The Railroad.

a drunken death
ensues within a smoking boxcar
rolling through alleyways of consciousness
some shameful whiskey sip develops
in madness
exposing secrets past midnight
Holy Visionary speaks in tongues
across from the angry scruffy bum
skeletons dance freely
stroking their beards
music of jukebox could blow rooftops
the vagrant drags forth
rusted excess of machinery
an ode to crime
crashes through the prophet's mind.

Bird Bones

Back against the yellow grass,

glare against my eye.

Handfuls of small bones,

Dry, cracked, small bones.

Sticky, sweaty shoulder blade

Pressed into leather seat.

Examining the small bones,

Dry, cracked, small bones.

Rugged carpet floor

aggravates day-old wound.

Distracted by these small bones,

Dry, cracked, small bones.

He said, “look at that bird,

one day, you too, will fly.”

But when a tree limb caught its small wing,

that bird fell down and died.

youknow

broken glass as frequent

as condensation

lies wrapped in the soft

sweating hands

of the boy who tells them

he is a dangling bag

which used to hold rice

and rest on a cracked shelf

of otherwise bare kitchen.

On Sharing

Light blue walls

Patched from floor to vaulted ceiling

With adolescent posters

And pictures, of dogs.

There is a rotten apple

On the plush, dirt-colored carpet

In the corner

Black and molding

A sweet and sour, pungent odor

Drifts toward the open window

Where I sit

And contemplate hills beyond.

My own four walls,

A vintage idea to me

now. Memory unclear.

Must have been

Long before my sister

Stuck these posters in the wall.

I tilt my head in her direction

She sits, tall and blonde.

Staring, with those turquoise eyes.

She is laughing. A room full of dogs.

Her own room

She has decorated with precise detail.

Placing the sister

In the corner.

She chose well,

Putting me here.

Nothing else in this room

Has ever loved her more.

grayscale

Our hands

no bigger than the daisies

on my lap

reach out to spread

thick red paint

across the sidewalk

the colors feel smooth

until our palms meet jagged cement

attempting to cover grey with red

and next comes blue

swirled with tiny, gritty gravel

hint of green when yellow pours in.

it’s like this all day.

purple on my shoulder

orange on your nose

wrapped in our own rainbow

yet our faces remain

still, straight, blank canvases.

when the night rolls in

to darken our beautiful mess

we retreat, eyes to the ground.

the rain that cried

Your worries are the raindrops

blurring my windshield

while I’m trying to drive home.

Within the cerulean blue iris of your eye,

each tiny fleck holds a tiny picture

of something you tried not to remember.

If you close your eyes,

all that you will see is those tiny flecks

of tiny pictures.

So you keep them open, your eyes,

so wide.

And they rain. All over me.

Making it hard for me to see.

We will go blind this way,

so lets keep holding hands, at least.

Maybe your worries will go away

and with them, the rain.

On Breaking Rules

With patience
I am grounded
but peering over a steep edge.

when I am ready I will try
instead of leaping forward,
to calmly curl up and be safe
with your hands around my face

creating bliss
my smile wrapped in warmth,
the darkness
over my eyes.

I will try to climb into a circle with you
a circle that floats
above all the trees
in a neverending disobedience of gravity.

Discovery

Grandma’s backyard, 1996
grey winter leaves pressed against slick rubber boots
the limbs of the oak trees enveloped
my world.
At the top of a muddy creek I set a plastic doll free
her blonde hair turned to grey as it soaked in the darkened water
and she descended, along the road of grey gravel.
In the winters, we would land on this road
an abrupt end to our steep flight down the snow-covered hillside
on a blue plastic sled
my cousins and I.
We often climbed onto one another’s shoulders
waving sharp sticks to practice scaring off the cougars
And the bravest of us all would retreat
to the splintering remains of a tree house
barely resting between two thick branches of a noble oak.
In a pack we would roam
near the rusted barbed wire fence, which guarded us from the ultimate mystery.
We even found a car there buried
in the deepest corner of our forest
until we released it from surrounding soil and proclaimed our find
as Elvis’ missing blue car.
We were brilliant warriors of discovery.
We were small.
and we held hands as the shocking current from the long, electric fence
traveled through each of our tiny fingers and plump toes.
Defeated by the red-spotted poison oak leaves
and the impossibility of that barbed-wire fence,
We did not retaliate
We held our youth, warm and heavy, in the palms of our hands.

baby, baby

you play with the angles of my face
make em fit
to the light of your smile.

the breeze it moves the tall strands of grass
swiftly across my cheekbone
in the meadow

i wiggle my toes
from beneath the sundress lightly dancing
over my shoulders.

i like the air out here
i like to come here when i'm all alone
picture you sitting across from me

sometimes we put our foreheads together
and let our eyes wander across the soil.
who are you ?

Do I know ?
i haven't decided yet
but i sure like it out here.

To Be.

My eyes are closed I am
allowing myself to tiptoe
into the pitch black room
of Imagination.

I can feel small colored plastic beads
pouring down my arms
and the back of my neck
small bumps raise across the surface of my skin.
I want to curl up and be one of the plastic beads,
rolling down, and away
reaching the ground to spread my limbs
across the surface of the earth beneath,
feeling the boundless possibilities.

Sometimes I sit in rooms all alone
and just look.
not at anything, really, I'm just looking
because that's what eyes do.

honesty

Increasing gravity pulls
towards a green chair
towards the tattered wall and the torn couch
on which I rest my wasted days away.

