remake.

she made sure

she drank more

till twelve

break at twelve...

she made sure

she danced and danced

so her breaths

were hardly there...

she made sure

she'd suffice

when her skirt

flies to her heart...

the hospital.

we walked,

but only i saw

the pictures on

the morbid walls.

our footsteps all

in rhythm with

the rubber wheels

wearing the hall.

i felt their hands

tighten on mine,

no doubt sweatier

if only

their skins

were not so tough.

they were old,

and i was young

still mostly,

they believed,

a child,

plain, so simple.

but childhood

could not mute

all the unhappy,

echoing sounds

of our feet,

our blood,

our thoughts

and fears.

the wheels knew,

so they sang on,

screeching along

with the bodies

i couldn't see,

since i wasn't

that tall at all,

not even 4'3''.

and the echoes

in the hall

refused to die,

unlike the others,

who went

without a sound;

no screaming,

no hell

like i see

on t.v.

where only the blood

can untruly run free.

i'm sure they tried

to somehow rewind

and see their lives

unfold again,

the way i tried

to escape

their lukewarm hands,

their lukewarm eyes,

to free myself

from that place

of monotonous faces,

monotonous smells.

but they could not,

and i could not:

the doctors

would never escape

this place, 

though they are

more sick and tired

than anyone else

of the whiteness

that was not 

quite white,

superficial coats

to hide behind.

for, they have to

be brave, 

stand tall, 

and pretend

to know it all.

i know they don't.

they know they don't.

but we all wished

they did, 

prescribing magic

pills,

and spitting

in my eyes

new lenses

for life

as they spoke 

what they could recall

from the books

on the walls...

we live in hope

that truth will seep

from the silent myths 

our brains secrete.

lights.

he led her

to the bedroom

where they would strip

and do it.

quickly (she thought)

quickly.

he has been waiting

for seven months

since she left

in april, may, or june.

he is drunk.

she wishes she were.

quickly, please,

quickly (was all

she thought).

in this room, 

he had one bed,

where she'd slept

in april, may, or june.

on that bed,

no sheets,

no coverings,

just another body

beside his own.

at barely eleven

in room no. 003,

he kissed her mouth

and neck, breathing

her and only her

the jutting clavicle

that warned his bones

could not stop 

           shaking.

at eleven-o-four

she opened her eyes

and turned her head

to look

at the threadbare top

of the mattress 

wearing away.

the sewing 

came undone.

she was wearing 

away, had come 

undone quickly,

quickly

at eleven and six.

at 11:09

he paid her

and he had gotten

all he wanted

out 

rather quickly.

she took off,

having put on

her shirt and jeans,

unbuttoned but zipped,

(her hair still beautiful

in the lights)

and she ran

quickly

to pay the clerk

who worked in the store

on the corner of 8th

and mulberry

that she hoped 

had not yet closed

its doors,

for milk and cookies

to be Santa's 

good little girl,

though a little late.

(she knows he won't mind

if the cookies are there,

she will be

early, for next year.)

quickly, quickly,

in april, may, or june.

last Monday, 2008.

she cleaned this room

three months ago,

before i came back

and turned a year

this year

over again

flipping around

to the beginning

of childlike promises,

the gift of forgetfulness.

watch the sun reach

from worlds away,

and the dance of dust

commence and die,

kidnapped

by the objects

that have lost

our affection,

always moving, changing

blues to red...

though i say not so,

so you know:

this is bullshit,

we are faking, 

constructing

something we've 

never understood,

coated in powdered

sugary wishes...

before i turn

the question on you,

and watch you stare on,

with confused eyes,

angry though flooded,

just contained:

you felt dimmed

since i lied, laughing

when i should have cried.

you feel used? but 

you'd been there:

she only swooped

after you'd swooped.

you, still muted, remember

you began this too;

and you

want to end this, too.

it is time for you to move

for me to change

for us to kidnap

one another

in a corner, 

of this room,

where only the sun speaks,

and we turn and choose

circles of dancing dust.

we had convinced

ourselves once

that sleep's dream

will be reality

with you,

eating the thoughts

of our thoughts.

we can convince

our minds again,

another once

that we had rested

in this year,

in a dream we blew

in a bubble that flew on 

too high and touched the sun.

missing.

today, i went to the post

office. wouldn't you know,

it is Sunday. wouldn't i

remember?

of course i remembered

it was Sunday. of course

i did not go

to the post office

on a Sunday.

