The StoneCarver

I imagine you covered in dust

soft stone breaking in your hands

as you chip away at it, carve your soul into it

light shines through your hair and

dances in your eyes

playing shadows across your face and

along walls, telling a story

you shape that story into the stone

and, just maybe, a bit of your own

in your heart I think

this is where you’re home.

King

“King”

I whispered, hoping to God he couldn’t hear me

But the way he pressed his fingers into me,

I knew he had

I uttered the word like a prayer

Thanking whatever spirit rules passion

Over and over again

as I felt that spirit rise up in me

My body is a temple, he came to

Pray at my altar

I traced the lines of his body,

Devoured the color of his skin

Rich, bright, the color of mahogany

Deep, musky scent

Breathing deeply,

I took him into my lungs

Beat

She handed me her genius

placed it gently into my palms

Feeling the weight of it,

I knew inherently that this was

Ripped, dripping, red and raw

directly from her chest.

 

Fair Trade

I dripped blood on my notebook,

as a Sacrifice, blood of my womb

to birth a poem

Fair trade

I’m beginning to doubt if my womb

will shed anything but blood

I live in a perpetual state of loneliness

I’m not certain what it would be like

to care for someone else

I’m content in my selfishness

cozy in my solitude

My mind keeps me company

Helps to wile away the hours and

my  hands are my lovers,

they know me well

serve me well

Stardust

I’m not shiny, I’m not happy,

I am hurt and damaged

Most days I want to slice myself open,

Rip out my heart, tear apart my soul

And throw myself into a deep dark pond because

That would be easier than figuring this shit out

That would be simpler than asking myself

Where the fuck do I go from here ?

How the hell do I find happiness in this shithole called my life?

That’s most days.

Then there are some days where I remember,

I stand outside and stare at the night sky

I let the darkness surround me and gaze at stars

I tell myself that I am made of fucking stardust

And anything is possible

I tell myself that I am smaller than a grain of sand on a beach

I am atoms, and molecules and energy and life

And I can just be

I can just breathe

Because I am fucking stardust.

Dust

the thing that tugs at me from my  last relationship is not the fact that she and I didn’t work out, because, bless her. I mean, bless her. Hell in a handbasket that one, but the emphatic way in which she professed her love for me. Then just shut it off. Which if I’m honest, I shut mine off too. I tumbled head first into love, because that is actually, not a thing I do. I am meticulous and I analyze and this time I didn’t. I didn’t think, I just lept, and I’m not sorry for it, I’m not ashamed of it. What I am sorry for is that I let her speak in absolutes. I let her tell me that she would always love me. That she would love me forever. She didn’t even love me for a month. I’m smarter than that. I’m wiser than that but I let her. And here’s the thing, the whole time the smarter, wiser part of me was raging against it, part of me believed her. Part of me thought, maybe this gorgeous, lively, drunken mess will love me all the days of her life. And here’s the part I resent, pay attention: the part I resent is that I let that possibility creep in, and it didn’t work out. And now, it has fed my complex. I have an unlovability complex, you see, and she fed it. Piled it high with sticks and brush, poured gasoline on it, dropped a match and walked away as that motherfucker burned.

My mother gave me up for adoption when I was a baby. Gave me up. What the fuck kind of a phrase is that? Then, people are obsessed with adopting things, pets, railways, freeways, elephants, things. I’m lumped together with a fucking freeway and I wonder why I feel less than. Why I feel unimportant. Then I wonder why seeing people as carbon copies of those they share DNA with makes me want to grind my bones into dust.

I was given up for adoption when I was a baby. A woman who was supposed to love me forever gave me away like a pair of jeans and a girl who said she’d love me forever didn’t even stick around to watch me turn to ash.

And it’s not about her. I don’t love her. That’s not the point. The point is that I have an unlovability complex and I am ash. I am dust. And I need that fucking shit to change. The point is I share a category with a fucking freeway.

