The House of Flora

http://thelittlehouseofflora.blogspot.com

Final Anthology:

Bongo Java or a Composition along a 21^st Veranda

Wood cracks and rifts;

My tongue explores the splintering.

Under the weight of my

Furious grinding,

The edges of my

Stirring stick

Give way.

I take the other end,

I bathe,

I frolic,

I play

In the already

Swirling

Creamy

Pearl

And

Caramel

Blend,

The

Iridescent

Bubbling

Skim

Catches the

Colors of the spinning

City

That my tongue has yet

To

Experience.

I watch the excess trickle

Down the curves of my

Bone cup,

The hot mess

Intimately drenches

The crevices

Between

My

Fleshy fingers.

I lift my knuckles to my mouth,

I discretely press my

Tongue against my skin.

I smell the familiar

Boldness

Of my morning

Bongo Java

Blend

Combined

With the

Melodic

Top notes

Of my

Floral

Burberry perfume.

I study the man next to me

As he

Inquisitively ponders

An advertisement

In the

Nashville Scene.

His coke bottle glasses

Begin to slide slowly down his nose,

His pudgy hands deviate from his organic brownie,

He reaches out for them in desperation. 

I feel the acid on my stomach beginning to stir

As I deeply inhale the smoke of a Turkish Gold cigarette

Rolling out of the mouth of one of my brothers in Christ.

I know he loves Christ because his boyfriend is wearing a rosary.

I nibble at my oatmeal cookie to settle the ache,

I ponder on the combination between the tastes of

Mild grains

And the deliciously familiar

Rank smell

Of the

Camel cloud.

I am sadly sentimental.

My hands trace the

Body of my

Linen and leather

Companion.

I gaze up to a glistening reflection

Of the morning sky

In the faces

Of my

Beautiful

City buildings.

I observe the surrounding sidewalks.

Pouring out of shops are distinguished characters

And

Diverse couples.

I see my fair share of people dressed in

Suspenders,

Fedoras

And

Various frayed forms of

Acid-washed denim.

I inquisitively observe

The taciturn,

Iron-bodied,

Vacant seat

That opposes me.

I explore my own heart

In fear that I will find

That some

Shred of me

Still

Worships you.

I inhale...

Whimsical relief floods

And expands my lungs;

Euphoria shoots through my veins

Like an

Aggressive injection.

This

Budding

Blossoming

April

Morning

Is my

Resurrection.

I don’t miss you at all.

Rock Paper

Mixed media combination—

An intercessor,

Dazzled by

"Kurrrrs”,

"Schlepps”,

And

“Shrouus”,

                                                                                                             

Or if

Cantankerousness

Strikes the

Dizzy head

Of the

Old,

Rusted

Pair of

Shrubbery scissors,

“Washed—

 My child”

Is

By

The

Thick,

Syrupy,

Cushion-filled

Blood

That trickles

Down

To the canals of

My

Tarnished

Hands.

It is enough to birth a

Regalia drop

On the face of an

Alcazar piece of

Tissue paper.

"The veins it creates are

Testimony of redemption,"

I say.

The silk,

Sharp,

Strands of hair

Catch the buds of my taste

As I use all the muscles

In my face

To create

A thoughtful

Expression.

I furrow my brow into a deep headache.

Your hands sink into the sides of my flesh…

I collapse.

We combine under the weight of you.

"I wish you'd take your Prozac..."

I say.

The thick-seamed imprint

From the sides of your

Craggy denim

Quenches my

Scaling flesh,

The crimson of my

Crucified hands

Refuses you,

The "abuse"

Marinates me under the

Soft

Brush

Of

You. 

Misplaced

Objects are always

Entertaining

Until they

Grow old and

Die again. 

The nets of the neglector

Never came scooping;

Even my intimacy gathers dust.

I ponder the amber,

I scold her,

I dive into reproof.

I don't want you.

Your palms are a

Sick excuse

For a wedding bed;

Your

Adam’s apple

Guzzles grape juice,

Your flesh

Smells of

Mothballs

And the mistakes

You make

In the backseat

Of

Beater

Cars

When you're

Sixteen.

You said you were a

Southern Baptist,

You said you had no choice.

You call me your

"Baby-making

Machine".

 

Every Tuesday,

I clean the yellow stained toilet

With a Hunter and

Pearl striped brush.

"Swish-swoosh".

I imagine what it would feel like against my teeth.

The highlight of it all is the

"Off-brand"

Scrubbing Bubbles

I "get" to use.

I watch them foam

And picture myself

Suffocating

As they crawl up my esophagus—

Birthing new life. 

   

Mixed media combination—

An intercessor…

Tinsel,

Gum,

And

Tissue paper

To ease the pain

   

When God's not there. 

G a t e

I check my

Watch

In wait,

My devotion

Envelops itself

Inside

The chaotic conundrum

That resonates

Between the strides of

Your

P a c e.

No Psalm

Anymore,

Not

In between the linen bars;

No savoring…

Just fingernails

And scars.

Your façade,

Your aristocracy,

Captivates the puttering

Wilt

Inside

Of

Me.

I’ve become a slain

Martyr

Lying

On the

Floor

Of

You.

            G a t e --

I open mine…

Yours walks right through.

   

Stanley

He’s an

Upright,

Tweed,

Shiny pools on leather

Tapper.

His tongue salivates

Past his

Coffee

At the burlesque,

Burlap,

Brown-bag

Sacker.

Her sweet

Braids are woven between

Beads,

Dreads breed

Into one long strand

Where “rats” read history.

His square spectacles slide

Toward the tip

Where scents go seeking;

He magnifies.

His want drips for

Her chipped cinnamon

Fingernail polish

To sink into some fleshy

Part of him that would never

Understand her.

