30 days pt 2 week 2

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july 19th-july25th.2008


game over
before it begins
you have broken the rules
little girl
queen of the false start
when will you ever learn
your words are not welcome here
crying out
into darkened caverns
only hollow echoes return
you are filling up with nothingness
stop talking to yourself
it never changes and
repetition is annoying
listen to me
go write another story
a sad poem
break your words into lines
before they break you down
blinded again
you're stronger than this
and if you cant understand
then i'll hold the mirror
and your hand
until you believe
is much more than you care
to acknowledge

8.2 ahahahahhahahahhahaha. sorry. i apologize ahead of time to whomever reads this.

if i could
harness the flame
id shape and mold it
twist and turn it
so the world could behold it
a monument
to the majesty
better known
as your dick
fit only to be forged from fire
it inspires
moans and
poems and
fingers calling you home
when i cant bear to breathe alone
and im in need
of resuscitation
excuse me yall
too much information
i know,
but your imagination
couldnt possibly fathom
the challenge im facin
to express my deep set adoration
for this specimen of perfection

thunder bolt
lightning rod
magic stick
so long and thick
my lips cant help but quiver
when its
inches from my face
dont let me forget about the taste
sweetly laced with ambrosia
nectar for the goddess
and i know i told ya
watch the face but...
this super-sized deluxe
makes me
reconsider rules
its just
im hypnotized by the size
and at the touch
of smooth skin against mine
blinded by the shine
forever burned into my mind
makes me want to freeze time
and exist in an eternity
of permanent bliss
transfixed by the feeling
of my lips around your....

9.1 ... from the heartache workshop

you are always the constant.
is it any wonder why
i cling to you
arms wrapped tight around legs
in need of something
to hold onto
i'm learning
to bloom again
so afraid of light
and yet still
straining towards the sun
you scare the dark away
help me to find roots
tapped deep into strength
i forgot to remember
twisting around you
when im too weak
to stand on my own

but i know where this goes
i will grow
too tall for you to carry
drink from your well
until water runs
as dry as faded tears
constrict you
until the very air you breathe
is nothing more
than my exhalations
we cant exist like this
i'm not the delicate flower
appearances woud lead you
to believe
release me please
stop being so wonderful
because it will break my heart
when i inevitably
make you wither


there you go again
painted up and pretty
i see you
and through you
must admit i
have thought a few times
about smashing your stained glass
to let the light in
id rather enjoy the comedy
than end the show


lips twist into
spiders webs
spin, spin,
stories falling off of
swollen up and bleeding
cat got your...
curiosity is much too much

*spinspinsugar... sneaker pimps


there are no words left
that have not
been folded into ears
a million times
until eroded
no sentiments
to express
i can only tell you
he is
the water
running down the back
of a desert throat
the drop of your stomach
as the roller coaster
descends the first hill
he is the joke
no one gets
that leaves me
doubled over in laughter
he is the dinner
the gooood dinner
on the 1st and 15th
when you can finally afford
to spend a little extra

no he is not
some overused metaphor
not a sonnet
or some other silly love poem
he is the fork in the road
the twist in the novel
you never saw coming
the key that jams
and sticks
but finally
opens the door
is footprints on the sidewalk
after i have tripped through puddles
showing me where i have been
and leaving a path to follow home
he is
the beat
of heart
echoing in my chest
reminding me
in double time
that i am still alive
he is the poem
that i write
one hundred times a day
and never seem to finish
because words always fall short
of capturing
all that he has become


punctuated with finality
leave red markings across skin
a slap
across the face
a slammed door
a last breath
caught in the throat
i eat words
and swallow pride
until belly is full of nonsense
you couldnt
decipher the code
if i
gave you the answers
we speak in different languages
without a translator
and im so tired
of trying


are like most men i know
twisting and turning
full of thunder
they move with force
and from far off
appear to pack quite a punch
you might be surprised
when they deliver
for the most part
once they make landfall
they have shriveled up
into nothing more than
a passing storm.

