Buzzed, I meander
to the front porch, waiting
for my ride
to pick me up.
My mother, coming in
from gardening, hands me
a freshly picked
bundle of lilacs.
"Here," she laughs,
friendly,
"I bet these smell better
than cigarette smoke."

Laughing, I take them
and agree,
not wanting her
to hang around
and smell more
than cigarettes.

My ride comes quickly.

And when I return,
a half hour later,
the lilac buds are closed,
wilted in the absence
of a bush to grow on
or a vase to dwell in.

Who knew flowers
could die
so quickly.

I wanted to put them
in water.

I have a squid in my belly
and she likes to be fed
filtered cigarettes
and whatever *****'s on sale.
When she's good
I'll treat her with
a couple lines off the table,
but I never use mirrors
because she's never good
until two in the morning
when she's all liquored up
and I'm not looking my best.
These days I'm pretty fed up
with her *******, because
sometimes she'll stretch a tentacle
through my esophagus
and pry open my painted lips
and reach out to whoever's closest
and go for their neck.
I try to swallow her back down
to protect everyone
but she's a tough broad
and it's hard to tame a creature
when you're not sure
where she ends
and you begin.

I think I met you when I was seven,
but I can't be sure
it may have been a dream.

I ask my friends about you,
but they all have their own nicknames for you.
Allah,
            God,
                       and Mother
the three I hear most often.

for me, none of these names fit you.
they hang from your body, concealing what you truly are.

forgiveness and rage
                                        empathy and judgement
                                                     ­                                tenderness and hostility



my grandfather talks to you every night with his eyes clenched and fingers clasped

he tells me that you have saved him from his nightmares,
washed the blood from his hands.
he wants to introduce us,

he thinks that you can save me.

I want to thank you for cleansing my grandfather's hands.
for teaching him that a single bad act
(or a collection of many)
does not make you a bad person.
that Life is a game of unknown rules
and unwilling players.

and I don't know if it's my "rebellious nature"
(as my mother calls it)
but for me,
the unknown is a comfort blanket.

walking through life heel-to-toe
I take the time to lose myself.

I lose myself in books,
                                     shopping malls,
                                                              an­d other people.

I believe in little moments of Fate
and Love's cruel intentions.
the Power of silence
and the weight of Words.

but these days, I tend to lose myself within the four walls of my bedroom.
I lose myself.
I actually lose myself.

So, if you ever want to get a cup of coffee,
my number is at the bottom.

I would love to hear what you have to say.

and all these years later
i still have a tendency to wander
to spin
to dance

and you watch me.
you watch me drift from foot to foot just testing my own stability
(i'm a lot more stable than i used to be)

i'm finally used to me

Every now and then
I'll wake up
with the sensation of not
knowing where I am

It's a very disconcerting feeling

to open your eyes and stare about the room
with new eyes

What is this place?
How did I find myself here?

I truthfully find it rather exciting.

Those few moments have an intoxicating intrigue.
I have a mystery set before me.
A new place, ready for new discoveries.
A fresh start

What does it say about me that
I sometimes find it rather....

disappointing

when my brain catches up to my body
and I glance around the room
that is suddenly not nearly as novel
as it was before.

Have you ever stopped and thought
about the winding path that we're along?
This labyrinth of lefts and rights
that will bring you into my arms?

Years before our lives had been cast
before our very first breaths of air
plans were made that would set our paths
on this crash course that we share

Millions of choices have been made since
that have led us to where we stand
Will it be millions...or only hundreds more
until we're hand in hand?

This army of Chinese butterflies
that patiently flap their wings
are leading us ever so much closer,
if you choose to believe in such things

I've waited for years, my love
for this maze to lead you home.
And when it does, as it surely will
I hope that you enjoy this poem

I've come alive
    with the night
young, fresh, and unspoiled

I see the pale, naked moon
    as it peeks at me through
          a window in the wall of clouds

            it basks the streets in ivory hues,
          competing with the sickly yellow
        of the street lights

I'm alive
I feel no desire nor obligation
    to sit quietly, to stare meekly
         my veins trickle with intoxication
             electricity in my fingertips

I'm seeking
allowing my heartbeat
to lead me
                to feed me

             My gaze cuts like diamonds
           my grin gleams like steel

      When you look into my eyes
tell me, what do you feel?

is your heart just like mine?
    Do you feel them beating in time?

We're tripping
   We'll fall
       We're hitting the wall

Your skin tastes like velvet
    My dear
        you have me enthralled


        We have only begun
   We have time 'til the sun
Wait and you'll see

how to be

                   Alive

Just like me

He was always a quiet man,
never seemed to look up...

as if his eyes were afraid of
what it might mean to
see the sky

His gaze seemed neither
fierce, nor soft.
Neither attentive or lost

He would never look at you,
it was as if he was looking everywhere
except where you happened to be.

I never saw a smile cross his lips
I never heard a laugh escape his lungs
I never heard him curse
I never heard him yell

When he spoke, I could hear the dust
falling off his breath

It wasn't a monotone sound, but I imagine
he sounded like what trees or mountains
would sound like, had they voices.

He existed in the loosest sense of the word

He was an oddity and an enigma
His quietness and unobtrusiveness
could be somewhat offputting

Yet...he was often able to blend into
the background like a rain drop
in a storm.

You can imagine our surprise
when he stumbled into town one
hot afternoon, clothes looking like
he'd fallen into a vat of red paint.

Splattered. Head to toe.
In between his head and his toes,
cradled in his arms, was the
body of a young girl

He had found her in the woods,
he had said, voice devoid of emotion.
She had been lying off the path,
in a pool of crimson.

An investigation turned up nothing
The people, in need of a murderer,
settled on the only man they could.
The man who hadn't shed even one tear
over the death of a young child

The trial was a farce
The kangaroo court adjourned
Death by hanging

The man remained silent throughout
the proceedings.  Quietly answering
the frothing prosecutor's questions
with the same demeanor as someone
would use when discussing the weather

He wasn't defensive
He wasn't derisive

He didn't plead, nor pray
when the verdict was announced

On the day of the execution
nearly everyone in town was in attendance
Most of them couldn't tell you why

The noose around his neck, he stared
back at the crowd.  Stared through them,
as if they didn't exist.

When the rope snapped taut,
The man flailed as his body
involuntarily spasm'd.

When he finally passed,
his body swinging lazily
under the gallows,
I caught the hint
of a smile

Only for a moment.

I found it odd

That he would only show
a sign of life
as it was ending