Her lined black eyes meet his,

She adjusts her blouse.

“Thank you, Starla…”

His pulse accelerates.

Wry is the melon of her mouth.

He adjusts his wedding ring.

The Hot Spirit of Summer

My heart has been

Burning,

Straining-

Aching...

To hear the screeching

Sound of pennies

On train-tracks,

The addictive noise

Of the suction

Plopping from the

Shiny metal

Popping tops

Off

Old bottle caps.

And the clip clopping,

Of old dirty sneakers

Devouring the pavement

Beneath

Them.

Oh, this baby has been aching

For the itching

Ripping sound

Of raggedy stitched

Old denim-

As the metal of

The fence iron

And gravity compete,

And the anticipation...

Who will have the last laugh?

My feet

Have been aching to

Wind and grind up

These

City streets,

My mouth dreaming

To drink

Up the neon signs

That

Tell me that

The door in front of me is "Open,"

Waiting for the

Church pews

And melodic sounds of hymns

And old women's shrill,

Delighted voices-

Telling me Christ's arms are open too.

I've been burning for cozy

Campfires,

Where the mosquitoes wine

And dine

And feast on my sweet soft skin

That smells like cherry blossoms

And

Dance along the bleach blond hairs of my

Arms-

Complements

Of an

Aggressive sun.

I've been waiting

For strawberries

And pink lemonade

To kiss my lips

And an exciting love story

That electrocutes

My bones,

In the back seats

Of old cars

On hot nights-

Ecstatic bliss.

I've been waiting for summer,

And listening to the preacher preach

On Sunday,

While watching the parents reach

For their children

As they run off to

Go dirty up

Their

Church clothes.

No time to waste!

I've been waiting for the throwing

Of hats

And the sound

Of open roads

Under the tires

Of the

Graduate…

The heavy sighs of parents letting their

Children go

As they ride off in the distance

With broad smiles

On

Their

Faces.

I've been itching

For a sweat to break on my brow,

Some blades of grass to run between my toes,

An ankle bracelet to embed itself

Into my skin,

And the sweet, soft laughter

Oh…

The

Electrified, exuberant,

Hot, euphoric boom

That summer brings.

Grey Matter

Mine is

Actually

Rather magenta

With more

Purple undertones

Than

Red.

The Winter

Of Retrospect

Retrospect

Visited me

On a

Cold

January morning.

He asked if

He could stay for tea.

I should have never let him

Hang his hat.

His jeering

Can make a fool

Of even the most

Regal in

Stature.

The distortions of my face

Were no

Match

For

His discernment.

He remarked on my transparency

Over a

Game

Of

Chess.

My lips sunk into the pools of chamomile.

I've never liked confrontation.

“ Perhaps I'm the only one that ever loved at all.

 I've always been a silly poet,

Always a pretty fool…”

Retrospect smirked,

"I'm the remedy to your disillusionment.”

He said.

I asked him kindly to leave.

Checkmate.

Howard

Crimson and ivory

Coalesced.

Our coral bed,

Our amorous blossoms

Adored the scent

Of

Bashful freckles

And August skin.

We were emerald

Seeds in

A sun-drenched

Vineyard;

You were regal.

Berry was my mouth,

Your chest invited me in.

My fingers

Were eager

Sought your wrists-

My breath caught;

Pulses synchronized.

Poetry dripped

And coated our

Flesh like morning dew.

The nude night

Drenched itself

In golden pros;

We were glistening

Silver,

Brocade

Into the navy

Night stars.

I was your flower;

My petals were your

Palace.

You were my ocean

And I drank

Every

Cerulean

Ounce

Of

You.

Alcazar and sky-

You were

My melody.

Pendulum

Mystery hangs

In suspended air;

The melancholic static

Weighs so heavily

That my fragile skin

Crumbles

Beneath

It.

The battlefield of haze…

I am bound by episodes

Of a grey,

Aggressive

Wilt.

This illumination

Has no consideration

For the rampant

Tension

Between my

Jaw

And neck.

There is no

Picture-window poetry;

No stroll of a

Richland Avenue,

Only the corpse of steps

Memorized

And perhaps some

Smell of you

Wrapping its ribbons

In the Murberry’s

Maple trees.

The overcompensation

Writes a check for

All the things

I pretend to know.

This terror must harbor

Shiny boats that

String together a

Glistening

Story line.

Together,

We’ll determine your verdict.

It will be

Guilty.

I fill in the

Tombs of

Our chapter,

My fingers

Too brittle to choke out

The words;

Two stories are

Spun.

I play a cadence over the

Divide.

I am courteous enough to ask for your truth.

I can't decipher

Façades

From

Reality.

In this sandstorm,

I trust you will be honest.

You stare back in

Raw

Disbelief.

“You’re weak if you still care…”

Mystery hangs in suspended air,

I do everything to unfold it...

I stir

Bold lies

To mask the

Faded lines.

This is the way I tell my story. 

Mauve

So beautifully hindered,

Their

Alignment turns its

Cheek from

Discord.

Freedom

Shrill

And

Bounding

From the 

Outskirts

Of unabashed belief,

Tragedy

In the fear induced

Hiding.

Such terrible

Despair

Hangs

In the

Quiet quarters

Of

Careful.

Swearing off Sadie

"It's like the kind of thing you sneak into a downstairs bathroom."

I'm swearing off Sadie 

"...For the study and deeper exploration of the Lord my God!"

And

To regain some recollection of the

Old

And odd

Sick,

Shambled mess,

[In a glorious 

Floral headdress]

That I was

Before Sadie explored

The contents

Of

My mouth. 

"It's like lent..."

I say, 

Except for the fact that I know it's permanent. 

I've never really understood 

The concept of making promises to

Yourself –

One of you

Always knows 

The other person's lying.