12.1 (these are from yesterday)

couldnt help but notice
the contents of his
5 frozen dinners
bottled water
apple nutri-grain bars and
some pre-made sandwiches.
i bet he
lives alone and
works late into the night
probably does something important
a lawyer, maybe a doctor
no one waiting up
with a hot meal
a 'honey how was your day'
i could play
that part
costume myself up in an apron
baby on the hip, stirring the pot
with my free hand
hes coming this way
feign interest in
cereal box labels

if he pauses at
cinnamon toast crunch...
im goin in for the kill.


sometimes i feel the need
to clog up my kitchen sink
disconnect the little switch
in the air conditioning vent
unscrew the shower head
so it leaks just enough
to warrant a call
to my favorite fantasy

boy, you are the finest thing
this side of the mississippi
and i'll break everything in my house
just so i
can watch you fix it


the funny thing is-
he was right.

and i stood there
laughing it off
as if my eyes didnt betray me

we both knew i was a liar
but i couldnt bear to comprehend
the magnitude of his words


i watched
as he stalked his prey
skinny frame pressed into the wall
sliding from around the corner
he ducks low
cuts right
takes shelter behind a parked car
gun in each hand
waiting in silence
for the crackle of leaves
under the feet of his target.

the younger one approaches
believing the coast is clear
gunman unleashes
a flood of water and obscenities
on the squealing child
drenches him
with his double-barreled
super soakers
in a voice that still cracks at high volumes
"bitch i'll fuckin kill you!"

they collapse in a pile of
dripping wet laughter
volleying threats of whose head
will be blown off next.

they are 10.
i dont find this funny.


dropped calls often
at the most
inopportune times.
damn you verizon
didnt even hear me
say his name


how many times
must we rake across the coals
the dying carcass
of this broken vessel
five minutes of tears
explode from a single moment
a single lie
like a grain of salt
festering in a wound
so deep
im twisted up
a tightly wound spring
capable of bouncing
at any moment
servant to illusions
and presumptions
fight or flight
rendered helpless
my wings are broken
and these arms lack the strength
to go to war
im stuck
in an endless circle
dont know if
comings are
goings or
how i wound up here
to begin with
few things are certain
save for
shadows on walls
hissing secrets
and rattling nerves
i am
exactly as they said i would be
its so obvious
ive got to find a way
to end this poem

30 days pt 2 week 1

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july 12th-july18th.2008

day 1

reality check
at 3am
the mirror is ugly
when you remove glasses
and really
alice is in the rabbit hole
knocked back the bottle
that begged 'drink me'
and shrunk
so tiny
i seem to have lost myself
painted pretty houses
in shades of whispering pine
and country beige
built picket fences and cobblestones
out of dreams
and still cant find my way

and then a voice reminds me...

eventually you will become too tired
for carefully planned words
and you will break
somewhere around page six
when costumes become too tight to wear
and expectations, too heavy to carry.

the pen will squeeze you
like a sponge
twist you between fists
until dryness is
all that remains
and watered down versions of truth
are no longer an option.

you will look back in horror
at what a mess you made
and pray
for the first time
that no one has read
your words.

and so it begins again....

day 2.1

every morning i pour you coffee
check the temperature
stir it
the right amount of times
serve it
just the way you like it
mix in
enough sugar
to make it sweet
i serve you coffee
every morning
and every morning
i cant help but wonder
why is the cup always
half empty?

day 2.2

i've been known
to repeatedly
paint myself up like prometheus
to don the wings of icarus
and fly
screaming at the sun
like a banshee

spaceship spinning out of orbit
ground control to major tom
cut off
circuits crossed
heart wired
to the point of melt down
danger will robinson!
red lights flashing
no service manual
to fix these system failures

and im pretty sure
that one day soon
playing with this fire is
going to make me
crash and burn.

italicized... david bowie, and someone other than me, respectively.


