Across the table,
in lands untold,
you stare back at me
from above the lip of your water glass.
Cold.
Three feet, but infinite distance lays between us;
a mass of oak,
and it’s grains attempting to fill the space.
Feiging interest,
I explore jungles with my fork,
examining the bottom of my bowl,
attempting—
hoping—
to find a rabbithole in which to lose myself.
Various on-lookers might observe
a quiet meal shared between lovers or friends—
sipping on their ice water and tea,
while I—
unbeknownst to them—
may as well sip gasoline.
We are resigned to eat in silence…
inwardly willing the check to come.
A quiet meal between friends, yes.
But if I laid my hand upon the table,
yours would not meet mine in return.
And if my eyes wandered to your plate,
you would not offer to share.
And when the check comes (AT LAST!),
we will pay our seperate fees,
and go our seperate ways.
So no, no,
this isn’t a quiet meal between lovers.
Not today.
-http://www.jenna2step.tumblr.com
Stubborn
Headbutting a wall burns 150 calories an hour.
My head’s thin now, but the wallpaper might need changing,
It’s not my fault though; this… thing is awkward,
Some strange, mechanical newborn colt stuck in front of me.
Mechanical, but not cogs, chains and gears.
Just wires. And pixels.
Trying – desperate – to walk. Not for my sake, mind.
This seems remedial, not really necessary and not to mention,
Trapping.
The police got it wrong. You don’t imprison someone –
You make them type.
Bill Gates’ own house arrest system – and a tidy profit to boot.
Ffo mra nwo ym gniwang ekil leef em sekam ti.
Oh, and headbutting a wall comes as compulsory.
He thinks you didn’t notice,
but I made certain that you saw me.
Your sweet, plain face.
The face of a woman who would have his children,
do the laundry, bend over the bed
with a nervous laugh and ask,
“Why are we doing this?”
then cry in the bathroom.
I met your eyes and my smile
said Where is your God
Coy kitten, what I wouldn’t give
to run my fingers up your arms.
Everything he can do, I could do better.
I know you don’t want to, but you will remember.
In the evening, as you dry the dishes after dinner
or stack their broken remnants in the dust pan,
you’ll see my hand raised to you
from across the room,
and hear the glass as it shatters behind your head,
a gasp as I raise my hand to my face in disbelief,
and you will know that I know,
my sweet girl, my perfect peach,
the way bite marks throb even more the day after.
I don’t want to hurt you, darling,
but darling, I will.
When I see you,
There is nothing but my aunt’s kitchen
When I was a child
And the corner hutch upon which was displayed
A collection of butterflies
Lovingly placed by some well-meaning, wayward hand:
A relative of mine
Whose name I never knew.
When I see you,
And think of the way things used to be,
I am small again.
Standing on my toes
To peer at the butterflies
And wonder at days past
When they in bright splendor and with wings in sync
Flew freely and carelessly
In the face of uncertainty.
When I see you,
I know
That in the museum of my memory
You and I are there.
Our once bright wings
Faded, former symmetry
Forgotten, but still there
Sealed beneath glass
And labeled neatly
For any passerby to ignore.
When I see you
There is nothing but a vague memory
Of bright color and fluttering wings
Light and shadow
Familiar music punctuated by even more familiar silence
And the persistent image of my aunt’s kitchen
When I was a child.
-http://thetapdrips.tumblr.com/
“You should be in love,” he tells me
We look at each other
always
with guilt
and turn away.
(What revelations I suffer at your hands).
Every time I cross the street I glance sidelong into traffic hoping you are in all of the cars.
And for days
after people say
hello
Behind me on the sidewalk
And my heart stops.
I brighten
the way only a man
who loved me
would recognize
I turn around to look
But it’s
Only, always,
Only
Always
A man into his cellphone.
“Hello!” he says,
So sincerely that it hurts.
The lack of posts recently can be attributed to two things:
1. finalsfinalsfinalsfinalsfinalsfinalsfinalsfinalsfinalsfinals
2. I am running low on reader submitted poetry! Please don’t make me resort to posting a whole bunch of my own stuff for the rest of the month!
The cigarette scars;
the memories lost to night;
the laughter and moan
from a bile purge;
the marking from a fall
that ripped my skin
and left me alone
in thorns.
the kisses and sips,
conversations and fights.
each burning shot
each soothing swallow;
the unknown scars
and markings and
burns.
the tales from
which i do not
remember the
night before.
-http://coyoteburgers.blogspot.com/
I am still young. Usually
people don’t notice my awkward walk
or hesitant stories so long as I
hold my drink the right way or
stand tall enough.
I’m not very tall so that
is just another lie.
I try to find old things to distract myself
from my age, which is still suffixed
with “teen.” Tall buildings made
entirely of brick surrounded by men
who wear leather jacket older than I am
and smell of bus diesel and sea salt. Cars
that could win awards. Shops that carry the same
stale cigars my dad smoked. I don’t feel so shiny
or new here. Time hasn’t moved in years.
Yawning our way through the morning shift,
Jimmy prepared coffee
For the rush of editors
And finance men. But
Hard times left us with
“Payday ain’t comin’ again”.
The road extends a way of sorting out why
He could short us like that.
House and trees
Whipping by
As miles become miles behind
And somewhere along
Bobby’s old cap
Was taken by the wind
As we’re taken by the car
To places where finding
Is the order of the day
The grim motel clerk
And a stray cat scurried by.
We opted to stay
Despite what looked like an accident
Being offered as home.
Hands in pockets,
Hanging on to that dime
Our heads slumping down
As places keep leaving us
On our way again
if there is one thing that i am, i am books. i am
ink, gushing black out of aisles of time, i am ache, brushing
past protagonists in purple and girls spun from gold.
i am tall and heavy, standing in grasses so thick light never
touches the dirt; i am a couch on rainy sunday, springs
sticking out and reaching for freedom from musty confines.
if there is one thing that i am, i am heart. i am
constellations stretched out before myself like an angry map,
i am bound at the stake, i have stood in the sun and not gotten
burned. i am consumed with passion, green with envy, red with
rage; i am wax dripping from antique chandeliers onto battle plans
over and over again.
if there is one thing that i am, i am the semicolon. i am
always held at half past half, continuing to both stop and go at once.
i am sleep on a summer afternoon, dreaming about creativity and
angry for heartbreak. i am back in the past looking ahead through
rose colored lenses tinted slightly too pink. i am never in the present
or the future, i am always wax, i am always ink, ache, i am always
books.
-enderrocket.tumblr.com