So when he invites Sadie into the back seat of my car, 

And ignites

Like its nothing to him, 

I want the rubber of my boots 

To jam itself into 

The fragile barricade

That stands between 

My agitation

And 

His brain. 

My nostrils tango

With the aroma,

It is beyond my capacity to control them. 

I contemplate a long walk home--

She smells too good. 

Dinner Party

I was never so

Intricately

Composed

Until among The Poets:

The hopeful passer-byes

That illuminate

Their

Melodic

Tunes

As

Their

Wishing pools

Surface

               The

Glistening concrete

    That reflects

       The light

Of

The moon.

Their

Hues

Are caught in

The faces of windows

Embellished with frames,

“Bedazzled” by backdrop

Company--

Coated with the syrupy ooze

Of charismatic

Moving

Figures.

The air bends to

The

Celebratory hosts

And

Camaraderie.

I was never so

Intricately

Composed

Until

This

City.

Of Lovers

Trinkets--

Pooled gold,

And

Silver

Conflicted

Against

Tore, silk

Stitched

Lining of

Leather boxes

Confined on

Tracks.

Train,

Steam,

Cloaked and bound

Voracious iron

Devouring

Anywhere

North

Of

The stream.

Skin intertwining;

We were zippers and thread-

Like all the shiny popped buttons

"Lost" navigated

Our heads.

But when we

Laid

Out

Like fine print

To be spouted off

As if it were fiction--

A fairy-tale

As opposed to something tragically real,

We

Rolled into

The

Same spine.

We rolled

Onward…

Cased in

A

Train

With silver-lining

Going

Nowhere

Where

No one

Cared to

Collect

Disillusioned messes

Like

Ourselves.

Your hands

Which searched

Yourself

And your

Picture-books

From photo-booths,

Full of faces of flowers

You pretended you knew

(But only wanted to sink your teeth into)-

Braided the same slipknot

You

Placed around

My neck.

With your pooling selfishness;

Your lack of regret;

You're an un-manned weapon;

You're

The sinister composition

I should have

Never let

Place his

His sick,

Hungry

Blood stained

Palms

All over

My

Naked body.

You're sipping your

Earl Grey

With a

Side of

My innocence.

You're inking into my veins

Letters

Full of slick silky

False pretenses.

Just like always...

I nod off to sleep to it,

Like the radio

Sending in static chiming melodies

That I want to know

So I can always know you.

Your back was a stallion.

I fell backwards.

I became ensnared.

So I wove the shiny web you

Were

As I was

Tangled

There.

My fingertips

Like fine china,

Molded into the banks of yours,

You rested your tongue against me

Drank me into your

Wrestling shores-

In the belly of you

I was drenched with

Every lie

That hung its

Tie

On the doors

Of the objects

You were

Lusting for.

I was

A polished faced

Prism;

Beneath

Your

Windowpane.

I was the

Battered negotiator

Beside you on that train

No composition

Of mine

Could conquer your pomposity.

And I-

Like a ransacked,

Ravaged,

Battered ship

Am a

Sprawled,

Gaping

Tragedy.

Forrest

The glossy,

Acrylic

Overlay

Thickens the edges of my

Thin

Sketchbook pages.

The vibrant

Foliage of

Emerald

And

Ocher

Is

In itself,

A memory.

November composed

In me

An inescapable inspiration;

I painted the days,

Despite the avalanche of

Melancholy

Silver sludge

That

Edged my frosted

Walkway.

Inside,

I mourned the

Dying embers

Of an

Impulsive

Autumn.

Under moon-beams

And star streams,

We were

Engulfed

In a

Sea of

Indigo

And

Lustrous enchantment.

By a fire-side,

Upon a flannel blanket

We galaxy gazed

And the pools of

Your eyes

Glistened

With an enticing

Magic

That expounded

The universe.

You were a cold

Russian fleet,

A

Spanish

Embroidery,

A bold

Italian wine

With flowery

Top-notes.

You were the

Embodiment

Of a perfection,

Your name

Was

Ambrosia;

It was the

Mango

Hot

Mornings

That tangoed

With the

Sultry

Steam of my

Sumatra mix,

It was the intoxication

Of a star-coated

Still night,

Where you were a poet

And I was your Aphrodite.

Reiteration

My stinging,

Spouting,

Fountain

Of

Verbal regurgitation

Is the

Catalyst

And broadcaster

Of this

Misinterpreted information.

My tongue is the centerpiece.

My mouth is the barrel of a gun,

One of my cheeks is sinful,

The other is ashamed,

The crimson pair

Bury themselves

Into their

Black and blue stained,

Leather-bound companion.

I've won nothing…

Nothing I've gained...

If you see me like I see myself—

Oh, but I am

My

     Own

            Worst

       Enemy.

Miriam the Prostitute 

Draped Rapture;

Glistening,

Gold flecked

Rouge

Drenched and aching

Between the crevices

Of intertwining words

That

Whimsically twist

Themselves

Into pauses

Between whispers

In an intimate low of

Light.

My mouth used to devour your

Flesh with it

Like the paved red-light

Paths that walk

Their

Way through

Amsterdam

In the wrong districts

On the

Right nights.

Now,

It's a bold billboard.

It’s your signal

To duck and cover—

To further hate the volatile

Wretch

That used to be the object of your

Own sick

“Sexual

Expression”.

She'd pour her forgiveness

Like holy water

Into mason jars

And sit them on the window-

Sill

Praying to God for some magic-

That they might heal

The gaping wound she is.

It never healed.

Lips like cherries,

Blood Red and sealed for good.

She's thirsting for abandonment,

It's the closest thing to love.