That’s the fucking point.

intimacy

i miss letting people in

i’ve never done it with lovers

only friends

and i haven’t done so in a long long time

people get confused though

because i share details of my life

things which some people would hold

so closely to their chests, never to spill out

i dump all over the floor

i do it for me, not for them

i am purging myself of my pain

but that is not intimacy, it is not closeness

 

not for me

 

to me, intimacy is when i lay my head on a lap

when i share a bed with someone and we let the night drift around us

the lights are out and we send our voices into the darkness

carrying whatever hope or fear or thought held within us

knowing that it will be caught by the other person

intimacy is knowing that even if all you are greeted with

is soft, even breathing, you are still heard

still loved

i miss that.

it has been years.

i want to find it again, in a lover

 

and a friend.

Whiskey

I wonder sometimes if I’m sick.  What it means that I have a bottle of whiskey underneath my bed.  What does it say that I only fall for people I know I can’t have?  I pour my heart and soul into relationships with men and women older than me, married, taken, mentor, boss.  I pour myself out then close myself off.

I hate that when I look at the night sky, I don’t know if I’m looking at a star or a satellite.

I’ve lost my father, my grandfather and my grandmother, fallen out of love, then in love and then out of love, all in the span of a year.

I’ve been gutted. Cleared out and all that’s left are tendrils, hanging, reaching toward each other, trying to connect, heal.  Trying to form a new heart, kidney, lungs.

The only time I can feel anything is with something in my hand.

I’m bleeding internally and it hurts like hell.  My insides are throbbing.   But I can’t feel them.  Sometimes it’s like I’m numb.  Feeling and not feeling.  Phantom heart, phantom lungs.

I remember what it is like to feel.  And I’m sure I’ll feel again.  I do it sometimes.  Spontaneously.  I’ll realize I’m laughing, or smiling without it being forced.  I’ll feel an urge to kiss a cheek or hold a hand.  Tears will spring to my eyes and blur my vision.  Rage will burn like coals in my belly and I’ll be heated.

I’m a poet without poems.  I’ve writers block and words come out hollow.  I turn phrases and they’re heartless, soulless.  Where is my passion?

Where is my soul?

 

The Sea

Let me crawl inside of your head
Take a tour through your mind
Show me where your secrets hide
I want to wade through your confusion
Slip past your memories and
Dive into your sea of knowing
I imagine that if I close my eyes
Open my mouth to let it sit on my tongue
I can taste your truth
Feel it soak into my skin
I want to consume and be consumed
If I dive down deep enough
I am sure I will come upon caves
Caverns lined with the story of your being
I will run my hands along the stone
Read your soul with my fingers
Rough here, smooth there, lovely and complex
The rock glimmers, shines from the depths,
There is a light there
It shines so brightly, dancing and rippling
At once cutting, rising, floating
It is your deepest secret
Your most sacred truth
Hidden safely away,
Buried, taunting, in the boundless
Sea that is your mind

On Drinking After Midnight

She listens to burned cds in her car
they sound like old records
Ella sings tales of her heart
voice crackling and sizzling
begging my soul to recall Audre’s days
of scratchy records and smooth
cigarette smoke curling into air
naked bodies dampened with
sweat and loving, splayed exhausted across thinly cushioned day-beds

Windows crack and a cloud of knowing
hovers around us
we welcome it into our lungs
with deep intakes of breath
tongues loosened with liquor
we talk of the ways we’ve
lived out our days
reflect on the many
roads our walks have taken

We are moving
fast and impassioned
fire in our hearts inflaming our path
cigarettes clutched between our fingers smoke trails behind us
we don’t know where we are heading
until we do, and we are sitting
on a bar stool

Her eyes wide, she explains
a piece of her soul
leaning into her tale, hands
become her dancers moving and
interpreting, punctuating her points

I get lost when I talk to her
access that place in my mind
reserved for meditating, paper and pen
I pluck out pieces of myself and
spill them at her feet

Knowing that although she may not
know their meaning
she understands the part of my
mind I am speaking from
sees the hard fought wars and
Honors them, welcomes them

Accepts them as my truth.