my stomach swears there's comfort there in the warmth of the blankets on your bed. my stomach's always been a liar, i'll believe its lies again...

old news from dying virgins:

it was called "death of the virgin"
or "virginity is dead" or some sort of title
that eludes to the danger of love. and she was blabbing,
reciting one of her prize novels
like it would someday become a classic.

i sat there beside a boy i barely knew.
he had weird habits, but he was cute enough
to make me think of the loudness of my breathing.
and when she told about the heat
of her lover's thighs against her own...
well, it should be no surprise that he
wasn't on my mind. i was thinking
how it would never do any good to write
a story for you because it's all been said before.

it wouldn't matter that i think of you as the moon,
reappearing faintly in the day
and making me feel anything but cold night
is not worth my time. and when she read
about some antique wedding dress,
i thought to myself how you are my favorite
hand-me down; how someday i might outgrow you
or decide you're too worn to be of any use
or realize you aren't my style
and reluctantly hand you to someone else
who would know no more of your past
than i had. i fidgeted through her ending
about how love never lasts or some nonsense.
and when i sighed (a little too audibly)
after the clapping had ceased,
that boy beside me cleared his throat
and asked if he could walk me home.

i wanted to tell him no. that there was this boy
who smelled like leaves in spring
and made me feel like all the answers had been found
and refused to close his windows in winter.
that there was a boy who i loved,
but i didn't because i was sure he'd heard it all before
and i loved old news too much to prove him wrong.

just sitting by your bed...and talking to your head...and hearing what you said...as if you'd never left...

there we were.
no apologies.
no questions about the people in our past.
no excuses for our lack of progress.
we knew why the trucks didn't start
and which stars were our favorites.
nothing had changed.

i was surprised how easily it all came back,
how little we cared about reasons.
like when we complained of the cold,
but kept the windows open.

i think we were both too tired,
too worn down by the places we loved
to be anything but broken apart.

it's like our solitude was binary all along.
i just needed to know you were real
you just needed a friend.
and there we were.

he was like wine turned to water then turned back to wine...

after many many months...i'm writing again.

i feel like a hypocrite-
like one of those preachers on the early morning programs
that gets caught with his hand up his mistress' skirt.
i tell all the guys to run
when they think about that girl that broke their heart,
even if she's the type that doesn't know who loves her.
but i know that you are different.
yeah, it's a pile of nonsense, but i haven't forgotten what matters.
so when you turned your head to mine i didn't care for the reasons.
i just needed to know you were real.
after a while, i had begun to forget the creases of your face
and how close to god we could come without realizing it.
and somehow there we were,
unwrapped for all the world to behold. i should have felt sin
rushing through my blood, should have begged for forgiveness.
they've always known i'm a liar
reeking of desperate love and rotting dreams. it's no excuse.
i tried to make it right again. i think i've forgotten all i've learned.

and if it takes all night, i'll get you out of my mind, but first out of my bed...

in case you haven't noticed, i've been trying new things when it comes to poetry...please tell me what you think about this poem and every other one you find on my blog

you're the stand up type of guy:

when are you going to realize all that i've ever been asking for
was a small bit of horizontal alignment? i mean really...
i don't care if your family thinks i show too much skin
or you don't understand why i can't sit still. i'm restless.
i'm a dancer. you can't pick and choose perfect formulas.
they just happen. poison does too,
but i guess that is the chance we have to take.
don't act like you are stumped. you're bad at it.
i'm not asking for a single thing back, honestly.
i don't even mind if you look at me
only when you're bored and frustrated.
i like it just fine, after all.
i bet you never expected to hear that type of thing.
i sometimes think you bring out the worst in me,
but maybe that is a good enough reason.
wait, that's a lie. we both know the fallacy of words.
you're still a poet, aren't you?
i don't think that is something you quit easily,
but i could be wrong. it has happened to me before.
i know what good decisions are though,
and i think you should give up the fight,
my bed is only 505 miles away and even you can't deny
the sun rise is much better from this angle.

once i saw you naked there was nothing to show....

sean's mom (i don't know your name either):

i never liked your house
or your smirks,
not to mention your reputation.
that little son of yours,
he's so sure of himself.
throw a chemistry book at him,
he'll try to hit you through the window with a golf ball.
he sure made me giggle.
but not you. i couldn't even wave.
not that you knew my name, anyway.
i was just another one of those stereotypes,
oh, so different from your teenage son,
i bet you didn't know he borrowed my janis joplin cd once.
i used to make jokes about him.
i'm not sure how it started,
but he was the root of a handful of dares.
i'm not even sure if he's ever been naked,
besides taking showers and changing and all.
not that he'd know, but the parties are always better
on the other side of the road.
just go ahead and call the cops, again.
i hope you're proud.
you sure looked it at that ceremony the other night.
i could tell that pompous motherly security,
even though i hadn't seen your face
in the light for a good five months.
you never remember me though,
even when you're buying damn cookies
in line beside me.
gee, it's a small town.
i'm surprised you haven't moved yet.