woven into the space
between the agony
and perfect ecstasy
the tightrope twists
and doubles back
until knotted

what a fine disaster
time becomes
knitted up and
stitched together
a patchwork quilt
of mismatched focus
a shawl of moments
to drape the shoulders
when the night is cold and
i'm in need of a blanket.

i only ever wanted to spin silk.
make fingers fly over loom
and create tapestries
in monument to your beauty.
but time in all its mystery
kept hands too busy
and i remain forever the steamstress
stitching holes and mending tears
left behind on the inner linings
of your tattered coat


ive reached the end
of yet another notebook

one page left
to collect my thoughts
lock them up in spiraled cages
and place them on shelves
to be forgotten
like memories we choose to ignore

only one page left
to say something that actually means more
than just words parsed together
one page
like ninety-nine others before it
that i try my hardest not to waste

but like ninety-nine others before it
the words spill out with no reason
filling lines up with poor excuses
for anything of substance

i've reached the end
of another notebook
this one identical
to last years collection
and one page still mocks me
because yet again,
i have nothing to say


when sleep is elusive
the mind turns to catacombs
and i write poems to the dead ones
buried deep underground.

there was the phantom
with his
silver mask
that kept me chasing through darkness
for years

the preacher's son
whose world fit within my hand
a victim
of times i wish
i could deny

the thief who stole bits and pieces
until self
was unrecognizeable
and the king
who tried to put me
back together again

they say
time heals all wounds
but if thats the case
then why
do i still bleed words?


you're a fool
and i'm crazy
for the way you change
when we're alone
a little lower,
slower, edges a little
so wonderfully flawed
makes me wonder
if the unreachable perfection
is just a construct
a definition you run from
when the truth of your beauty
is something
you are too afraid
to accept


she is folded up
in a corner
arms hugging knees
neck bent, eyes
vacant and reaching

she is broken up
face pressed against
porcelain floor
blood forming rivers
from within legs

she is
dancing on a stage
sweaty fists shoving hands
between folds of skin
pressing through breast bone and
gripping tight to heart

she is
laid out on metal table
dried blood on steel blade
life from womb
collecting in the shallow drain

each year
i write a poem to her
there have been four others
plus this collection of scraps
forever repeated
because somewhere,
right now,
she is alone


25 1/2 more days and
i dont know if i'll make it
its not that
i can't write
its just
the sun has become so bright that inspiration
from elsewhere
is blinded
pages and pages of poems
and im so tired
of writing about the same thing
mind stuck on repeat
at least
its my favorite song
but really
this crap is getting annoying

my 3am writing used to be so much better


for leticia

you will come to see
there is no such thing
as a super hero
even angels have flaws
and me,
i'm only human
ripped, torn, and stapled back together
like the rest of us
tryin to make each day
a little better than the last

this day shall pass
and you will walk with head a little higher
for unless we have laid
our souls upon the ground
we have not truly seen the sky
time will fly
and you will learn
the champion is not always
the winner
and id rather place my faith
on the last runner in the race
limping, but never giving in
until they reach the finish

baby girl
we have all been beaten
cried tears into the night
ached until the wretched hands of fate
have wrung us dry
but you are still here
and so am i
and the story ends only
when we stop writing
do not forget your voice
when you fear it will be silenced

because pedestals will tip and topple
a thousand times again
rest not your faith
in glossed up truths
that leave no room to bend
remember, instead, the trees
forever reaching towards the sun
for until the light's extinguished
our story will never be done

day 6.2

...and meet again
we did,
my God,
your presence
i have caught glimpses of it
manifesting in
spaces and faces
that bring forth
of moondroops
falling backwards
the reversal of time
to days when
you and i
held court on thrones of clouds

do i see you now?

peeking out from behind the mask
a shade so familiar
i cant help but return

ritual steps to notes blown through ocarinas
feet following grooves
worn deep in temple stones