i simply walked

to the mailbox

and threw my reply

in. among the white 

envelopes of bills

and requests,

maybe it was

lonely.

but it was not born

for loneliness, 

you see. 

i wrote it, a reply,

to your long love letter.

you sent it to me

a week ago. i'd torn

the plain envelope

carelessly, not knowing

it was carrying 

your words 

on such delicate

paper. i'd torn

the letter too.

but i read it, 

as soon as i'd taped it,

once. and after lunch,

i read it again,

and that time, i smiled.

so again i took it

off my bed, and read it

and saw that your words

were written in pencil.

by the next day,

your words had faded,

but still there,

still very much there,

and i read on.

that time, i smiled

and cried too.

so your words

continued their journey

into the paper

or out in the air,

or unto my hands

and into the water.

they escaped my eyes,

and soon, my mind.

but some stayed,

trapped in that strip

of tape, clear and strong,

bound to the paper,

dirty and broken.

they made no sense,

stranded vowels

paired with a consonant

they didn't like.

i felt the heat 

of their hate

underneath the tape.

then...

i cannot remember

what you wrote,

how your hand looked

under lamplight,

somewhere on the bed,

somewhere near my hands.

i can't. so i wrote back

when your words

finally disappeared,

after you'd disappeared,

after the day of lovers,

after the day of sweets.

except, i can't remember

what i penned, exactly.

all i held unto 

was the fact

that i'd used a pen,

and not a pencil.

wouldn't want my

words

to escape into air.

i wrote no address

on the envelope

i sent you. 

i don't remember it.

was not wise of me,

i think now, to choose

over pencil that dead pen.

my words will not vanish;

they will not find you.

after all,

i don't remember

what i'd written

on that paper.

but i do remember

today is Sunday.

and on Sunday,

there is no mail.

if you say so

why do you say it,

when you know

it isn't true?

that's something

i guess i won't

ever really know.

but when you do

speak, your voice low

and eyes raised high,

i only repeat 

your words of war,

a pacifistic skeptic still,

through and through,

the eyes of water on fire

neither burn nor drown,

soft stones stationary

above my nose,

that saw your lips

close, open...close,

words into steam,

and steam into air.

although you've no one

to kiss and dissolve,

your shaking head, 

turned, refused to think:

(it's been days since..)

(how many?)

(i did not count) since

i'd swallowed your fire

to mute my own. 

i would turn off

that crowd burning

your gallant mind

but you'd agree,

(no?) 

it probably is

(too early!) too late.

if you say so.

i know you're right.

happy birthday!

high up and out,

are you looking at

these snowy streets

of slush and shit,

and people with bags

filled with trash

and those with gifts?

far from sober,

deep in sane,

on repeat

faked footfalls

of heart's rhythm,

stepping on air

and falling,

on concrete.

i baked some 

coconut corn cookies

on the poisonous

teflon pan,

so they wouldn't stick.

the doctor will see me now

but i will not see the doctor.

mine.

on a stairwell we climbed,

i carried her, the gift 

i'd received from a night 

in a forest

cabin quickly disappearing,

all mine

(we'd never remember 

such things

if she had not come).

we crossed the playground,

cut through the people,

rolled over the cracks,

gliding down the slopes

of concrete, slowly.

i, of all things, a mother

(by way of 

forgotten movements,

of all ways)

carrying her child

up a stairwell,

round and long,

circling on my feet,

and i remembered,

she is mine.

then a room,

and telephone rings,

and by now

this dream is broken,

(and i knew

the phone must be

ringing, and i am now

awake, awake.)

since i heard father

pick up the message,

and the two men conversed

as my dream dragged on

watching some people

speak of dates and times

for christmas gatherings,

and the wife staring 

with subtle detest

at the other woman.

but i am now awake.

certainly, awake.

walking, i went

to see the phone, but

there were no messages;

and to the room,

there was no father;

and to my arms,

no baby of mine.

hello

this is the stop

my mind has taken

the bus to.

it is a picture 

of a paper pinwheel

spinning on the

stony balcony

with the wind

warning us

of a hard, loud

raining evening

my hair blowing

strands fighting,

but they are too short

to make love,

so they will war on...

father is missing,

his voice late

for its weekly meeting

with mother's 

waiting ears.

then she cried.

so i cried too.

and we slept,

waiting still.

remembering one and a half.