it sounds so soothing to mix a gin and sink into oblivion...this will all blow over in time...

we're running away:

my man likes to ride the trains. our house was not built
for lonely wanderers. i live like a widow when he's gone,
carving tallies in my furnished jail. when he tramples back,
he traces the patterns of my dusty dresses
and tells me how much they remind him
of the wilderness. he's never truly happy to be home
and there's always more time to breathe
when i'm alone. we're too young to forget how much we cherish
freedom. we are built to be love's biggest failures.

i'm just whispering to myself, so i can't pretend that i don't know...honey, you are on my mind...

the last thursday of may:

we sat there, blinking
through the shades of our friends,
catching glimpses in the style
of deep sea divers.

we grasped each others' fevers
and i found myself secretly
begging time to ignore all our plans.

all i had kept my own for eight months
was silenty seeping
outside of my blue jean dress
and struggling to find a path into your eyes.

for a while i forgot sharing beds
and pulsatings and hushed tears.
you were just a boy making jokes
about the paleness of my skin.

but we knew so much had changed
and i told myself
of a hundred "this time last year"s
when we had been daring and fresh
and far too young to face our truths.
i needed to run into those promising arms
that fit so well,
but i only sat there, blinking.

and he tried to take your soul, but didn't realise you keep it in a different hole...

slow dancing and sunday miracles:

i thought you were a saint.
you didn't care
that i was unable to scrub
the dirt from my feet.
"let's dance again. this time slow," you'd say.

i confessed all my sins
and how i lied to my mother.
you said it was all false, anyway.
you claimed palms could heal
and artifacts could be forgotten,
but only saints had the power.

but, we all claim
saints were once sinners
and i knew your promises were as tainted
as the holy water.
i can't say i cared much, though.
i'll worship you all the same.

boy, come on. we both deserve it and if we're wrong no one will notice it. we can't stay young, not than i'm opposed of it....

ivy league:

you're headed for starched collars
and gold plaques of park benches,
just like you claimed when we were twelve.
and, somehow, i'm headed south
to make a bond with all i've hated.

not that it'd matter if i lied,
but i'm scared. my skin is never
quite as tough as my boots.

in some way, i'm convinced that an acquired drawl
will be my most prized mating call.
and with your short hair and ski trips,
you'll become the type of boy
i've always batted eyelashes toward.

like a mixed-filial oedipus rex,
i'll say it all to you.
"come on, let's get lost."

this has all been procedure and everything happens for a reason...that's how i get to bed...

rebellion was always right:

your momma said i wasn't allowed anymore
because i kept waking up in your bed.

she didn't know the things we did
when we peeled away our skin and let our cells intermingle.
you taught me of god, and i sometimes cried,
mainly because he loved you, but you didn't love him.

it was one of those things you needed to wrap in cellophane,
our reluctance, because the day it began to get old,
we no longer thought homemade pancakes were good enough
and faith became as senseless as your momma's advice.

i want to...i want to be someone else or i'll explode...

so the last line...i'm not sure if it should be it's own stanza or attached....advice?

a man (never) said to me:

"the thoughts that ravage my circles
are of televisions and fords,
baseballs and wine glasses.
i've tried to trace their paths,
make new ones with you in the wake.
your curling locks and words of praise
are nothing but keys to unlock my guilt.
and in my spiral, in my accusations,
i have received each glance
from eyes that can never understand
why six years of politics leads
to a waterfall. you see,
it is only this shape. nothing is parallel.
all is connected with strands
of invisible time where memories
are the same as the tramped fibers of my carpet."

and i will always circle back around.

this may never start...i'll tear us apart...can i be your enemy?...

i'm unsure of the line breaks...

the mad ones:

we cling to unfamiliarity.
we are scared of comfort-
of hugs, approval, nodding winks.
we packed it all up the night
we turned ten
and waved goodbye to fate.

you and me, we created out tracks.
we laid our seeds.
they called us.
we didn't hear, no.
we were too lost in our past.
they warned us,
but we were mad with circles.
we crossed the dotted lines
and slept unevenly.

me and you, we clamored
like those tin cans
our grandfathers tempted us with.
we sped past them
until they forgot
where i ended and you began.
i believe we passed with the dinosaurs.
either way, we clung.

i just want you to hold me, though i know we'll leave here lonely...'cause in the end, it's meant to be that way...

mason jars and raspberry jam:

i remember that summer
like raspberry jam.
i smeared its echoes across my lips
and stained your cheek
with whatever blush seemed fitting.

but then i tired of the artificial
and scrubbed my hands raw.
clinginess was the word
that glues my eylashes
like cheap mascara.

i trapped it all like an ant
in a mason jar
that was as transparent as your secrets.
i'll watch you scurry now
and scream like a candied god.

so far away...come on, i'll take you far away...

so this isn't one of my favorite pieces at the moment. but i love the tone and believe it has potential and will most likely edit it into a personal masterpiece eventually.