...i feel your presence in my bones
the gentle shaking
of worlds aligning in the flesh
and i am dizzy
once again
filled up with past life visions
of future destinations
the seconds until time rewinds backwards
and we fall into the circle once more
my gentle warrior


into the darkness the train lurched
forward in slow motion
vibration of the floor in
perfect complement to her heart
head pressed up against window
legs tucked up
into seat
she stared at city lights
as they faded away
in the distance

a world left behind
ended in the flash of a moment
arm still throbbing from the recoil
fingers still shaking
she made it
no destination in mind
save for
but here
far away from the strangling hold
that had silenced her
for so many years
so many tears
stuck in her throat
a sentence she had finally ended

some would say she was wrong
that she had lost it
gone crazy in the night and shot at
the man who
had done nothing but love her
some would say
she deserved nothing short of
punishment for her crimes
there were other ways
and she had no right
to bring end to the life of another

but we of the silent tribe
look on through eyes
heavy with understanding
welcoming her with open arms
for we would say
she had no choice


a wasteland
a scorched desert
a dried skull
picked over by scavengers
a tomb
of bitter secrets
a time line
of regret
a locked box
skeletoned keys
and cobwebs
and recognition.

and recognition.

30 days pt 1 week 4

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june 28th-july6th.2008

day 22.

each night
i drag my tired body
across the glass
of screens that divide us
knees bloodied and
palms scraped
and alone
heart bleeding fears onto
silent stages
in midnight hours when
walls come undone

in here
is the honesty
i cant bear to speak
woven between lines
of hidden meaning
pen turned voice
and paper, your ear
when i cant help but fear
the truth of my words.

i wish for you to be still
to stop feet from running
circles 'round reality
fingers dragging
pens across paper
wasting words
like you
waste my time

are you so blind?
my ears went deaf
when you
spoke my name
and i wish not
to wrest them
from their quiet slumber
of disillusionment

hands too full
to hold the weight of
placed with no sense of

for if my voice
carried the strength
of your convictions
it would shout
until you became a
silent soliloquy

sharing the stage
with the realization
that your performance has come
to an end.

day 24.

...and sometimes you just get tired.

words turned stones
resting on shoulders
like the weight of a thousand worlds
atlas meets sisyphus
and i climb
mountain top always out of reach
locked doors
blocking paths
towards understanding.

there are rooms in silent chambers
where stories go to die
leaving lines burned into my eyes
like memory

stinging stories
turned upon themselves
licking wounds and
lashing out in the darkness
when skeletons rattle in cages
and i forget to take the key

particularly on nights like these
when i sleep next to a ghost
hollow fingertips against my face
and whispered prayers
replayed in my ear
yesterdays haunting the shadows of my slumber.

almost funny how
years of silence
and all the miles i ran
amount to nothing
but empty hands and
tear-stained cheeks
and the realization that
you took more from me
than i knew i had to give.

day 25.

i wish
i could write silence
in scripted lines of nothingness
for there are no words
that would matter
in this moment.

poetry speaks
but never listens
and the hand cannot pen
all that the ear must hold
so i shall write no more
and let quiet
speak my prayers

in hopes that you will read them.


morning breaks on busy streets
as feet
jump to the rhythm of the city's pulse
8 am rush hour of suits and briefcases flood
business faces
averting eyes from
figures hugging walls
dirty hands outstretched
gripping tattered coffee cups
styrofoam almost as empty as
bellies, twisted up and moaning

"please sir, can you spare some change
im just
tryin to feed my pain"

faces pass full of disdain
frowning at the filth of America
crossing streets and side stepping corners
patting pockets and gripping purses tighter
keep eyes level with horizon
for fear of meeting with theirs'
suppositions on tongues