speechifying

birth and death,

uttering on

a very long wait for

the end to this story,

i held my mouth

on one thought

that would not have

mattered any way

i said it, because 

your words were 

spoken,

and though they were 

soft,

i was quiet 

in confusion,

and i heard names,

and possibilities,

and witnessed the expiration

of a stillborn confession.

patterned field.

i was thrown down

by the grass,

by the kick of the wind,

and a tuck of the ground.

my face missing,

in soured milk.

both eyes staring

at the blankly 

peaceful sky,

steady streams 

trickling on soil.

i am growing

into you and 

your face

twisted in frowns

of deformed tree 

bark,

and your sculpted

melting lips,

bawling like a baby's

as the abusive gales

whistle right through.

your beautiful

crying sounds

as your voice chews

on that mouth,

your shifting

running fingers,

beat on,

flick on this

hollowed body,

burning with

fantastic mimicries,

wishing on other 

people's dreams.

through sky gale, 

tree ground,

grass soil,

down streams 

sounds bark,

with other mimicries

shifting fingers, lips 

sculpted this 

beautiful body

growing frowns

and chews,

baby's face

dreams on,

staring blankly,

mouth missing milk.

this body frowns,

lips bark mimicries,

milk streams on face,

gale blankly chews

soil ground.

frowns.

chews.

mimicries ground face.

face chews frowns.

frowns.

grey.

dear mother,

there is no snow

on the streets of PA.

i wish i could laugh like i did

when people said

my hair was blacker

than calligraphy ink

when the sun still breathed 

on my good little head,

and take a walk,

and say to you, look,

my feet have grown,

my shoes don't fit.

"good morning,"

grandfather said

as he gave me

that oily doughnut, 

deliciously greasy

with pockets of air

(i didn't like it,

but i took three bites)

"good night,"

grandmother said

as she gave me

two big ripe dates,

maroon and sandy

with plastic skins

(i didn't like it,

i just ate one)

at lunch we held

our sticks so nimbly,

ready to fight

over his pork stew

with fatty bits,

and potato chunks,

in saucy salt.

then i would not

eat anything but

the fish's lungs,

retrieving the air

he once needed,

and chewing on

its expired stink.

smelling of childhood

sweets, childhood dreams

and unabashed screams,

they have died

with grandfather.

they are dying

with grandmother.

dear mother,

there is rain now,

but the sky here

can be blue too.

when i have

one too many 

birthdays more,

promise me

you will not 

breathe in 

the grey,

and turn it cold

when you do.

tonight

i stopped my walk

on this block,

because i saw

the headlights

and i waved.

the door was

opened, in i

stepped, first

gathering my skirt

(myself)

then stepped

off of the watered

iced street.

and i sat,

and no one spoke,

and i sat,

and someone

coughed.

and i sat.

we heard

some footfalls

outside

like passing trains,

but i did not move

my eyes.

too many raindrops 

on the glass were 

too clear tonight.

you were

just a dot

barely moving

on the shaking

globes of water.

and i sat.

and we drove.

and the train passed.

oooooh....

a sigh, his

offbeat clapping 

hands introduce

shriek on high

and all the

beautiful drums

in his head

began to sound,

bouncing

from the heads

of all the men

who were too slow

to run and too quick

to kiss.

on the ground,

hair in saltwater

and toes in hot sand,

another one laughs

about the sun,

his left cheek 

and loud mouth

calmly speaking

words of a lunatic,

their hands numbly

fall on burning chests.

blind, now, with age,

he's seen water fly

and air swim, with

one million years 

grazing his face,

he waits, mumbling,

for 13 billion more.

sinful human #9.

when i was a child, i did not understand my mother, my father, all the big words they used. 

i still don't. i don't use long words.

i am...19, 2 months, barely 16 days. i wanted to think 18, but realized that would be a lie. i'd wanted to lie about my age when i was 17. no, 14.

and when i drank, i knew that i was older.

and when i was older, i laughed.

and when i laughed, i knew i was crying.

and when i cried, it was all a joke.

this is right.

that is right. 

and God is still so right, i love You, God. 

but i think you made the wrong decision. you probably didn't. 

but i think you did.

and then i spun myself around, to imitate the earth turning turning. 

to the east. around a hot thing. so small. round and round we go.

the sun rising like yeast. east.

then i fall. i make myself fall. my brain wasted. 

my body wasted. "no good this no good."