A Pondering from a Cinderblock

Third Story Window

I am

Hot garbage juice

But

At least

The cats

Lick me up.

In the Bed of a Richland Garden

To My Darling,

Whose veins

Merge,

Course,

Pulsate,

Through my

Own,

Whose

Breath

Laces into mine

As sweet lips,

Like

Berry

Wine

Compliment and

Illuminate

Each other

Passionately--

Like the

Silky

Silver,

Snow glazed

Glow

Of a

Milky

Moonbeam.

To He,

Who

Whispers

Me…

As if I am a

Memorized piece

He has poured his own

Delicacy,

Innocence,

And

Longing

Into;

As if I were the translucent

Indigo

Wash

He'd chosen to bathe his

Memories in.

We are a woven intricacy,

A spool of never-ending thread;

My skin compliments your skin.

Time drifts slowly to sleep,

Sweetly surrendering her keys to the stratosphere,

And all the stars that hang themselves in the

Whimsical,

Storybook sky

Praise our passion until

Their

Light

Kisses the morning dew.

Breath clothes the compositions

That

Ink the pages of

Porcelain book faces.

We are a cool field.

We are legs embedded with blades

Of the tall grass,

We are the perfume of the wildflower

Pursing her lips as she

Presses her notes into the wrists

Of my

Softer skin.

The balmy dawn drowns out the

Sweet ticking of the clock;

The magenta sun traces my

Lips and

Kisses my eyelashes.

We are two trails that parallel

But never intertwine-

Yours is completely yours,

Mine is completely mine.

They maintain their identity,

They travel onward into the eternities

Of the

Setting

Western sun.

We are poetry along the May

That buds so brilliantly

From the springs of a

Mango day.

We are the simplicity of

Hot tea

Coursing through the mouths

Of promises more precious than

First loves.

We are wise love,

Laced in

Zealous

Spontaneity

And youth. 

To my darling

And my

Ember,

The silk slip of my

Ambrosial summer 

Bides her 

Barefoot,

Emerald clover 

Hours in 

A

Boisterous

And precious

Symphony

For

You. 

Rejoice

I am stank,

Gooey,

Skin-peeling

Spleen-guzzling

Rot.

I am a

Malicious,

“Narking,”

Garbage licking

Ratfink.

My tongue

Is a

Paddle-board

Strapped with

Razor blades.

Poisonous,

And swelling,

I am festering

Maggot Ooze,

I am Judas

Hanging from the dogwood.

Lethal injection-

I’m the cyclic,

Mind consuming,

Repugnant

Temptation

Of the

Compulsive.

I am a buzzing,

Caffeine fanatic;

A Camel-breathing

Tar infested

Fiend,

Not delicate

Enough for a prince,

This tub of lard

Will never be porcelain.

I am the strangling abuser;

I am the strangled.

I am the

Shattered

Glass

Gaping

Black

Abyss

Inside your

Decaying

Gums.

I am the exposition of

Nerve endings.

I’m an

Emission filled,

Flesh-eating infection.

I am a

Sick,

Wasted,

Putrid pool

Of

Stinking

Vomit.

I am fearfully

And wonderfully

Made.

Staircase

Cavernous and bruised-

Slurs seared and

Coalesced

With the scent

Of the voracious ache

Inside our

Fusing

Flesh.

We were the tune of two skylarks

Swimming in the cold veins of a Mistake.

Our fingers carefully

Swooned and groomed the demons

That would leave gaping craters

In the faces of our

Tombstones;

We were two delicately wrapped

Time bombs.

Verbal assassination did its fair share

In raking us through the razor-blade,

Sinful

Sick

Sorrowful

Misery

Where little fragments of us hung in

Still air.

The rational particles were

Habitual liars too...

Maybe they got it from you.

They'd rip through the

"Loved-in"

Sheets

Of the

"Too-many-times"

Bedpost memories;

They'd scab us up real good,

Saying it was all for our

Well

Being.

Somewhere,

Back there,

In the gutter of a

Licked up ash tray

Is the sound my own heart

And saliva flinging from my mouth

Clawing for your sick-intentioned

Self to sit next to me

And rub my back

While I talk about how

Chocolate Milk always makes it better,

As the rose in me

Tries to forget the fact that

You're

A habitual lying pervert

And the curves of your mouth

Can't help but admit it all.

"And it'll be alright baby-doll."

You said.

But it was never alright.

The Siren

Tangled notions…

A belly full of

Flattery

And dishonesty,

I was

Always the "replication",

Never the

Starkly

Contrasting

“Beginning”.

Perhaps there never was a comparison

To be made;

I see the difference now.

He wanted an open wound,

You are the gatekeeper to them.

Uniqueness doesn't have a

Copyright,

It cannot be

Mass-produced.

Just like paint against your skin,

Just like the foundation you're marinating in,

Through

Compliments

For cocktails

Of your transitions and eloquently strung

Fabrications-

You spool them up,

You touch every curious piece of them.

They're addicted to

What they believe is there

They

Fall subject to your abandonment.

Love gets lost in the competition.

Its only purpose was to measure who

(Out of the two of you)

Got the most attention.

Your toxic narcissism

Radiates.

You were never "ambrosia",

You were always The Siren.

To Robert

The softness of my mouth

Explores the vast expanse,

The oasis

Of

Your

Palms.

My nose meets the veins in your left

Wrist;

They sprawl differently than those

In your right

And

When your fingers open and

Spread apart

I see a tree.

Sometimes

You let me draw it,

Every time it looks different.

"You have a whole host of trees in your imaginary forest,"

You say.

Your voice is gravel road,

And I am the hot rubber

Of

Tires

On a

Summer day.

You chuckle.

Our expressions

Compose a story.

I complete my masterpiece.

My signature

Makes passionate love to

The freckle on

Your

Forearm.

