superfluous sincerity

My heart drowns in its own superfluous sincerity.

Despite my crimson
-cheeked sunburn,
you told me
I looked especially
radiant
in the turquoise
light of the bug zapper,
and I pressed you
up against vinyl siding,
sending a fleet
of velvet-winged
moths up
from their loitering
posts on the sleeping
house and out
into the night.

Tiny wings
beating soft
against the windows
find us
throwing darts
at the calendar
page reading
“September”
and pretending
August
could
achieve immortality
if we blocked
out every box
of tomorrow
with an arrowhead.

I take small sips
from what’s left
in your saliva
with each kiss,
getting fractionally
inebriated
and letting my veins
shimmer in
the flinch
at promises
broken,
stained glass
futures
shattered
and
rearranging
in a kaleidoscope
waltz with white
blood cells.

Anonymous said: I just had some ideas i had to get out: Its cold he said , im cold he meant to say. His eyes opened as he glanced around the room. Still blurry from the gray dreamless slumber he just awoke from.

Woah; that’s quite gorgeous. I really love the way the “it’s cold” and “I’m cold” are only a few letters away but they have such different meanings and connotations; how clever. Also the imagery of grayness really comes through strongly with your description. You write so beautifully; I’d love to read more. Thank you so much for sharing this with me. I look forward to reading any more words you feel like sharing. I wish you a lovely day.

star-spangled handcuffs

When they found me,
star-spangled handcuffs
at the ready for my
ghost-white wrists,
I was twisting up the flag,
trying to wring out
every last drop
of racism left,
taking refuge
between the fibers
of unsullied tradition.

Once it was dry,
the stripes bled out
before I could blink
and the stars
dimmed to nothing
without merely a
small wink goodbye.

From behind the
smirks of authority,
they accosted me
sharply for stripping
the country
of its foundation;
and I felt deeply dizzied
with how un-proud
I felt to be any sort
of “American”,
whatever that was.

Forgetting pills
were distributed
but I’ve been
off-balance ever
since; and the slaps
they left on my wrist
lie like pink bracelets
swirling around
the ellipse of skin
where the cuffs
revisit with phantom
pressure every evening.

messy metacarpals

Daddy’s growing
a rose garden
under the skin
stretched across
his pterodactyl
finger bones,
fanned with fleshy
skin in between;
it’s cultivated
messy metacarpals
and a wrist that says
its time for a doctor’s
appointment.

Red and splotchy,
it ruffles up
around his knuckles,
like a newly opened
tulip stretching
it’s longitude
around the stamen;
it itches at the thorns.

Mama likes flowers,
but she shakes her
head at these;
see, these don’t
come from a seed
or from dirt
swallowed underneath
fingernails;
these are angry
chimeras of
alcohol and blood
that sat too long
in the heat of the sun
and warped into
something angrier
than poison ivy’s
blotchy plague.

When I bite my lip,
trying to stifle
the quivering worry
building underneath,
I am overwhelmed
by the hard iron
taste of blood
capping my tongue
like a monochromatic
mountain.

With rubbery garden
gloves slipped stubbornly
over my hands,
I want to prune
the thirst from
my daddy’s
palate
but he keeps
the shears
locked in the shed.

Across the gaping
chasm of “goodbye”,
from the place my tears
fall here into the earlobe
-pink satin to where yours
water the plants
in a different climate,
with air I’ve never
tasted, closing up
the gap of 979
long miles
like stiches
pull together
broken skin,
I will string
the rungs
of my strung
out love
so I can
skip my toes
like pebbles
across the space
that separates.

rungs

Across the gaping
chasm of “goodbye”,
from the place my tears
fall here into the earlobe
-pink satin to where yours
water the plants
in a different climate,
with air I’ve never
tasted, closing up
the gap of 979
long miles
like stiches
pull together
broken skin,
I will string
the rungs
of my strung
out love
so I can
skip my toes
like pebbles
across the space
that separates.

I fed a plump
envelope
into the blue
mouth of a
mailbox
that promised
it would
deliver
my fingerprints
into yours.

Tonight
I ceremoniously
drape the striped
arm of your sweater
over my naked scapula,
stippled by goosebumps,
and will my wild
mind to be tame,
just for once,
and let me trick
myself into believing
you are breathing
your rhythmic
beat into the bed
beside me.

Please send me,
if you could
envelope-less,
endless
dreams of you
in all of your
green-eyed glory
and your
gone-too-soon
brilliance.

a sample of a summer’s night

Celestial candelabra
chandeliering
above your
chestnut-crowned
cranium,
I chased the coattails
of the scent:
occasional
Kahlua
in pastel-painted
postcards,
printed fresh
off your ripe
red tongue.

I take small sips
from what’s left
in your saliva
with each kiss,
getting fractionally
inebriated
and letting my veins
shimmer in
the flinch
at promises
broken,
stained glass
futures
shattered
and
rearranging
in a kaleidoscope
waltz with white
blood cells.

Tiny wings
beating soft
against the windows
find us
throwing darts
at the calendar
page reading
“September”
and pretending
August
could
achieve immortality
if we blocked
out every box
of tomorrow
with an arrowhead.

You told me
I looked especially
radiant
in the turquoise
light of the bug zapper,
and I pressed you up
against the vinyl siding,
sending a fleet
of velvet-winged
moths up
from their loitering
posts on the sleeping
house and out
into the night.

The dark magic
of missing
steps out un-shyly
from between
the part in the crimson
curtains and marches
its mariachi band
of melancholy
across my mind,
stamping out the
night-light glow
of the full-bellied
moon.

Even with each
bud blindfolded,
I taste unmistakably
the sugar that
circumnavigates
the vowels’ rims
in your whispers,
the ones I pressed
between books
with a prayer
of preservation.

The petals crumble
with a crunch
that wraps my
kneecaps
in goosebump
garlands.

With an eerie
certainty
that splits my ends,
I know then:
summer
is long dead
and you,
my love,
are a thousand
un-tread-able
miles away.