(it believes my lies. do you believe my lies?

i believe them.) i killed my cells.

my cells kill my cells. 

the blood i let out.

oh, Father, father. i'm sorry. 

i'm sorry.

let me walk home alone.

children: fly!

you killed a bird,

a bird too old

for its nest,

and you wanted

it to fly,

because

he was past his time.

so you shot him.

and he fell down.

and he fluttered

for four moments,

and twittered

three notes,

and sighed twice

(but you couldn't hear)

and cried once

(but you couldn't see)

and you kept shouting

"fly!"

till the sound 

of your throat

echoed about,

rudely rattling

against the little

stillwarm featherball.

when the trees swayed,

you said you didn't

need their songs,

and walked away,

and walked his way

to him you said,

make me smile. 

so he sang his song

reserved for you

and your honesty,

he chirped 

more sweetly

as your peeling lips

curved, 

and you laughed

and made them 

bleed.

Monday killed Sunday the baby.

i saw,

from one block

and a half away,

as Friday ran.

and she ran,

ran into Saturday

who took her

by the hand,

hooked her 

by a finger.

they will make love.

from one block away,

Friday smiled,

Saturday's nose

lightly in her hair.

Saturday's hands

under her shirt.

his lips...

they are making love.

from half a block away,

Friday was crying,

Saturday's eyes trailing 

down her face,

into her mouth.

his voice flowing

out of her ears,

into her mouth.

his out of hers.

she: good night.

he: good morning.

untitled.

what right

do you have

to write about

my past?

none. i have 

nothing.

i have no food

in the pantry.

hunger

is prevalent

in this age.

you know it well.

the books

you carry

everyday

fell apart today.

her back, cold

against the wall,

and she could feel

her legs melting.

so hot.

so hot 

he was burning,

and she was crying.

another paper

cut. cut

skin, faint

sting.

my hands burned

and i caught

the falling 

cactus plant.

i gave 50 cents

to pray in church

with a lit candle

glowing there.

i don't think

God has time

to listen

to me.

i waited for him.

i will wait

until he comes.

i will be right here.

take your time,

slowly with care.

these things are 

fragile.

broken glass

kissed her,

red lips,

pink cheeks.

in the warm,

warm shower,

she heard the howl

of the wind.

the kite flew

all right,

so high

in the sky.

where 

will i go

when 

i die?

daymare, part ii.

the black dot

on the carpet

crawled towards

my chair,

tugging on my eye.

i was on a street

after twelve, 

and though

it was cold,

i was wearing 

much, much more.

what does God mean

when He tells us

to give, to love,

to forgive 

in multiples of 7?

i can struggle.

i can run

towards him,

and push, hurt,

then miraculously

hear it punch,

ringing

from my hand

to his chest

to his throat

out his mouth.

i can stand, warm

arms waiting,

stretched far part,

offering 

a return to home.

then say to him,

you don't have to.

and when he does,

i will say it more,

embrace him 

tightly, tightly,

and hope

he can give,

love, forgive

in multiples of 7.

he doesn't have to.

daymare, part i.

i am vending candy

and magazines

in a metal shack

on a manhattan street.

he comes by,

raising his gun,

saying something

i can't hear.

i can't hear

anything

in good dreams,

bad dreams,

day dreams,

night dreams.

he asks.

no.

he shouts?

threatens?

he wants it.

i pull 

on his gun.

i speak.

no.

i whisper?

i cry?

i smile.

i lead 

the tiny canon

to my temple.

then i pray.

or i don't.

i wish i did.

his curses

harsh

loud.

he is anger.

he is fear.

he is black.

i shout

a command,

again.

again.

again

he shoots.

my temple?

in my mouth?

my heart.

blood.

a mess.

what a mess.

i'm sorry

to you (mother)

to you (father)

to you (dear God)

to you (poor child,

you saw too much)

to you (stranger,

you can run so fast).

allergies.

1.

i could, i thought,

stop and freeze.

it is

already too late

to keep my heat.

2.

the moon is round

and bigger than 

yesterday's, brighter

than the good 90s',

fat.

3. 

beautiful mother

and her children,

though her children

are greater than she:

heavier, warmer,

sparkling smiles.

heavier, warmer,

sparkling water.

4.

i sing

if i can.

if i can stop spinning,

stationary, to the east,

i would laugh,

then feel wastewater

flooding out,

in a calm manner.

