Scattered Poems/Prose of Mine

I liked the methodical clicking 

of the pans at 3 in the morning, 

when you’d get up out of drunken stupor

and cook eggs in a cast iron pan. 

Yes, the flick of a lighter and burst of a curse word

when you’d nearly drop ashes on embryos,

fresh from brown eggs.

You swore they were different from white. 

-

Sometimes I’d stall in the living room,

others I’d crawl to the kitchen,

dragging my legs behind me 

on the dark red carpet of the hallways,

and when the scabs came undone 

they’d blend into the fabric, unseen. 

I followed the trail of scent 

from garlic and rosemary, 

It's stiff where winter fell on September.

Here I stumbled 'cross the typical 

And brooding grass,

All cloaked in frost,

And made my way to Bonham's 

to sip on Jack and sweet tea. 

"She lifted her eyes," said the party,

With me 'till tree leaves fell in the breeze,

"And snow hounds were after her."

Time was up.

-

I made my way home

With my eyes on the tree stalks,

Diseased.

In passing my threshold,

I fell to the futon,

My thumb and index hard pressed together.

The radiator

Warmed my fingernails

And my bare hanging bulb swayed.

It occurred to me next 

That she felt what she needed to,

And did, largely, more than that. 

The snow was cold

I got my worn out dime 

And slapped it on the bus back 

(or the back of the worn out bus),

Not so running anymore 

Or taking to somewhere else.

-

Flight was yellow like the bus paint 

(or the paint on the surface of the bus),

Which chipped and peeled after sitting for twenty years. 

It ain't a pretty 

sight,

the inside,

Rolling in the dust are bugs and maybe

burrowed baby rabbits in the bus seat. 

-

Stalk like prey we do 

For a spot to smoke the grass 

Uncle sold us

And pass a cigarette between our hands,

I really sure was dead.

The patchy grass flooded with pigments of red.

The sun laughed and said he knows how I feel,

Yellow though his words did spread.

In my last moments, I saw two gently coated rabbits, whose fur was like of cotton.

It was silky white and swirled around their skin,

They almost blended in with the recent fit of snow that hit.

They were fucking.

So I went with Beth a few years ago,

But it feels like forever,

To the creek where the dogs splashed freely.

I was caught off guard when a Humvee came up and blacked me out.

Who knows where the products go at the end of the day?

When all is said and done,

The only thing left is the bark on the trees

That sloppily grow from the edge of the cliff.

Back to nowhere,

Where I came from,

In the heat of the radiation beneath the floors of the building.

No house could come apart without my permission!

It's this fucking white light from the elevator

That clouds my field of view,

And the lake that comes back to bite me in my freckled ass

When the pure chicks hatch

Before they're sent to nothing.

It's a touching moment to watch a wedding,

Or to launch a rough splash into the ocean

Which sits idly by while I am stung by the orphaned urchins.

I didn't know there were cupcakes offered,

But when they're standing in front of me,

I can't help but watch them do their sweet and inestimably focused routines.

Back at the creek with Beth,

I doubt I found anything of real significance,

When will we meet again, my tree?

Someone may have chopped you down,

Or maybe you're still in the ground.

How long has it been, my green?

Since I sat under your shade,

And you called me by name.

-

The shimmer of my sunshine,

Burning patterns all around

Between the shadows of the leaves.

Once, you were me.

And we sat still

The raindrop is

Falling at near

Lightning speed

And my eye

Is unsuspecting

Of the coming

Surprise.

A tiny

Temper tantrum

Then ensues,

Ensuring that

When madness

Makes the news,

It will be dead

Sadly, and decayed

By way

Of gangrene lips.

I can

Still speak

But my words

Come out slurred.

And now,

The raindrop breaks

The dam of

Unwanted (like most) pain.

----------

Become a patron of mine!

The Turkish men

In Istanbul

That was once named

Constantinople,

Sitting with

Them at the bar

While they

Strum their

Guitars

And drink up beer

Part 1: Grass

I remember cut blades of grass gently scratching the soles of my feet like little men with outstretched fingers. I remember each and every blade that once struck my foot and I remember castles in my sandbox. I was the empress and you were my servant and we were young and we were pages in books that I've read thousands of times. Each time my eyes scan our lines I find something new to admire and each time I flip a page it brings me to another day in which you were you,

and I was me,

and we were innocent.

Part 2: Runny noses

I remember runny noses on the school bus. To my little eyes, this structure was massive. A shuttle that pulled me from earth to space. And there I was mesmerized by science and math and English and all of these beautiful tools that were handed to me to describe you with. Your mother drove you to school every day so I never did ride with you on my magnificent chariot. But it felt like I did. In every hour that passed on that yellow truck, I was the lady and you were my tramp, and when I arrived to school jetlagged I couldn't wait to share my new hopes for our future together.

Part 3: Mom

Mom never had the time to stay home to watch me, so when I was sick, I went to school anyway. I remember how busy she was, every day. She was almost always reading or typing numbers that I didn't understand. And when she typed them, God, did she type them! Her fingers were a furious display of numerological artistry, the paintbrush of an accountant. I knew her job title, but not her duties. I only knew that I wouldn't understand if I asked and so I did not ask. This was my first mistake in a long line of mistakes. She had a pendulum of hope that hung from her neck and when she tapped it, it would sway in breezes that knew of only abstract concepts, and my little mind, again, didn't think to ask why. It's much too late to ask her now because I am a hull, an empty shell of what she was and I will never be enough to fill it like the pinatas at my cousin’s quinciñera.

Part 4: Mrs.

Your mother was doused in sweat the day I met her. Her running shorts were high and her thighs were dusted with talcum powder and I remember because she was so, so sweet. If she held a stare into my eyes I was undaunted and unfazed by her imitation of intimidation. If she’d held hands with me that day I could have sung one thousand tunes to the beat of the drums called her hair, shoulder-length and auburn made of too many unmade decisions. She was your home and she was your rock and you are a reflection of her

in your father's absence.

Part 5: your new house

When you moved to the other side of town I was awestruck by how quickly sadness filled my heart. It was sixth grade and I had never experienced true heartbreak before but this one taught me a lesson in numbers. If I could count the glimpses of tears in my own reflection I'd find new meaning in the word “infinity”. My broken heart was mended quickly by our parents’ sore fingers, they let me stay with you often.

And when I did, we would go right back to soaring through our childlike curiosities about our new world. If I could smell the roses that surrounded the perimeter of the walls we built new homes in, I would melt in the array of hopeless mornings birthed to me by you, my soundalike soul. I remember the microscopic particles of food that would drift from the kitchen and the meals and pastries crocheted into a labyrinthine full course meal that would bathe my tongue in caramel.

I'm one tectonic plate,

you, the other.

Continental drift will,

eventually,

over hundreds of millions

of frustratingly long years,

pull us together again.

During our time waiting,

hands outstretched,

we'll drink the simple sap

that we tap from our numerous trees.

We'll ferment our respective species of grapes,

And drink.

Swatches in!

Swatches in!

Swatches in the pockets of the lockets and the fretting men;

Swatches in the anchors and the swindles of the crowing hens.

In the polish

There we see,

A quicker problem to be freed and to release the payment.

For the hero,

Here we see,