You observe me.

You say

"It's beautiful.”

Beautiful…

Cheeks blossom

And flourish.

I am a rose.

Gnash

Bones

In rigid formation

Stiffly cup

The fragile beams

Beneath our feet;

We are victims to

The shriek.

Like docile children

We sit erect in

Rigid

Wooden seats.

Waltzing slow into the

Low light,

Anger makes her long awaited

Appearance.

She hums,

She pulsates

Through the veins of our bodies;

We sip the air,

It is spiked with adrenaline and spite.

The sharpness feels cold between my teeth.

Silence gnashes 

Its fangs slice the static space,

Breaths pierce,

The sound of my

Own voice

Causes my body to shake.

You glance away.

I imagine the way my fingernails would feel

Sinking slowly into your eye sockets,

Then dragging aggressively

Down your face;

This sin sears sick

I smell the rot burning the insides

Of

My flesh.

I am delirious

With

Hot hostility

And a passionate want

To press my mouth

So deeply into yours

That you cannot separate from me.

I fantasize for a moment

About your hands

Pressing up

Against the force of mine

And collapsing

Beneath the

Gasping,

Aching,

Ribcage

Adoration

My flesh pines to be bound in your limbs,

I ache to be strangled beneath you-

I want to suffocate in your want for me.

I want to bite your chin

And indent into your skin

The realities

Of how much

I Love

And hate

You.

Our bodies are not separate.

The hostility of our passion sits in two fragile chairs.

My tongue is eloquent,

I let it out of its cage,

It dances upward-

You're not hypnotized…

You know what I'm really saying.

You pull away

And I imagine my

Naked skin

Being flung up against

Raw,

Rough,

Cement,

Cylinder blocks;

I slide down the gray wall of you

That I could never scale.

I've tried to

Chew and

Gum through it.

I've got the bruises to prove it.

"Someone that loves you would never do that."

They say.

But if I really loved you,

I'd let you walk away.

Bait

Fluidity was

Once

The print

Of my 

Docile 

Fingertips;

Though never

Perfectly 

Crafted,

My flesh was

Magic—

I even glistened. 

I was a purple

Artist

In a city-gazing 

Empire.

You laid

With me—

Framed.

We were

Paper dolls 

In a magazine—

Delicately glossed 

And

Tamed.

We hung

Picturesque, 

In the

Lines of a

Second-story,

Bookstore

Window.

I sipped my

Strawberry Smoothie,

Your stallion back

Was broad. 

Silhouettes 

Whispered behind the 

Closed quarters of 

Reserved shelves

In quiet

Corners. 

I was a partial mess, 

You were a 

Martial

Reprimand.

I was swept away

By the strength

Of your hands 

That used to sink into 

My 

Quiet flesh. 

There was a glow

Pooling in the threads

Of your magenta shirt;

I magnify the memories, 

Even though

My 

Soft,

Chrysanthemum

Ballet

Slippers sigh 

In

Wilt.

Sparkling toasts

For 

Remembering—

I host for people who never

Arrive

Because they're too tired

Of

Hearing. 

Like an

Aspen

Grown 

Too cold

To be

Crowned

In golden glory,

You're the

Barren, 

Hollow 

Face

That is determined

To

Outrun 

The small 

Blushing hope 

Behind

My ribs. 

I miss the lies

Of your skies 

That you 

Sprawled beneath

With me

While

Disregarding

The hills 

Of

Hollow

Impending 

Tragedies.

We were a cold death...

No blossoming

Remedy

For

Either chest. 

Your branches expanded...

I drifted off to sleep hoping

They would

Forgive me in the morning. 

They never did. 

Tracing veins, 

I've realized which are mine and

Which are yours. 

I tear apart my own symphony, 

Strand 

By 

Strand, 

Chord 

By 

Chord—

I separate the words. 

Perhaps your tongue was 

All

The minor 

Notes. 

But

I keep 

Your intimates, 

Your softer self,

Filed away 

In

Journal secrets,

Between the

Cursive blues of

A corpse love

And 

The

Red and 

Silver spews 

Of hatred

At

The way your mouth waters 

At the 

Neck of her nape,

[And the way your mouth waters 

At the 

Neck

          Of 

                Her 

                        Nape].

My mouth is a sacrificial stream...

It plays pretend in the vanity

Complete with feather-pressed

Headdresses, 

Glitter cut outs,

Magenta mouths

And 

Tragic things. 

Sometimes, 

Scents still 

Go 

Sucking 

Out

Of envelopes

And

Tarnished shirttails of 

Quieter use...

Like when I'm 

Yearning on the clock, 

Earnest--

Like a child,

In desperate wake,

In anticipation

For tomorrow.

Tomorrow--

When maybe 

You'll

Play 

Pages

With me,

And

Align yourself,

Like 

Tiny 

Stamped 

And

Sealed

Cadets

With no cruelty...

And I'll be

Your

Purple artist

Once more--

To warm,

And keep you company,

Like a transfixed star

In the face of a 

Glass

Northern 

Stream. 

Where I Meet the World

I watch his hands set the place,

Suck the tar,

And feel the smoke dance across my face;

This is my inner victory lap.

My tongue waters at the

Smell

Of

Rotting lungs

And

Burning,

Wreaking

Tobacco.

I dance to our song:

The

Sangria Swirl

Slurp

Of my buddies

While I'm licking

The remnants

Of the dried

Queso catastrophe

Off

My “Someone in Detroit

[Used to love] you”

T-Shirt.

I want to explore the contents of the

Beta Theta Pi brother's

Mouth

After he drags long on his

Turkish

Gold cigarette.

My plastic chair is an acrobat;

I bend back as far as I can go

Placing my

Tattooed feet

Upon the

Iron table.