5. 

watch the snowflakes

morph. watch

the angles open, 

close, and

6.

clumsy limbs,

mistaken movements,

too comfortably lost,

you forgot

to calculate

the sum of this.

7.

so the light

suffers 

a series

of seizures.

voyeurism.

i will come

and sit

and watch you kiss,

in your brain

with your hands

behind your back.

he will lean in,

drop his chin,

inhale, exhale

on your lips.

you breathe

his waste.

chapsticked, pink,

now parted, carbon

dioxide, now warm--

you smell pineapple,

sugary and pale,

reminding you

of hunger.

you haven't eaten

since breakfast

this morning,

alone, with 

cold eggs and toast

and the news

(how depressing)

you wished

you hadn't read,

about a missing boy

last seen

two months ago,

trick or treating.

you always knew

halloween 

was evil,

playing with ghosts

and lost spirits,

boldly mocking

the unhappily dead.

then, he came

closer

and sucked 

your soul.

i saw.

i saw it all.

not quite.

you used the wrong word,

and praised the wrong lord,

watching his talk,

and hearing his walk.

you fooled 

your other half

with an old map,

and took it to his home,

then sold it for his own.

go on, go on.

it is worship.

it is love.

when one day you woke

to the sound of nothing,

you knew you'd made

a tragically bad deal.

your hard knees fell,

your body, unwhole,

touched the rainground,

your insides, sore.

when one moment you woke

to the dead ants crawling

toward your thighs...

you closed your eyes.

go on, go on.

it was worship.

it was love.

hate.

i hate the number 12,

and i hate this glitter

in the air.

i am breathing the dust

your body left behind.

i am trying to keep

the dents you made

in the bread,

i saw the quick

violent breaks

when you made toast

this morning.

i hate toast

and ruined bread,

fat dots of butter

melted by heat,

the opaque and clear

so dangerously near.

i hate butter

and fake grape jam.

i trail the glitter

and the butter,

stale crumbs

over my keyboard,

to write:

i hate you. but

i hate me more.

5 hours

on a second second try, 

i face the wall

and mourn the stack

of fallen trees.

i had killed them,

ignored their calls,

and silenced their falls.

but i cannot choose now

to lose my sight,

for their corpses

i've laid right here.

old deaths and new deaths,

i have murdered them all,

with their bent corners

and clean innocence torn.

now i refuse 

to pay them respect,

unwritten eulogies

among the foggy,

uneasy minutes

and days, caught

and destroyed

in traffic accidents

where the warning

honking sounds droned

on and on,

the cars nowhere to be seen.

if only i can honor them

loudly enough 

to mute their ghosts'

moaning in me,

to erase the records 

of my guilty fingerprints,

the unsteady writing

documenting

their unwilling sacrifices

and thudding screams,

if i can convince myself

to cruelly make believe

they've kept their dignity

in this very long afterlife. 

perhaps i am capable

of doing so (quietly!),

to justify robbing their graves

and stealing their diamonds,

pearls and rubies,

(sapphires and emeralds

need not apply),

then (quickly!) restore them

to their peace...

but i cannot write

this twelve-page paper.

so these books, their ideas,

lie wasted, ruined, latent,

their souls twice cursed

and many times damned,

all, of course, thanks to me.

just one question, for now.

i am wondering what would happen if i left college, now. 

i will probably not return to higher education. i will disappoint my parents. i will disappoint myself. i will regret it fully when i see that i should have just stopped being weak and pulled through it all. i will imagine what graduation would have looked like. 

and how my gown would fit. 

and how the tassel would get in my face. 

and how my parents would sit there, not knowing most of the things the speakers would say, my father snapping away with the camera even though he knows (yes, he knows well) i do not like it. 

they will embarrass me, and i will be angry, and i will forget. 

i will take pictures with my friends and acquaintances, 

in our sundresses, and button-down shirts. 

and diplomas and smiles.

i will hug them, and prepare to lose touch with half.

i will cry.

i am wondering what would happen if i left college now.

i will probably find a job. i will probably keep myself alive, with or without welfare and handouts. i will buy groceries and remember to love coupons again. i will learn to ignore. i will live my life, because God and my parents have given me life, and i think they love me. i will still find moments of laughter. i will still have friends, if not the same ones. i will find bits of happiness. 

and mother and father will retrace their steps as i wander to find my way. 

father will frown and sigh and in fits, suddenly outraged (when other things are on his mind too, when they are raining down on him), he will shout and shout and curse. 

