Red ribbon, red ribbon

Pull me apart

like a ribbon 

with frayed ends,

unravel me

all the way to the top,

leave me tangled and messy;

just do it with a smile

and blurry eyes,

like you always do.

Take me far away

just to bring me back 

empty handed.

It's easier when our cheeks are red 

from reeking of alcohol,

not shame. 

I won't convince you otherwise.

This is for the boys

(who answer my questions,

even the ones that begin and end in 'why?')

Although there should be,

there is no calendar date

set aside for the men in my life.

The longest day of the year

wouldn’t have enough hours in the day

to celebrate what they can (and cannot) do.

No one thought to book off

all the days they fixed the

“un-repairable” and irreplaceable,

that which I have broken, or even

that which they broke.

And the banks forgot to close

when they sing happy birthday

(to me, or my mom)

or when they bought the matching cake.

There is no medal

for seeing me cry, doing my dishes,

letting me sleep and waking me up.

No one got paid overtime 

walking me home or changing the light bulbs.

There is no calendar out there

that staggers names across dates 

and bullet points their achievements

(it would be far too lengthy).

Even so,

There are no words in print

that could celebrate them the way I do.

This is for the boys who 

can reach the top shelf.

This is for the boys 

who’ve helped me do my homework,

who carve the meat,

climb the ladders, 

turn the screws,

paint the walls,

cook 

and clean,

sing and dance,

use power tools 

rip things down 

and build them back up again.

They chase, lose and find the dogs, 

set things on fire

and still find the time to be golden.

Hype

When the rational 

became rationed 

and fodder is now filler. 

The worlds all hyped up 

on something that calms you down. 

Did you ever think 

I meant to be that way?

Who, what, where, when and how?

How do you steal back the sun

from greedy cloud grasps

or bottle a rainbow

for show?

and what button do you press

to record the tune in your head?

Upstream

We

will paddle on.

and we,

will carry on forward

with 

or against the tide.

and

when we feel

as if all is lost

we will make something

from nothing but ourselves.

P is for POETRY

I have dedicated my body to words

starting with my fingers;

my fingernails and finger bones,

even my finger prints.

After that my wrists

and their tendons, my forearms

and elbows all swore oath.

My shoulders and my neck,

my head, my heart, and even my brain

have all chipped in,

some way or another

and in the same fashion

written all across the body’s care manual,

nothing works together

if something is out of place.

The season of giving (and taking)

It is unbearably undark

in a sky filled with bright clouds

who fake an early dawn

while the moon is still a reflecting god

sitting high in the sky.

What should be black or blue

is just a palette of sickly hues,

bone gray and ashy yellow

radiating,

across silhouetted expanses

where stars once sat.

The season of giving

and taking

has a way of tricking time

day and night,

trying to make the hours forget the sunlight.

Weather now,

is stagnant

and unstoppable,

digging its heels in protest

at the changes of leaves and wind

blowing and billowing,

bringing everything to its knees.

10/1/2011

Sleep isn't for the night

I lay awake at night

at all hours rehearsing 

words over and over

until they beat a rhythm 

in my head, staying there,

marching to their own tune,

a series of letters

confessions

always speaking the words

I won’t physically say

until one day

they beat too long,

too hard

and I wrote them down

fingers never as quick as my head,

getting ahead of itself.

My words are on paper

so finally they have stopped 

their relentless weaving.

Now when I lay me down to sleep

I hear silence instead of a broken manifesto

regurgitating endlessly

until the words were smooth,

until they came rushing,

flooding in

wave after wave

until they were done 

and dried themselves up.

A house is like a home

Our bodies are houses… homes,

not just encapsulating shells.

Eyes are the top-room shutters,

keeping out, letting in the light for the man inside,

while our hearts are foyer doors, 

hidden just past the exterior,

guarding a core.

This is a place of many footprints,

but few have the key to the lock.

Our hands, our kitchens, living rooms, 

buzzing with hivelike activity, 

the thing-in-front-of-your-nose,

center stage without all the spotlight.

The foot, however,

is most like a bedroom--

obvious, a little mysterious

an effective means of escape

keeping you grounded,

taking you away.

Have you looked to the moon recently?

The clouds above my head

are the same ones surging over you,

lying in your bed.

It is the very same moon

burning bright in my window-sky

that you and I see,

as far away we may be.

We bunched together

then drifted apart

in the way of clouds, buffeted on the wind,

strung along.

Droplets upon droplets form until clouds are born,

deepening, darkening, spilling over until the sun

burns through, dissipating dark.

Can love be my sun and sizzle away the dark?

Or will time evaporate the film clinging between us?

The moon is always there,

even when it shines for someone else,

glowing even when hidden by the clouds.

I only need to look up,

knowing you have too.

Flesh, in all its glory

Live, love, laugh.

Three things,

 such a simple recipe for everything in life

when said aloud,

dictated or preached.

We practice them, every single day

or at least you and I,

above the ground.

Tell me, what makes you alive?

What monitor screams

THIS ONES LIVING?

Your heart does,

when it's pounding

when it's aching

when it's light

and even in fright.

What else does your heart do?

It loves, of course.

What is love?

Love is when your brain

is spelling out

I-M-P-O-S-S-I-B-L-E

and your heart is

frantically scribbling

Y-E-S.

