughing,
my limbs falling apart,
I,
there now,
I when I was four,
captured and framed.
To the sound of  the sad harmonica,
dark hair covered in sweat and tears,
humiliation and reconciliation at its finest,
the white books full of green people fantasies.
The sudden choke,
the lackadaisical eye,
a mixture of fucking and tickling.
The weary disconnect after
eternal minutes of togetherness.
The boisterous neighbors wanting to
get our attention,
walking haughtily,
cranking music so that
my roof shakes,
my walls ache,
my heart breaks.

Friday, September 16, 2011

pain knows repetition, and nothing else.

Wednesday, September 07, 2011

Tuesday, September 06, 2011

the tears
they fall
without permission.
The window of sleep is becoming increasingly small to climb through. My eyes are open like they're expecting someone to come kiss them goodnight. Yet they don't know who, so the gaze is that of a terrified child. Like Death.