maybe at me. 

maybe at mother. 

maybe at me and mother.

mother will sob, and begin to slap her own face again, asking what her mistake was this time, and how she can correct it (she can't). 

my insides will be stretching far apart, i will suffocate to breathe, but i will breathe.

i will cry.

i can probably do it. 

but i know only this:

i will cry. and i will cry.

emptyspeak.

i looked and waited

for the day, to talk

to you, in a curious way.

i quickly checked,

and again

five minutes later,

and saw your absence

written in clear.

and then it was night,

since i took a nap,

then another nap,

having done nothing,

really, that i 

was supposed to do.

and you, still missing,

had laughed in your time,

had smiled and shouted

and swum through your day,

like the fish pulled on

by its magnetic disk.

but i have slept,

and sat, so silent,

without speaking,

without one sigh.

bad ideas.

i saw her index card

in the trash, a black

recycling bin

without nothing else

but her plain white

index card and her words.

she wrote down the front,

and halfway down the back,

she wrote with unrushed 

letters, slightly italicized,

slightly square, and

wholly detached.

i read the card,

having stolen it

(i wanted to keep it,

but it would have been

a bad idea), listening to

the things she wrote

as if i were inhaling 

my drink from a straw

too fast to taste

its components and time.

i wondered why the author

had left it untorn, 

had thrown it away

where others could read.

was she hoping 

there would be others

to join her card, so 

that it could hide

safe underneath?

or had she hoped

for someone to come

and see it lonely,

white against black,

to pick it up

(as i have) and read it,

thoroughly or not,

keep it, 

or not.

10 years 100 days

this is proof:

we were masochistic

from a very young age.

remember when we sang

on the smelly old bus,

its seats painted with nail polish,

removed by foul air, 

covered with foul mouths?

that took us from our school

and led us to the park?

we sat stern and suppressed, 

like at an angry 

formal dinner table,

all quiet down in front,

because sixth graders

had robbed us of the back.

the best seats, always

waiting, waiting for speed bumps

and high jumps,

our asses (only "tushies" then)

pulled down hard, against green

plastic cushions 

cut with fake imprints,

in less than a full second,

before we've had time to laugh,

or finish our screams, or even gasp.

remember when we sang

99 bottles of beer on the wall,

but thought nothing of beer,

only of how we would totally 

(totally, but not really, 

never really) punch someone

if he (it was always a he) started 

again, anew,

from 99?

remember,

it was never 100,

it was never whole.

fourth grade recess.

her hands off security now,

his hands covering blood now,

i watch them as they shout,

(a scream!) 

cry and blame about.

they are running across, swinging,

up and down the moss, sliding,

their legs 

like scissors in the lost and found,

snipping the loose, crumbling ground.

i hear her stomp, rushing to here, 

(i hear him stumble, rushing to there,)

shaking the bridge, 

(caught on a ridge,)

buckling its planks,

(his tumbling body yanks,)

with hair like bronzed spaghettified gold.

(surely not doing what he's been told).

i hear them push, i hear them pull,

i hear them tossing, i hear them stop.

i see them skipping a one-legged hop.

i see her benched body sigh in lull.

the captain's hot toddy.

swallowing heat,

you sit in your seat,

faintly smiling, 

watching

in vertigo

you echo:

"fuck you!

and fuck you, too."

then, happy gibberish,

though in perfect English,

you grab handfuls of your past,

and throw them out, fast.

slowly you sit back, and back,

continue listening to their yak,

and smile smugly into your mug.

scream.

loudly, 

loudly she roars, 

roars

and as the windows

turn cold and frosty

and as the trees 

nakedly shake, laughing,

laughing, she screams.

i wake,

i wake at her sound,

sound rattling

the glass, sound

pounding the floor.

i am naked but warm,

warm in a sound forgetting.

tick-ticking,

ticking goes the hand,

hand incessantly moving.

i can no longer return

to sleep, her scream

pounding, and time 

tick-ticking,

ticking.

color #2

today, i soak in water

until they loosen with

soft stiffness,

forgetting weeks of uncare,

shedding speckled dust.

i retrieve the shapes

while inking the dots

of your facelipsnoseeyes

with that abundance of hair

everywhere, 

everywhere

but against my skin. 

i mix

the blue and grey, 

the pink too, but that

is just an accident.