Love is when your heart pounds

after seeing the same smile

fifteen years in a row.

Love is being able to laugh

at yourself.

What is laughter?

Laughter is

the cheapest,

most intoxicating

(addicting, even)

substance we’ve ever invented.

Nothing hurts your

stomach, cheeks,

eyes or sides

nor heals and mends

souls and friendships

relationships and moments

quite like

laughter.

Wilt

My secrets are sticking to me,

bogging me down

left right and center,

sending me askew.

Little bricks stuck to my skin,

pulling me off-center.

No physical cleanse can remove this adhesive,

will truth set freedom loose,

or are these words going to be my noose?

When do staggering steps become cohesive?

When the steps become strides,

when without guilt,

you start feeling pride.

On truth this foundation must be built,

because I will not let this flower wilt.

Achilles Heel

I've got a whole lot of words to say

ready and waiting

but they're not pretty, or packaged,

they are crudely lumped up

an awkward jumble

stuck in my throat

stuck in my head

stuck to my pen and not

quite making it to paper

I've spoken of the world to you

of its wonders, its terrors,

even its disgust,

all at length

all at ease

but this?

This is the peanut butter gluing my tongue;

my achilles heel is the very muscle I tenderly tone?

My very words?

Whether it be

you
or the words

I am afraid of, I'm not sure.

Either way,
I'm still left with telling you something you already know.

Refills are free

I have bled out

every last injustice you left me the deed to,

I have sobbed out

every last cruel word

you imprinted on my memory,

and I have shed every last scab you gifted me.

My skin is shiny and new,

pink with scar tissue,

thick from you.

By the time I am done,

I will have opened myself up and poured you out,

and I will wait out these hollow times

until I have filled myself up again,

back to the brim,

until I overflow,

until all these things are joys instead of sorrow.

(Still) Awake

Part II

(Still)

Awake.

as the sun seeps in.

Peeking. Prying.

Tendrils that seem weak,

a substance not completely there

grow stronger, thicker.

It took seemingly moments

for the darkest blue-black stain

to fade, melt down

to a translucent blue.

Routine transition

has made me uneasy.

Have I created a head start for the day,

Or am I very, very behind?

Awake

I’ve been up all night again

so my mind has yet to sleep

as the sun is peeking in;

Pale, weak tendrils growing thicker,

stronger by the minute, hour

seeping in like ink,

a substance not completely there.

The morning hours seem utopian

in their transition --

In what seemed like moments the

blackest dark melted

liquefied and lightened,

and lost all its opacity.

Shedding its coat, the sky

remaining undecided

on its final hue

clocks in another completed routine.

Within the infinite chase

of sun and moon

we find shadows of humanity;

Light follows dark

ever and always

in equal measure.

Floundering

Floundering beneath a wave

of something I’ve yet to put a name to,

I am trapped,

caught in a dizzying dance

so hypnotic to watch;

Breaking the surface,

freedoms first gasp is

confinements last laugh

when I’m pulled back under

tied to and with

the flotsam and jetsam

lurking below.

Even words

Even words can become all too familiar.

Favourite storybook words carouselling around your brain,

read so many times that they’ve lost their distinction,

their flavour.

You dove in, head first,

recklessness embodied

if not for the fact that you have taken the plunge before,

and every inch has once before been swept

with your eyes and your hands.

Sing-song lines and lyrics are sounding monotonous,

making you plough through their rhymes and rhythms

like chores.

Like chores?

Since when has the poets palate been bland to the ears,

a flat line in emotion?

What are you supposed to do

when the verses you sink yourself into so regularly

won’t hold you up any more?

Words are the faithful lovers,

however quarrelsome they may be;

Words are the burning little suns in the minds horizon,

bursting into flame then dying out-- always reborn.

Words are the sweet lips you grow tired of kissing

without a first kiss.

Matches to ashes

Have you ever played with fire

just to hide behind a wall of smoke?

What is it about dangerous things

that hide the most vulnerable?

Ever noticed,

When you run your fingers through candle flame

You half hope to God

something will go wrong.

Is it because you want to pull away,

wanting the sudden flash of fight or flight?

Or does the wound serve the ego?

A story to tell and a sick thrill of victory, to boot.

Maybe its our need to play God with ourselves.

Do we create chaos

just to have the power

to control everything and walk away?

Sort of like throwing the match

exactly where you want it;

the starting point with the most potential,

then stepping away

when the smoke and alarms turn

the spotlights in a different direction.

Maybe our fire, smoke and chaos

is humanities chance at designing something of a legacy;

Fuelled into life by its insatiable appetite for destruction

and instilled with less than no moral guides.

A legacy that can only burn itself out.

Foul vowel.

It’s a vise

around my throat, hot and cold,

a burning without any of the heat.

Constricting,

I think its travelling down

my chest and into my lungs

around my ribs and straight down

into my belly, rolling its greasy fingers

along my insides

feeling for the weakest spot,

and infecting the rest.

So cold it hurts,

but we already know its not really cold.

It’s not really anything,

for no prescription or bought remedy, nor sought

or traded medicine,

could touch what decides to afflict me.

Because how can you cure the letters

of a name? How can you stop

vowels sinking into your blood

winding their way up to your brain,

and clutching relentlessly?