"you lazy bum
i work too hard for my change
to give it to you"

truth is
angela works hard too
when the sun goes into hiding
she hides the son away
performs the nightly ritual
curb to window to
piss-stained mattress in back alley blackness
face pressed down and skirt pulled up
17 but looks 34
daddy's little whore
fucking for a meal ticket
just like he taught her
before she left


was worse for arthur
fake eyelashes and smeared shadow
crusted over the corner of eyes
(the left one shut)
sucks dick like a champion
for 5 bucks
just south of Claiborne
in the dark of Armstrong Park
his curves feel almost
and almost was just a little too much
for strong southern values
that cut ties and closed doors
leaving arthur alone


wasnt the same
for jerome
empty rooms full of ghosts and
voices that moaned in the night
down hallways
creeping into beds
his wife
2 sons
and daughter
unwrapped reality
within walls they had once held up
crashing down
jerome, alone
on floor
fists pounding against glass
couldnt pass time
without them


through closed doors
open legs and
vacant eyes
never realized by passersby
when morning breaks on busy streets
feets jumping to the rhythm
of a world that has left some
on the outside
looking in
hands shaking, mouths begging
for some change
to feed the pain of
city streets
that have now become their


had a thing for
crossword puzzles,
midday murder mysteries
and black beans and rice.
lived out the end of her life
at the head of a sagging table
bosom resting on yellowed surface
to relieve the weight of years on her back

she sat
day after day
the matriarch
of a dispersed family
no longer possessed the answers
to little girls' confusions
so she
filled days with answering questions
down and across pages
made her
feel useful.
no longer the one they would run to
with life's mysteries
so she
turned to agatha christie
perry mason and columbo
solved problems of families
not unlike her own
laughing at herself
five minutes into the second scene
because she had it allll figured out.

lived out the end of her life
between table and stove
searching for a purpose
that would fill the void
of an empty nest
stirring the sofrito
and breathing the steam of memories
deep into her chest
hoping the aroma
would somehow
carry her children home.

day 27

she was the bird
with the broken wing
from years of falling
out of cages
from atop pedestals
until flying
became synonymous with fear

a timid little bird
perched on the edge of a cliff
staring at a ground
so far below
and hoping his wind
was strong enough
to hold her

day 28. almost done!!!

from LTT competition finals....

She was born with words in her throat
20 days past due and dragged screaming from womb
as if she knew what madness awaited.
delivered into a lineage of inherited secrets,
she learned to swallow stories at a young age
until stifled words
gestated in belly like
seeds of shame giving rise to coiled roots
wrapped tight around her throat to keep her quiet.
as years passed, seasons changed
hands closed over mouths as legs opened
young woman gave birth to the bitter fruit of a dead soul
crimson mixed with tears on a porcelain floor
body wracked up and doubled over.

she died that day.

cried until the words came
flooding like dammed water, unleashed
lacked the courage to cut wrists so
pens bled her poetry
sought solace within notebook lines
turned asylum when times
felt like the end of days
ink spilled as conduit of freedom
for histories shackled in cages
and pages and pages and pages
she wrote backwards
to reverse time
stories leading her down paths, forgotten
giving voice to each tear
she had choked on for so long

and somewhere
in the midst of it all
little girl was reborn as woman
emerging from the ashes of burnt notebooks
and charred paper
with a voice that rose above the tumultuous din
of past words and past lives
belly full of new stories to pass on
birthed from her own tongue
and breathed into the ears of little girls
whose pens were stolen long before they learned to write.
then, when all was said and done
her chapter closed as laughter faded
and she returned, the author of her own story,
to the peace where poems began.

day 29.

this is an edit
sometimes i say shit
i dont mean to

and sometimes i get sick
of the shit that i

and thank god
its easier to edit words
in this thread
than it is
in real life.

day 30.

30 days
comes to a close
and i must admit
i'm thankful


i cant help but question
what the hell
im writing for, anyway

30 days
of good intentions
so easy to love
in a poem
so easy to leave
in my words
i've grown to hate
being an open book
picked apart
by questioning eyes
held accountable to passing moments
like they were etched
into a testament of time
the downside
of being a writer
who paints in pretty pictures
to achieve some sort of realism
when i just dont know
whats real

the end.

ATOM 0.3