soon, the failed and fading

yellow blends,

with the black with brown,

running to places 

they shouldn't go.

and when i rinse,

i remember,

this brush cannot draw

the shapeliness of your nose,

nor colors find the right shade

for your cheeks. and your

eyes i have mutilated

with an unhealthy dose

of overflowing blues.

your hair, tangled into

a melting ball, oozing out of your

topless skull

and the skin surrounding it

bloodied 

with what appears to be

a funeral veil.

so i settle the artificial heads

of hair back to collect

dust and cold, and walk

to your unrecognizable face,

almost dry, now, 

though still stained,

looking for only four

more seconds before i tear,

tear. with wrinkled hands.

with half-closed eyes.

sit down and talk.

and while we talk,

we are going to see

the world in each 

other's eyes,

and miss the center,

miss the core, miss the spirit

of each other's air and soil.

we will talk of our mothers,

and our fathers, though

they were not half

as great as the women

who traveled with us,

and fed us, and loved us,

and cursed us.

mother, who killed us

after creating this

mess of a masterpiece,

seen only in her eyes.

she did not see 

our world in our eyes

which held for her soul

her world, her air, soil, 

while father smiled

and thought about youth,

about his great woman,

in black and gray, slim

and perfectly mature,

her hair softly frozen,

her eyes worn and opaque,

her dress, not new, 

but new enough

for him. himself a father,

now and now, a father

of other children sinking 

their eyes (with their worlds)

in the landscapes

of their woman. she and she,

all one, and only she,

there is really no other.

mother, the curse (yours,

now mine) is lovely,

when you traveled with me,

and fainted, and fell,

(you managed to cry before

your mind slipped)

and sent me fear 

of life, future, death and past.

you have given it to me, all--

my inheritance, heavier

than gold, 

though just as useless--

all and more

than our eyes could ever,

ever hold.

about your love

i do feel you

are an idiot

to have had her,

to willingly fight her,

to call her mistakes

crimes, and you

the victim,

you, whose only wrong

was having committed 

your soul (you say)

to this contract

you once thought

God had written for you.

listen, idiot, the term

"soul mates" applied

to only Adam and Eve.

your ribs are fit

for no body, your

breath too shallow,

your heart too

scarce to share.

her words, far far

superior to yours,

her mind with sunlight

(spoiled, you say,

though i think

your green tongue

is more jealous

than hurt), scolding rain,

and freakish hail,

is of more substance

than your always

overcast, always

just so.

and you,

more bitter than

Chinese medicinal soups,

can replace two 

older than old bachelors,

regretful, and bitching

about who had more

when they were young

when the grass still grew,

and the girls still saved

(though they loved

to break the banks).

you, (you know

you're sorry,)

already running out

of fond memories

and new opportunities,

thinking, maybe,

you should let yourself wish

that the past would replay.

after.

then i began to see lights

behind her head. a halo.

and when she moved 

her head, it floated, 

jumping suddenly, 

above and back.

i saw it, still, like 

the fog outside, 

down the steps,

where the people gathered,

lathered and chattered.

and while they smiled,

smoothly like happy children,

we watched glowing

street lamps,

and thought, yes,

they're pretty.

my eyes, stuck.

at her voice, i began

to see lighted shadows

behind her head, like

ghosts 

with attention deficit disorder.

her voice, startlingly small

for her rounded eyes, glassy,

pretty. too perfect,

too small. too cute. and

if she tried

to step inside

her words would take her

to the dollhouse

where she would sit.

and sit. (and make love.)

too perfect,

like the drops of moisture

we could not see,

under the street lamps.

but at night, in a world

of small voices, and

halos, we felt our throats

and heard your inhales,

your lips, parted,

and mine,

screwed,

your eyes on her,

and mine on you.

science, mathematics, and a headache

take comfort in these

numbers, in calculations 

leading to the right answers,

with their solid solutions.

believe in the patterns 

and experiments and

logic and predictions:

the weather, the lottery,

the stocks, the plane

crashes, the car accidents,

the date

when the world would end

(no one actually cares),

the date

when you think she 

will most likely say yes

(she likes a certain day,

you think) (you're wrong)

(she wouldn't mind)

when your baby (boy) arrives,

how likely he will be an athlete

(on land?),

how he will have her lips,

your eyes, your nose,

her hair. (really beautiful.)

but you didn't choose her.

(you're still 

young, they say.)

(and later... they

would say...)

recalculate.