Poetry

Make Up

Without warning, she was shot.
Somewhere between plastic tiaras and name-brand cosmetics
A fabled word had been whispered.
People chose sides and the venomous artillery fired.
It took her two days to remove the artificial fingernails from her skin
And rinse the hairspray from her eyes.
When the dust cleared, a stalemate ensued for another twenty-four.
Beady eyes stared each other down during passing.
In the end, neither of them took the blame, but they agreed.
Yes, yes, surely this must have been a miscommunication.

He walloped the other boy.
All was solved.

Poetry

Contented Cacophony

He stepped left
And she swayed right
Completely out of tune
And a little uptight
Was he when dancing
All through the night.

He preferred the waltz
And she liked swing
But that wasn’t discovered
Until after the ring
But for years they danced
Without a fling

Many others would
Have said goodbye
Especially when you
Don’t dance eye to eye
But she was his girl
And he was her guy

So they each danced
To their own little beat
Bumping into
And stepping on feet
But no other love
Was as syrupy sweet.

 

Poetry

The Violent Arrow

We don’t fall in love gracefully.
Our hearts are intruded upon
By Cupid’s golden point.
Lodged,
It infects
Frustrating all reason
Making us damaged and erratic
Captive and taking commands
From a synthetic chemical.

But we can snatch the arrow from our chests
Yes, the barbs will rip the heart
And cause you to bleed out.
Maybe even die.
But sometimes, loving another
Is a fate far worse than death.

Poetry

Matter

What’s the matter with matter?
We’re all made of it.
Protons, neutrons, and electrons.
Teeny, tiny atoms.
Yet not so small when the atomic bomb was dropped.

Now they package them for baths.

Poetry

The Heart

The fake out happened when we were taught
The smooth curvatures
And piercing point of the heart
Perfectly symmetrical
Empty bubbles to be colored in
Pink and red.
It became sweet confections
That dissolved sticky on our tongues
And the emblem of forbidden notes.

But it wasn’t until
We slit the skin and cracked the ribs
To expose a heart.
The heart.
Knotted
Tubes sprawling in all directions
Veiny, crimson and gory,
And a beat hanging on for dear life,
That I understood why love is such a mess.

Poetry

Secret

I was tuning each breath to the tick of a clock
When the words tumbled out of your mouth
Each letter dripping with syrup
Sticky and sweet.
In my ears they flew
Whipping around the twisted curves of my brain
Until recognition forced them to whiplash.
The pulp that was created began dripping down
The column of my spine.
Slowly it infected my heart
And brewed with what I already knew.
The awakening forced air into my lungs
And what I heard yesterday
Desired liberation.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she had whispered.
So I choked the twisted letters back down
Forcing submission with each swallow
The crooks and edges scraping the back of my throat
All of the way down to the tomb of my stomach
Where they will dissolve
And slowly become a part of me.

Poetry

For the Love

Come on, poem!
I can feel you sitting smugly in my brain
Getting a gorgeous tan from all of the neurons
Jumping around, working overtime
Trying to squeeze you out.
I feel my hemispheres collapsing on each other
Giving me blurred vision and a clenched jaw.
My veins, so rigid from the grip on my keyboard
They might burst.
I dare you to fall out of my brain and splatter
Onto the paper.
An inky crime scene.
I dare you…

Poetry

authentic

in an attempt to be self-aware
straightforward
sincere
he frequented thrift stores
listened to folk music
sipped on fair trade coffee
and attended grass-roots campaigns.
he created countless adventures
stating that danger was subjective.
none of those things could be accomplished
though, without the snap of a picture
and an upload eliciting favor and praise,
the proof of what it is like to be alive.

trespassing,
his last picture was standing in the middle
of a train trestle, suspended over a canyon
the caption comprised of Gundersen lyrics,
“here I stand in the land
of the rocks in the valley,
trying to be a better man.”

but being authentic does not equal invincibility.
the conductor still has nightmares.

Poetry

The Bed of Love

In youth
It was about rocking and rolling
Followed by
Tiny humans invading your sheets.
And empty nest sometimes leads
To a periodic, cold-sided bed.
But those who last beyond
The orgasmic sweat,
The pb&j smears
And pang of solitude,
Find that the real bed of love
Is holding a bluish, wrinkled hand
Sadly waiting for the line to flatten.