Rand

Pulls out a cigar,

He then makes a

Suggestive remark

About the male waiter

With the

Gages.

My heart marvels at the reality of him.

The waitress knows my usual:

A Diet Coke-

1/4 cherries,

3/4 ice,

No grenadine--

She's been perfecting

It with a neon green straw

Since I was thirteen.

Her awkward clumsiness is

Entirely

Sexy.

My

Buddies drool,

They don't know why...

I know why.

She's entirely enchanting,

Never textbook,

Always says the weird thing,

Forgets to bring the check and

Always lingers

Too much or

Chats too long.

There are constantly

Grease and

Burger drippings

On her

"Too-much-cleavage-

For-a-

Forty-year-old"

Halter-tops.

The sweat on her forehead glistens

Under the pretty string lights—

Highlighting the halo

That I already knew was there;

I can't help but stand in awe of her.

The electricity in her curly red mop

Deserves its own techno beat,

It dances exotically,

Tempting

Hot,

Angry boys

In the

Summer heat.

There's something

About the roughness of her feet

And the extremity of her

Fake fingernails

That ignites

A hungry ache

To know her;

"I wanna be her..."

I say.

I do. 

 

"But she doesn't fit in a box...

She doesn't abandon her problems,

She's real,

She probably doesn't hide behind religion."

There is no pain.

I love the criticism.

He's playing every chord

To every song

I've been writing

Since I’ve been gone.

What I don't say

Is that I like my

Atheist friends

Better than my Christian ones,

That the glitter on his eyes

Inspires me to conquer

The insecure abyss inside of me,

That I feel God more

When I'm with him

Than in the façades and

Vacancy of

Bible Study Groups

And

Required

Christian Services.

I meet the world

And I love it,

I'm in it...

But I'm not of it,

My tomb is not white washed—

It is magenta

And plastered on it are

Flowers and a "trashy"

Bumper sticker

Rambling something

About

Equality.

And I wonder why the

Holy Spirit

Is so much louder when

He's

Kicked back beside me at

The Mont

On a clear night,

And why I feel the glory of

Christ

Coursing through my veins

The most

When I'm surrounded by all of these

"Unholy things,"

Or

Why I'm even

Further convinced

By the shades of

Their

Nail polish,

That

"The gays"

Are too

Fearfully and wonderfully made.

No one can tell me that God isn't there.

All they can do is give me their own

Theoretical answers

About why

He'd rather occupy his

Omnipresent time

Elsewhere.

But I heard Christ laughing at our jokes

And I know without a

Shadow of a doubt…

He was exactly where

He wanted to be.

To the Boy Who Couldn’t Keep

His Hands off My Friends

Or Himself:

You’re a mother

Flipping

Fish whispering

Wick dipper;

I’m taking

The delicious

Booty

To

Boise.

Camping in Luzerne

The crimson threaded,

Buttermilk cotton

Billowed and rested against

The

Splintery rungs.

They were

The work of your

Strong hands.

You touched them,

And me;

You stood above me,

Looking out at the view

With your palms on your hips

And your brow furrowed.

I memorized the bottoms of your

Black,

High-top

Sneakers

Through the beat-up planks of the floor above me;

I admired you

In your worn out

Light blue Levis

With the holes in the knees,

And the stains

In the

Back pockets.

You were caked with dirt,

It coated your fingernails

And I kissed them.

I strung

Twinkle-lights

And mini lanterns for decoration;

You fell in love with me.

You read me poetry,

You kissed my forehead…

Back when

The north was as sweet

As the honey in

Our tea;

Back before

The melancholy

Sweeping lines

Between

Aching

And

Apathy.

We Died Somewhere Outside of

Atlanta

The leaves I collected in the fall

And placed inside my letter box

Have been reduced to

Dying,

Crunch-crunchy

Brown

Crumbles.

When I went to Georgia

With Autumn,

I found a unique tree

That rained down

Golden hearts;

I'd never seen anything like it.

I collected as many of them as I could-

All of them are broken now.

Addressed to Titled Dynasties

Some flesh made

"Holy measure"!

You dispersed into

Their

Desperate mouths

Some hope,

And they treasured you…

But

It was all for collecting

Red paint

And Red sashes,

Or to

Soundly rest your head.

Calluses and bruises

Were never meant

For someone

So separate;

For

Someone

As

Separate

As

You.

Lotus

The miles further

From the tracks

Make

The crucifixion

Seem

Like an obsolete

Stream of obscene

Stupidity.

It all becomes hazy

On this pillow,

Surrounded by candles

And

The harmonization

That

Is a

Fleeting

Intricacy,

Floating delicately

Across the palms

Of my

Open hands.

This melody

Takes the place

Of everything you’ve ever given

Me.

My ears sip the sleek night,

I see the stars

Inside

A near stranger's

Eyes.

The mystery of it all

Reminds me that I am

Real.

Cowboy and Indian

There was a

Skylight-

I shot an arrow through it--

It landed in the garden,

Upon

The

Lower hedge.

I waited an hour

Before I told

Anyone…

I let the glass rain down,

I pranced

Among

The mess.

I could see the stars peek

Beyond the evening realms,

They gazed down from the

Heavens…

Your questions

Then,

Were posed.

"Maybe if you laid beside me

You'd understand my ways,

Stop fiddling with your key hooks

And come collect my gaze..."

You're sick with prideful ambition,

You'll never understand-

Your business suit is tacky,

You have weakness in your hands.

My feet are worn and rugged

I have glass inside my skin,

You look at me like I'm foreign,

But you stop to pull me in.

You glance up for a moment,

I breathe your wonder deep;

You're a child,

I'm a wise man

With pooling skies to

Lie beneath.

