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.

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