a voice mail for Mom

Yes, Mom,

I am a tortured artist,

because when I cry

I don't need a reason why.

When I cry it is like there is a hole

gnawing at my chest

and the only way to fill

it is to sob.

When I cry people ask

Are you okay?

and no,

I'm not o-fucking-kay.

I feel like I am dying,

drowning in undefined pain.

But you want to know why?

Why do I cry?

I cry because I'm afraid.

I cry because when the feeling

starts I don't know if it

will ever stop.

Kim

brown hair

on a ballerina body

her curves make me want

to dance a pas with her breasts

and partner her thighs with my hands.

Her perfectly sculpted feet are designed

to lead my eyes up to her calves,

and then thighs, stomach, breasts,

the length of her neck, her smile,

and those brilliant bright eyes.

She doesn't know I want her,

and she shouldn't,

but, oh God, do I want it.

at some point it doesn't matter what you think

She wrote love on his arm

because she loved Tommy.

She loves Tommy.

I love him too,

though I know not who he is.

This world was made for love.

When I sit alone and think of

all the pain that people feel,

I know this world was made for love.

He walked up to me after the sun

began to dry a Spring downpour.

Would you write love on me?

That's my job,

I think.

I am here to love.

I am here to talk.

I am here to care.

Being alone shouldn't have to suck.

untitled 4-24-10

It's windy outside.

I'm sitting on the roof of

my building as I watch the moon

through periwinkle clouds

and the blowing of unblossomed

springtime storms dance with the branches

and stalks of the trees and grass.

The building shelters me,

for which I am grateful,

and only the strongest gusts

reach me in the form of gentle breezes.

A man walked by and my heart

fluttered with the thought of being caught.

I am where I am not to be.

But this weather brings clairvoyance.

I think clearly,

not because the cherry

blossoms play at my feet,

but because I am me.

I am me,

but writing it makes me something

different entirely.

Sunshine

for Laura

Birds sing in the glow

of what could be a summer's

sun. It's Spring,

which means I still worry

about grades

and meetings

and social gatherings.

As I wake today,

the first thing to my mind

is what did I miss?

What did I forget?

But you don't worry.

You're sunshine in golden-yellow.

You're enough to make me a smiling fellow.

The Way We Speak

He writes poetry like

Words are going out of sale.

He writes poetry like alphabet soup

is his favorite food

and that's all anyone is eating.

He writes poetry like every Crayola

color has a story.

He writes poetry like we tell secrets.

He writes poetry like he is trying

to count the stars- innumerable as they are.

He writes poetry like language

is a platform supported by 26 beams

and every single one of them is rotting.

He writes poetry like the wind

howling through the city streets is

a crowd of protesting feelings

and only he can hear their words.

He writes poetry like he knows

there will be a flood.

He writes poetry like there is an eclipse

and no one knows if the sun will come out.

He writes poetry like the world

is disappearing and no one is listening.

He writes poetry like I speak

to you. But no one is listening.

You're not listening,

are you?

catching wind

there are leaves on my notebook,

which somehow remind me of summer

and breezes and watching trees

through the screen of my back-door.

Trees have leaves that bend and flatter

if touched by the grace of wind.

I've felt like the leaves.

When I'm in a car and the roof

is open. When the wind ruffles my hair.

When I'm standing in a river of the Plains.

When all the world feels right

because some force is guiding me along.

When I exist and think of nothing.

These are the times I feel the wind.

There are the moments without struggle.

These are the moments we cannot bottle.

I need somebody to Love

The night is stormy,

clichéd, I know,

but unfortunately true.

It means tonight I write in

instead of out.

I wish I could be out,

in the sense of

being okay enough with myself

that I could tell anyone anything.

I wrote a decent poem once

about vodka and myself.

Will that happen again?

I don't pretend anymore.

an unedited and unfinished scene/story. no judging!

I don't pretend anymore.

The sun is setting on a warm autumn day and the breeze is coming from the northeast. My window is open. The gentle gusts start to cool the thin layer of sweat under my sweatshirt. It is too warm for the shirt, but I haven't done laundry in a while and I thought today might be colder than it is. The birds outside are as black as my high top Converse. Their song is a distraction from the blowing air of the vent- it stays on year round. I'm alone. School hasn't started yet and not everyone has moved in. My awareness of this is as strong as it was two months ago.

I was in Texas then, and the heat was unbearable. I didn't wear a shirt as I sat on the tire swing in Daniel's backyard. He was juggling a soccer ball with the skill I imagined  a clown to possess. It was my last day there. The red of a low hanging sun meant that the moment could be something significant. Daniel knew everything about me. That night we drank Jack from the bottle and ate chocolate covered cherries he soaked in Amaretto the day before. He knew everything about me in the way that when tears started to fall he did not do anything but move to sit on the swing beside me. There was a bird then too. It circled viscerally above us.

I wanted for Daniel to be Kathleen, or to be into me. I wanted physical contact in the way we had when she held my hand in fear.

Daniel dropped me off at the train station the next day. We said little. After he hugged me I stood by the tracks and let the breeze of the trains test my balance. Each blast of hot engine air brought a surge of tears. The consecutive blurs played like a mantra in my head. Tears. Alone. Real. Okay.

I reached into my bag to pull out the empty bottle of Jack. A smile crept up my face as my train pulled in.

The bottle is in my hand now. I'm opening it, but nothing seems to be different. Daniel's honesty taught me I do not need to pretend. I'm still alone. The sun has taken its rest behind the horizon and the blackbirds continue to sing. I continue to be sad. It seems that perhaps you cannot catch the wind.

untitled 2-28-10

Bill and Ken have gone

and I use their room to doze off.

Lots of stage 1 this week- vivid dreams.

They come to deal with the stress;

my life is a thorough mess.

I didn't call Paul.

For whatever reason some friends

rely on me for strength I do not have.

I'm sorry. I am sorry.

I should have been there for you.

I shouldn't have left you to gloom.

I shouldn't have rhymed and I shouldn't let you cry.

more please

last week I wrote poetry like my tears

were words dripping onto pages.

My eyes are dry tonight.

I knocked twice.

For my double effort I received zero response.

We had a good thing going, you and I.

Daniel says he bought me a gift

and I do not deserve it.

I am a little kid.

I tease and prod and thoroughly annoy.

Why do you put up with me?

It can't be for my laugh-

high-pitched and rarely real.

It can't be for conversation;

I make poor small talk.

You must feel sorry.

I'm sorry I suck.

Still, tonight I knocked.