Like a rubber band
around my finger
pulled back by
someone’s
hand.
Aimed at a child’s car
that is slowly dragged
in reverse
engaging
the motor inside—
wheels held
against the floor
pointing
towards the first domino
that will fall all
the others.
LET GO.
Scoring the surface,
a mosaic of light
leading the rivers
to my chiseled fang.
LET GO
Passionate
power is killing me.
LET GO
I guess i’m not screaming
loud enough.
Please let go.
…and yet,
i welcome the dream
i could never
imagine.
what can a word give me
if it’s not
resolution?
if it’s not
a path for
taking?
what can a sentence bring me
if i can’t build
a sky scraper on it?
a small trading
town
turned metropolis.
how far can a paragraph really take me
if my heart doesn’t
break?
if my life
doesn’t ever really
change.
how much is a book worth to me
if it doesn’t create
riches.
wider eyes with
a breathe of crisp cold
air.
if you can’t give me
everything
start with a word.
yes, i’m scared of the unknown… a tall-tail sign of growth.
I am not another drop
of condensation—
a falling tide.
Nor am I the sound
of waves breaking the
defeated, running soldiers.
I am the ocean
herself... the sea
and all of it’s multitudes.
Reflections of clouds and
soaring eagles, the sun
and his moon—
these are simply
the tip of the iceberg
with which you may
get to know me.
It is those who bring sunglasses,
a bottle of red wine, and the air
of an art critic that I allow
a taste, a salty pucker
chance to swim.
And so, if it is you,
I recommend stretching first.
Follow the sparks.
The bright orbs of light
dancing east and west.
Feel the heat so
close to your face
it showers up rage.
Find a lover
—a friend you can free—
and set fuse.
its so much
the clutter in this attic
the door won’t open
can only crack it
add anything
the floor doesn’t have it
it’s just full of old love
and lost broken habits
spring cleaning
i’m sure
ill find the heart
to let it go
i could use a friend
unbox being alone
but for now it’s dark
and the dust
is still my home
Here’s to that sudden last crunch.
That pop and crackle, the explosion
of sound barrier breaking, the launch
of space and nothingness as he jumped—
then flew.
I remember my uncle Jack asking, “hey Kris, you ever play 52 card pickup?” I easily responded ‘no’ as he flicked 52 cards in the air to settle as chaos on the floor of my grandma’s breezeway. That was the first time I felt whatever it is I felt... tricked, humiliated... such a little t trauma but still it stuck. This morning I feel chaos, this morning I feel the flick and flutter of each of those 52 pieces of laminated paper... the swirl of flight, the reflection of lights at all angles. The cards settle, they always do, but now I have to pick em all up and organize the deck again.
I found this word we all have heard, ‘never’ and ‘always’ seem to be its song. Expecting the expected of what I tend to expect from the voice inside that cuts me down; ‘always’ and ‘never’. I’ve tried, I really have, you may think I haven’t, but I have. I guess it ‘always’ slips away or ‘never’ shows its face... either way: almost.
Have you ever watched a bush dance by watering it? The silver streak to the falling blur: a disco at 1:55 PM.
In my crib, my aunts and mom in the hallway light standing over me talking. But my aunts are deaf.
Me eating worms whole. I took a lot of antibiotics growing up.
My first kiss was a cave-of-a-mouth French, I got up and ran away the second it happened.
I missed the game winning shot meant for someone else. I said I didn’t know.
I broke up with a girl who said I was fat… but really she just drew a dinosaur with chalk and put my name under it.
What is it
that entails value?
Is it the fruit,
the touchables of worth?
Or is it the sweat,
cool mawkish skin,
that forces my body
to become
a house that teaches.
The kitchen table is
a strong piece of wood,
or laminate, or plastic,
stained or covered,
potentially laid bare
for the roaches
clinging to the under
belly.
The smell of riches
and the soft touch
of open windows,
a cool sweat
of envy green
will never see those
queens, full of little
roach babies, waiting to
bury themselves into your
memories.
And still, the kitchen table
is a strong piece of wood.
At the first touch of
blue, my lashes
drag together as
paper on paper
allowing my two
fly traps to
taste its first blood.
To-do,
always a to-do,
if it isn’t my father
sweating and panting,
it’s my mother
making a list.
Within a small
living area
lives a large story.
Not an untold story
but a continued telling
of just that...
The soft white
surrounds you, the light
laughter beside you,
the uninterrupted focus—
the eager ears that stare into
it’s soul.
“Tell me,
what is this life?”
It isn’t much
of what you
think it is.
Current events caught
up in a string of
pearls,
memories and lies,
fruit compote
pies.
But a gentle spirit
and those edgy
sandwich recipes.
I started on a hill, swinging,
not climbing,
on a Whipple tree.
The storm, the melancholy, came
to water our land.
Soon-to-be ketchup
brought me by sea
and eventually sweating in
lines and blue ovals brought me
by paved roads.
As soon as we could fly I flew,
but not before toast and coffee.
With Mr. Bean shaving his tongue and
Lucy stuffing her face
with chocolates,
that generational laugh
I hope will be the last sound I hear
as I fade back into
that farmland north of London.
And since I have time
as of now,
that laugh…
It wasn’t because the day
was done well
or her loved ones treated her
with love and kindness.
It’s because it wasn’t so,
that with Vernor floats I could watch
courage unfold.
They kept me alive
They kept me safe
They introduced me to their god
They showed me the world
They taught me their respect
They helped my hobbies
They listened
They responded
They gave me money
They allowed my questions
They allowed my directions
They didn’t get it
They still don’t
They accept my passion
They are scared for my heart and soul
Because they love me
I am different from them
Praise the lemon
I am different from them
Because they loved me.
In the depths of
dampness, musk, and
laundry detergent
where the glass
box of light filled
with the fragments of
my sins coast
from corner to corner
and the sticky cold
couch holds my
my obesity as
that of an old mans;
where the soft fingers
of the green
camp blanket keep
me just as warm,
this is the beginning
of my inner years
of angst:
from boy to efforts...
Something that needs
no labeling or
requirement,
something that within
holds pure; a boil to
simmer to taste.
So closely related:
Experience and Explain.
The former a black sheep
off into the distance,
climbing, grazing,
sun on its face.
A thousand ways
to detail the coming
storm, the wind, the rain.
How also
a thousand ways
to never have to explain.