Tonight

Late night writing is becoming a favorite pastime of mine.



I.
I held you in my hands tonight like
A woman to her pearls on a sinking ship

II.
I felt you in my arms tonight
Like the lukewarm of fading spots of light
The precision of blocks and dangling lines
Like the sickly moonlit limelight
Taking sharp bites like teeth on stark white walls

III.
I sensed you in my eyes tonight
Like plucking of eyelashes like
Making dumb wishes like
Uneven breaths letting them go
Fleeting eyelashes in the night

IV.
I sketched you on my face tonight
My two fingers striking a pulse
And I risked two lines with myself involved
And I dug those rings in the dark of my eyes
And I felt them burn like forest fires

V.
I mistook you in my head tonight
Unthreading the threads of my petty brain
And stitching it for your sweatery refrain
You took me hostage tonight and it was
Biting teeth on stark white walls
Tearing teeth and I felt so small

Firecracker evenings


Another insomniac rant from yours truly....


It is one of those evenings
A firecracker evening
When each strand of your hair
Is ablaze all around you
And the dynamite fizzle
Converges at your head
And you feel so nauseous
And dizzy
And limbless
And the world outside
Is splayed out like
Peacock feathers
Of vigorous pinks and teals
And each step perpetuates
Kaleidoscope echoes
All the way to the
Lucy in the sky with
The rain that glitters down like
Droplets of ink
And it gathers into a story
Of the night you learned air
And love
And touch
And you play connect the dots
On a blank white wall
And with the freckles on your skin
All the way to the
Distant hot moon where the
Limbless and dizzy
See the Earth ablaze.

Sleep

I can't sleep.
I can kind of write.


Sleep can mean a number of things
A peaceful resignation from the world
A slight dimming of the ticking time bomb
A child’s prayer for something irrational
A lover’s wish for someone better
A painful misunderstanding of reality
A lively interpretation of several long breaths
A reincarnation of friends forgotten
An artful articulation of the future in the brain
A fanciful pleasure of a kaleidoscope
A state in which you rest
A resting position in which you live
A frightened sprint away from time
A living proof of life and death
A dying breath to the living dead
A deadly wish to live life in a lively fashion
Sleep can mean a number of restless bones.

Goodnight.

Fire Fly

The real spectacle of the firefly
Can only be observed after the
Dimmed silence of its absence
In which it lives as just an insect.

In these few seconds, it has no business
In the hands of a glowing delighted child
And can stand unwatched by the couple enamored
Or the dog trying to extinguish enigmatic fires.

Most of all, these are the moments
In which the firefly can escape greedy hands
Fighting to capture moments long passed
In the flashy jars of their choosing.

But these moments pass and it ignites once more
Its light reflecting in the glassy eyed world
And instead, the firefly dreams of flying without the fire
Or in the least, ending in a fiery fashion like a bee with its last sting.


I'm pretty happy about this one, although I think elongating it will do good things. Also, just a fun fact of the day, my mom was joking around and decided to write a poem of her own...."Micky is white, strawberries are red, bananas are yellow." Oh my mother. Silly as she is, I wish that she could understand my poems a lot more in English. Then she could be a part of something I love so much. Just a thought.

Waking up at midnight

I woke up at midnight. I think slightly sleepy inspires a state of artistic zen.
The lines are rather long and the poem is pretty short, but it's the first poem I've been inspired to write since I've gotten home from Ann Arbor.



What am I to you
When you wake in the weary moonlight and you
Find me speckled with the bread crumbs on your kitchen table and
The memory of me trickles in while you pour the last drop of milk and
You sit hearing the clock chipping away at its hours and they almost
Sound like footsteps of two lovers but the
Thought is too horrible and instead you choose to hear the
Air whirring on as the air bleeds out of your lungs and you
Sit watching the sun illuminate as the mist transforms into
Smooth gossamer ghosts in the
Dead of dawn.
Dead.

5/15

I think I could make this better with some editing. But so far, here it is.

One.
The number of times I’ve talked to you.
Our palms fit together like the ring around my finger;
I suddenly felt conscious of my thirsty skin
While your hand attempted to read the lines on my hand
As if the cracks told a story of the harsh, worn me
Underneath the half-suns in my eyes of a
Smile I’ve been conditioned to hold.
I don’t even know your last name.
Two.
The number of drinks you spilled on me.
The number of times you apologized and smiled
And jokingly blamed the guy with a drunken slur
And wiped the beer away with a look of satisfaction
Like someone who’s plucked the dust from an old record player
Three.
The number of times our hands brushed.
Your numb hands felt nothing but the
Plastic cold of the red Solo cups
Only you weren’t aware that I was staring at the
Corner where two walls met
And I was wondering how it felt to hold someone’s hand
Like a bandage over a wound
The blood filling each tiny square of fabric
Caressing and sharing the pain.
Four.
The number of minutes the song lasted.
I had never felt quite as powerful as I did then,
As if the bobbing of our heads were
Orchestrating every down beat on the bass.
And every time your head came up you looked at me
And made sure I was in sync with the music, with you.
Five.
As far as you got in scribbling my number.
You took the pen from your pocket and
Etched my name onto your hand and I looked at you
Hoping each stroke of ink would stay there forever.
Six.
The number of days it took for me to forget about you.
This is the number of times that I tried to
Wish away those memories.
The number of times my hand brushed away the air in front of me
Pretending that it was just one night.
That one night when the cracking of the party cups
Under footsteps sounded too loud
And the memories of you clung to me like beer on the floor.

4/15

It's kind of silly. Enjoy.
I was slightly inspired by this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kozv2POJS0I

Your love is aromatic, fragrant, delectable you
Fill me, coat my throat with bliss
And move through me, seeping through my bones
Through my veins, conquering me with your drug.
You’re heroin straight to my bloodstream
Straight to my brain to the tips of each hair on my
Head. I quiver with the rhythm of your flow from the
Moment you’re soaked into the crevices of my lips and
You enter and you navigate through and warm each
Tastebud on my tongue and I bud like a rose
Arising from the depths of you but the downfall
Is the worst thing,
          When I realize you are like a storm
Lasting too long, when the stem of the rose breaks from winds
Too strong. You pull me down from happy thoughts and
They are no more; I’m done with you. You’re like lodged
Shards of glass overstaying their welcome in the
Deepest chambers of my brain. You leave imprints of you
In watery brown rings on every story I write
Like fossils of dinosaur bones and you
Leave me longing but you’re bad for my health, my lungs,
My heart. I know you’re nothing special
You’re just coffee to everyone else I know.

Coffee = love of my life.
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