Hours that do not make sense
hours that I use to lean upon
and wait for tomorrow.

Next year will always be better.
goals planned out label my tinted eyes.
nights spin out from beneath me
leaving a scented trail

of cigarette smoke
and the seventh sip of courage
that stings.

1994

The television screen is covered in dirty fingerprints and dust.
Beyond these imperfections, a video is playing

A rhythmic line of gunshots fill the room.
A mother’s outstretched arms
long for the child that once warmed them.

The swelled eyes of a grown man release a tear that splashes
amongst a row of bodies bruised and bent,
in a murky river.

A woman in a long, green dress, orange dust clinging to her perspiration,
begs us for help moments before her body joins with the Rwandan dirt
and a rising death toll.

Two Humans under separate titles
spit in the faces of one another

while their people perished
right before our eyes.

No one would stop them
No matter how much bloodied clothing was abandoned in the path.

and,
someone turned off the television

No place like

i hate cats

you should know

i miss Portland

everyone knows

i miss you and her and him


and my mother is always gardening

flowers make me miss her.

I miss anxious people packed on dirty busses, cigarette smoke trailing every step,

headbands, polished fixed gears with bright frames of yellow, blue, orange,

and the American-colored aluminum cans of PBR.

Yes, that was stereotyping.


Anyway, i miss the rain.

I miss the rain and Belmont and Alberta

and the street you live on and the one I want to live on.

music as constant as the ticking of my watch.

rich, coffee aroma every morning

and all of the love everywhere,

that I couldn’t find anywhere.

Young Mistakes

We can try,
but will we ever fill the gaping holes in our chests?
how did you feel when your light began to fade?
Was it okay? Did you notice the Darkness?
Did their faces cross your mind before any decisions?

your Mother was waiting up at night,
did you care for her sleep?
your Siblings’ soft, pink faces stared up at you,
could you find answers to their questions?

It’s okay, wandering mind,
your youth has fooled you.
Keep aware of all that was lost
but rid your stomach of the sadness within.

You will know when you see them smile.
Cough up your pain, there is no room for it inside.
and when you close your eyes at night,
rest well knowing they all still love you
and they’re all still here to tell you that.

My Religion

When I was a child,
I tilted my head up towards your great height
as you squeezed my soft, tiny hands,
Loaded your syringe,
and shot me full of Bible Verses.
The high was an exhilarating release
from the agonies of this world.
As I grew, I learned to envision worlds different from my own.
Although your faith still pulsated
through my sullen veins,
a new light began to take over.
In bravery, I took knife,
and deflated my arteries of the blood
that had crowded my thoughts.
While I will never again allow your drugs
to color my ideas,
I will forever gaze
into the scars that haunt me.

the girl and her mother

Peek into a glimpse of the past.

Lace your tiny fingers
around the softest hands
you’ll ever know.

cover your pout in rouge
while admiring the creamy pearls
that dangle
from your Innocent frame.

She’s waiting downstairs
to be amazed
by the depth of your loveliness.

you will dance forever in a dress of lace.

Revive your gaze
back to the present,
as you scrape a flake off the chipped polish
from nails that rest amongst callused hands.

Draw a line of ebony across each eyelid
and collect your tattered hair
into a grey ribbon at the nape of your neck.

You can see her
through the blur
in the mirror
dancing in a dress of lace.

what we know now

Youth,
with our skin so bright.
I long for the return
of youth.

I want to stand
forcefully against the wind.
feeling infinite;

invulnerable;
invincible;
impossible.

You were wondrous
in the prime of our youth
your curious eyes danced across the room.
I hope you can return
to the comfort of your mother’s presence.

All I ask;
is it truly possible
to unlearn the struggle
within the truths
we have already uncovered?

Is it possible
to regain the warmth
of all we did not know
in youth?

head held high

my thoughts are beginning to rot.
mold and moss hang over them

In flesh,
my eyes reach out
towards an overgrown field
of stale, yellow grass.

I catch a black widow
on the edge of my conscience

as the warmth from the sun
creeps over my shoulder blade.

Until the sun comes
into full view It seems
I will remain cold, still,

collecting spiderwebs
across my bones.

"dry" villanelle

A long year it’s been. No rain, only drought.

No use for that cracked red, rusting old boat.

If a raindrop I feel, with glee, I’ll shout.

Nothing will come out of the kitchen spout

so I just sigh and reach to the remote;

A long year it’s been. No rain, only drought.

All I seem to do is sit here and pout.

No water to pour on my steel-cut oat.

If a raindrop I feel, with glee, I’ll shout.

There’s nothing good to even write about

no play days or travels of which to gloat;

A long year it’s been. No rain, only drought.

My long-eared hound dog won’t even go out.

I guess it’s okay he chewed my rain coat…

If a raindrop I feel, with glee, I’ll shout.

My poor, drooping eyes are still filled with doubt

my voice is scratchy from my dried out throat

A long year it’s been. No rain, only drought.

If a raindrop I feel, with glee, I’ll shout.

Ranch Flowers

Piles of smooth grass

tower high into the sky

higher than my outstretched arms.

Dust tangled in the horse’s mane

and the toes

of my new blue shoes are smeared

with the purple of petals

I crushed, in passing.

And the tall men all wear those big hats

those big, silvery belt buckles.

And mustaches are bigger

on the sides than in the middle

And their wives are tough

in plaid shirts

salted with dirt

also wearing those big hats.

It’s Paso Robles

green, wide and soaring

And the warm, thick air

is putting me to sleep.