Coffee #1

Buds blossomed…

The

Corners of my mouth

Discreetly sipped away the excess-

Sucked it up from the

Slick

Porcelain

That so often clanks and clamors

In my

Fumbling

Hands

Against

The barricades of my

Teeth.

It was a bitter roast,

It was a sweet blend.

It slushed through the crevices

Of the streets,

The canals

That met at the drop off,

Making

My throat

Warm to the touch.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

I savored it-

My tongue flourished,

             -Bent upward-

To embrace the

Last harmonic phrases

Before it passed away.

So it goes…

All good things are temporary.

Humming arose in my chest,

Eyelashes wove together,

I inhaled the aroma

As the sunrise

Trickled in-

And danced

On the top notes of

My

Sumatra.

Loosening the Noose

"Wild Ones" comes on the

Radio;

As I glide under the

Over-pass

I gaze into the neon lights

Of a

Beacon

Of

Sonic

Hope.

I weep uncontrollably at the Flo Rida

Rap song.

I remember the night

You kicked me out of the

Passenger seat

For dancing;

That night my

Pooling body

Became a disgusting oil spill.

I was a drive through at your expense.

After you'd ordered what you thought you wanted

You told me I was a

Miserable,

Messy,

Mistake.

I made you a

Macho king--

You adjusted a

New notch

In

Your belt.

I confide in the speaker,

I order my feelings.

I begin on the right side of the menu,

I end on the left.

The seat belt is starting to

Cut into me in the areas

I always thought would be left

Unaffected.

That's okay...

My seatbelt will hold me

Since you don't want to.

Gaining Ground

In a glance,

Darkness collided with light,

Innocence with apathy,

Confidence

With

Cowardice.

We warred in the silence.

I won this time.

I was a woman

And

You were a child.

I carried away with me

Some medal of dignity.

As of Late

I am used to two things:

People walking away from me

Because of their own

Sick,

Selfish

Instability-

And never being able to find my

Freaking

Car keys.

Congrats, Grad.

I am the poet with the broken countenance.

Oh-in my anger,

My sins have been many.

I am the wrathful one,

I am full of deceit.

Had your shielding pride been put aside,

I might have survived this.

But oh, my feet are scuffed and ragged run.

We are two empty vessels

Pining for air.

I want to break you the way you've

Broken me.

I want to ravage your heart

And take down your confidence

With the

Minefield

Of

My mouth.

You never would weave

Close to me

For saving

Any sort

Of

Anything.

You're speechless

When you're mean—

And you never say anything.

It's the pomposity in you

That breaks poets like me.

Pen

I can justify myself

Now;

Make some judgment of

Fluidity…

“What if it’s painful?”

“Well,

At least it

Tasted

Good.”

These will have more staying power,

They will strong arm the pros

Of prior compositions;

They will

Give my disposition

A

Microphone.

You never did.

I'm taking on my own,

I’m

Springing forth

Like you always said I would.

Dripping from my mouth

Like nectar to the spoon;

Like the honey you

Edited for me,

And bound inside

An anthology

That will last longer

Than your

“Forever”.

Perhaps it had no

Real

Meaning,

Now

They’re someone else’s.

I will perfect the art

Of erasing

-Tack to thumb-

Bleeding it out,

Pulling it down...

I'll obliterate you

As quickly

As I built

A pedestal

Beneath your

Undeserving feet.

I will tell the story like

You

Were the tragic flaw in all of my

Plans.

I’ll be your greatest casualty.

Renee

I've mapped you out

In my mind

To remind myself

Not to go

Slurping up the thickets

Of the gravel roads

I left behind.

Somewhere,

In Denmark

You'll be.

I'll go there one day.

But today,

 I'm going to hate you from my windowpane.

I'm going to clean my room

And pretend I don't chew on my own toenails

In my

Spare time.

Because I'm a lady—

You know,

Just like them...

Just like the ones you always wanted?

And ladies don't try to spew

Toenails

From their mouths

To the

Trashcan.

Cheatham County

Mucous milk

Slips,

Slides

Tranquilly down

Pink lips

That

Press

Themselves

Against

The

Transparencies;

Lau Belle

Lets out a soft coo.

Tray’s

Young

Blushing bride,

Flutters her

Feathery

Lashes

In

Anticipation.

Cashmere coats

Drape

Around the

Gleaning

Street

Lights.

She introduces her

New born

To the

Stripped

Southern

Tennessee

Night.

Her hum

Sucks sweetly

At the

Mouths

Of

Iced

Mason Jars,

While her

Flannel

Flexing

King

Works in the

Moth-swamped ,

Flickering,

Ticking,

Fluorescents

Below the hood of

Candy-apple

Cars.

He is black,

Oiled

Rags.

He is coveralls.

His mother’s picture

Always nestled

In his wallet

In case the missing befalls him.

The buzzing of the old radio

Is

Murmuring

As the aroma of

“Breakfast-for-dinner”

Wafts

From the

Warm,

Cornflower

Kitchen

To the

Automobile

“Burial Ground”

In the

Front yard.

James Taylor

Melodically

Moves

Himself

Through the screen door:

"When you're down and troubled

And you need a helping hand...

You've got a friend..."

The chorus

Of motorbikes

And little men

Who believe they are

Speed-racers

Ricochets

Off

The

Posts

That bolster

The

Wrap-around

Porch.

It’s a

“Quiet” night

In

Cheatham.

“Campused”

My progression

Has slowly ceased-

It screams

Its

Juxtapositions

At the

Pendulum.

Nothing slows…

No act of courage,

Or malice,

Or chivalry,

Or love,

Attempts to reverse it.

These days are

The undertow.

For Names' Sake

My cheeks

Were never

Neutral,

Not succulent

Like

Your

Peach's.

