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
naked
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.


sometimes
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
expectations
placed with no sense of
sensibility

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.


26.1

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

home

was worse for arthur
fake eyelashes and smeared shadow
crusted over the corner of eyes
swollen
(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
feminine
and almost was just a little too much
for strong southern values
that cut ties and closed doors
leaving arthur alone
disowned

home

just
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
dead
head
unwrapped reality
within walls they had once held up
crashing down
jerome, alone
on floor
fists pounding against glass
couldnt pass time
without them

home

redefined
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
home.

26.2

grandmother
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
alone
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.

grandmother
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 28. almost done!!!

from LTT competition finals....