buddha:

i once gave you a buddha statue.
it fit in the palm of my hand
and was smooth and glimmered copper.
i never quite understood
why you cared so much for a religion
that was nothing of yourself.
but, i loved you and any irony
that fell from your lips.
i can never rub a belly
and get all the wishes i need,
you call it only child syndrome.
i call you a hypocrite.

she swears the moon don't hang quite as high as it used to...

i found something a few minutes ago in our computer room that has me baffled. completely. first, here is the poem.

buttons and baggage:

the sun burned blue
as eyeliner slathered on rocks
and fallen branches
holding themselves with bare extensions.
it was the secret
between myself and you
that turned the rain to daisies
as you whispered,
"she loves me not."
and navy turned to yellow
and whispers turned to poetry
and my heart turned to satin
and i dared you to touch.

so here is why i'm confused. this is vague, but i feel i wrote it about pat and the first night spent camping. it just makes sense. but it is dated may 6 and i didn't think the date lined up. so maybe it is dated wrong? i don't know. or it is about someone else...which does not seem true. and the title baffles me because i recall it meaning something to me at the time. i'm not sure what. but i'm confused. because it has to be about him, but i'm confused with dates and now i'm thinking about something ludacris. ramble ramble ramble.

what did you mean when you said it's destructive and you sank yourself right into me? i know you think you know, but you probably don't...

i was sprawled like the figure
of your grandmother's crucifix.
i'm sure my eyes were begging,
but innocence was far from our tongues.

we were children and i yearned
for some understanding i could call middle ground.
i thought of bell jars and blue owls.
now i lie; i was lost.

i was coated with a fear
that some creased digit could prove,
so i clung. i let it all ooze out
and i teased myself once again
as i claimed it was the politics of things.

you did me wrong. i grinned and played along. those days are gone. does this confession turn you on?...

i hope one day i will be able to write this more beautifully. it will most likely morph into one of those twelve page poems that ginsberg would clap for. someone said it was beautiful. i almost cried when reading it aloud-but i had a cold to hide the sniffles. the title is ironic-we all know this is far from the final note.

final note to -------

you were right.
this only child syndrome
has tainted me.
oh, if you only fidgeted
as openly as i did.

you see, i tried to scar you with flaws,
to cover your name with curses.
i've used the word cliche
more times than i've breathed.
it is the only correct fit.

i still labeled your perfection
as i clung to colorado
and dreamt of your sister.
i sometimes woke to your face
or caught your scent in the wind.

i hated myself-
that i could never cure you
or bring that same smile to your face.
i knew it was over
at the sight of blue jeans.

yes, you were right.
i am not used to this.
i don't ever feel beautiful
and i'm still waiting for sycamores
and berets to fill my mind.

it's true. i used to dream
you'd call me your friend.
i just don't sleep so well anymore.

i know someday you'll have a beautiful life...i know you'll be a sun in somebody else's sky, but why can't it be mine?...

i'm not in love with the ending...but at this point in time, i can't figure it out...

let us bow down:

my small-town prophet
glazed in stagnant circles,
always unsure of where your bed
should be. to say-
i've always loved your words,
well, we both know how you
would twitch with that compliment.

i've kept your chatters
hidden with the indian blanket.
i've kept my prayers
stored in a first-aid kit
just in case you need that bandage.

i am diseased.
you predicted it all
with the stroke of silence
against my cheek, and like a river
it will never stop flowing.

i'd lie until the corn crake crows, bereft of the weight of my summer clothes. and i'd wager all...the hazards of love...

this is just a little prose type poem. very broad and most likely a starting point for something more personal when i get a grasp of it.

it was like two magnets, not oppositional,
but consistently pulled, snapping together.
i would forget the face, the ravines,
smirking creases, all the stray flecks
of something tangible. i would forget
and scurry just as far as the tether
wished. i'm sure he did the same.
he would grasp my fevers with a glance.
i never saw him coming, never
wanted to see him leave. i could forget,
but science-only relevant for textbooks
and soccer coaches-was undeniable.
it was not emotion. no, it was science.
subtract the square root, add to the speed
of sound and forget the remainder.
he was a force. i was a force.
place me at a gas station, a country
store, a gravel road. it didn't matter.
he always fit the formula, but left
me seven digits from the solution.

it was so quiet that winter... i was dreaming...dreaming of your sound...

i haven't written something worthwhile in ages. i'm not sure when i wake up tomorrow i will still consider this one so, but i figured either way i'd post it for some feedback. it's in the ghazal form and i struggled with an ending. it has no title as of now.

i've labeled myself a walking contradiction,
a naive poet, a phony. i'm not sure which is worse.

the boy i first loved didn't care for my clothes
and was caught like a fish on some other line.

the one who counted each syllable in an attempt
to prove his grace was more scared than me.

the last was the rarest of birds, but with nimble fingers
i chased him and plucked every feather i could.

the next boy to tattoo his name across my tongue
might have a beard, or a lip ring, or a rosary in hand.

and perhaps i'll mumble a prayer on some city street
for parallel lines and drunken cliches.

but i'm an honest fake who would rather
preach my mistakes than dream of love.