My hands were carved by

Arrowhead,

Your baby's out of

Sweet

Soft

Reception.

I will never be Georgia.

I will always be Oklahoma.

It took putting distance

Between you and I

To make me realize

That

I am

O.K.

Without

Being

G.A.

I am

Not peach…

I

Am

Rouge.

I am

Rich,

Rough,

Rouge,

Oklahoma

Clay--

That molds between your

Cold,

Northern,

Naked

Toes

On the shores of a

Native day.

But

You?

You were always wishing for things

Further East

Of the

Mississippi.

You must have been

Charmed by her

"Southern

Hospitality".

And,

You won't be

Feeling my

Animosity

Anymore,

Just the

Loss

Of

Me.

I've taken the

Wind;

I’m running

Away--

To thick

Magenta skies,

To bronze

And

Turquoise days.

You are the

Contrast to my

August;

The cold I

Ache

To

Stave

Backward

From-

Towards the

Underbelly of

Summer,

When the

Starlit nights

Are on the run.

Your gate approached

An

Autumn

You called her by her name,

She must have been your Joy,

When I was no longer your Jade.

In your

Sick lines of

Co-dependency,

You said,

"Yes…this one will do...

She might even be better…

She might take the place of you."

You're not the teal I knew.

You're not the man I knew.

You're the putrid aching asphalt

My bare feet

Bleed into.

I was never meant for marching,

I was meant to be the hill.

But you’re a man

Of strong direction

And I meander still.

Maybe your blue-jean baby

Deserved a pedestal,

But I'll sit here

Skipping rocks on

“The Red”

And watch your castles fall.

I resent your invitation-

You always wanted her.

I should have known you'd be the one

With all the

Empty words.

At home,

They become ashes,

Between

Burlap

And

Smoke.

While

I harbor on the hilltops

Truths

You don't believe I

Know.

Tisk

I specifically asked them

To cut

All

Of your pictures

Out of my

Yearbook.

Broadway Street

My feet bound far

Bundled

Warm

In this

Nashville

Morning.

I abandoned my

Partisan lenses,

Shed my

Bible

And my

Shroud.

I escaped

The fleet

Of crisp lines,

Button ups,

Wolves in sheep's

Dockers

And women

Who wear

No stitch of makeup.

I decided instead

To immerse myself

In conversations

At the

Bead market.

My goal

(As always)

Was to find

The man with the

Longest beard

And the

Least

Amount

Of

Teeth.

Cigarette smoke coated

My hair

Along with the

Tennessee wind

And the smell of

Incense and

Tea-Tree Oil.

Feet explored new liaisons

That contrasted so starkly

With my

Old life.

I visualized my old self

Being buried somewhere in a

Wreaking, rotting dumpster

On the graffiti alleys

Of my

Raw city.

The burn of the sun

Was refreshing and alive;

It peeled away the scales from my eyes

Like

A

Vision.

Between church pews

And Fox News

I lost my soul

In the crevices of

Hypocrisy and

Legalistic lines.

I don’t believe any of it anymore.

I’ve never been more

Sure

That

Indoctrination is the

Intoxication

Of the senses;

It is as

Debilitating

As

Paralysis.

I flinch in shame

At all the contracts

Upon which I’ve

Signed my name.

I’ve signed my life away

To spiny

Church seats

With

Rigid splinters

That

Offer

No retreat

And I’ve realized

“Having the answer for everything”

Is the

Equivalent

Of

White washed tombs.

I don’t believe it

Anymore.

I don’t believe in anything…

Except rank Nashville music

And the exhilaration

Of living vicariously

Through the long drags

On cigarettes

Of

Beat-up-denim,

Slouching,

Street

Cowboys.

I toss coins

And flinch

At the

Singing strings

On their

Violins that

Sting

The sound of

The banjo.

I salute

The Ukulele Man—

My ears peak

At what

He’s playing.

I lie atop “The Hill”

And study

My small toes

Contrasting the city skyline.

Christ casually plops down

And kicks back beside me.

He smiles broadly

And

With his fingers

Interwoven behind his

Glorious locks,

He parallels his feet to mine.

“You need to clean beneath your toenails,”

I say.

We chuckle,

We hardly speak

Because we don’t

Really

Have

To.

Couples recline.

Roses intoxicate,

And the perfume

Of passion

Is so incredibly bold

I breathe it in

And experience

The world

With a set of

Brand

New

Eyes.

For a moment,

I imagine that

I am the heroine in my own story

And I feel the adoration

Of my hypothetical hero

Massage every tense muscle

In the back

Of my

Neck and

Shoulders.

My lips even savor the taste of

The love

Like a

Sweet wine.

I purse my berry-stained mouth

As my sighs

Whimsically kiss the

City sky.

Like twinkle-lights against a

Sapphire night,

Nashville illuminated

Enchants me like a small child.

I stand in awe,

I play pretend,

I dance inside the charm

As if it is a fairytale

That will let me go before

The morning comes.

There is always dread in morning.

When morning consists

Of rigid heels

And nude hose

That

Are more

Suffocating

Than the

Static buzz of

Perforated lights

In staunch

Air-conditioned

Rooms,

When there is only braided hair,

Women with no rouge,

And men with no character

In steadfast suits

(That might as well be picture frames),

When there is only a dream of the

Ecstatic electricity

Of the

Nashville pipeline—

The culture that

Drenches and waves,

Making

Raw

My heels

In dancing city boots…

When there is only a dream of

Real men that have

Come clean

With Tennessee grit

In their teeth from

Country tobacco

In their jaw,

With rough hands

Of character that

Could really

Teach me about something…

I find myself aching to abandon my partisan lenses,

My Bible

And my shroud

And make my way down

To Broadway Street.