Posts Tagged ‘relationship’


You took my warning
as an invitation.
You mistake power for oppression
and so volunteer
like a dog
more loyal than smart
at the pleasure of a leash.
You will jump
at the promise of freedom
but forget such tethers
of security.
You revealed this while comparing
yourself to a Corinthian king
but you mistake movement
for momentum.
What we have is not the incline
but the pusher
and you are not the king
but the rock.

Read Full Post »


Fight. She said
to bring life from ash. To stave
off dust from the beam of light
that cuts the attic cluttered
with abandoned objects.
He needs to fight the light
because she fears the darkness.
The universe is shaped like
two clasped hands – consumed
by the thing that holds it in existence.

The house has tracks
cut by her lagging finger. Why dust
with so much on your mind?
Speechless amidst a storm of words
in the kitchen she was helpless. She
wanted to say things she could never say to herself.
Things like I love you unconditionally,
like I forgive you and I want you to be yourself.
But instead she could only say fight.

Read Full Post »

She keeps from going to pieces
by visiting the world
and seeing the stars
from the top of my car
above moon roofs but
below the reflecting surface
of lakes
and when she goes
she takes me with her.

We see where we are going
in the puzzle in the sky
and written in cracks of trees –
the wrinkles on an old man
with pieces squeaking
when they grind against themselves
while tending his garden
but through a thin smile
he remembers the war
that shattered our world.

No, she won’t go to pieces
even though she is made
of them. Not this girl of
wire and cogs,
string coiled around
a computer chip
and memory.

She visits the world,
he visits the world,
and when they do they bring me
to watch it fall apart
into new wholes
with new homes
and new names.
He pats her on the back
as if to pass her
the inherited mess
he wouldn’t let fall to pieces,
the mess he and his wife
that they let fall to pieces,
to hold each other.

So when I go, I’ll bring her.

Read Full Post »

Your hands press overlapping
crop circles into my knotted back,
the same high pressure system
that swirled a storm on dirty dishes
and cleared condensation
off the glass shower door to
reveal your face amidst steam.

We whisper though the house
is empty and too large.
You waited for me to come home
for this, to rub my back
and talk about vacation spots.
At work, my female colleagues
tell me of your servitude –
of a thing called woman
with a glass ceiling
and steamy condescension.

How did such a young woman,
such a modern woman,
get hoodwinked into loving to serve?
She has given it away you know,
this thing called womanhood.
For a man, for this man,
a young barely bearded man,
who needs her to dress him,
to feed him well,
to rub his back.

Did I make you into unwoman
by witnessing your dreams
unfulfilled? The lack of tiny feet
on the hard wood, even though
we cuss the dog out when he
relieves himself there. We would
love those tiny feet, kiss them
like a king, and serve them hand
over foot. To love such a thing,
such a tiny, tiny thing.

Then I could have an excuse for
a dead end job and you
would have a reason to stay at home
other than wanting to.
But instead you are unwoman and I am unman.
So after a relaxing back rub
we will enjoy sex with the lights on
then fall asleep in each other’s arms
while the dog watches through
the fat end of a white cone
like a little furry phonograph.

Read Full Post »

Dead Languages

When our voices stopped
we realized the silence
of the car. Even the usually
fickle transmission was
a silent assassin.
Her fingers moved like
conspiracy as she tapped
an uncomfortable beat
into her expensive purse.
I rolled the window down
to let breath into the void.
She cursed loudly
and hit me.
The car jerked temporarily
into the other lane
and then back into
the dead silence of a long
car ride.

Read Full Post »

Unimagined Imagery

She asked for a simple answer
to supply her with definition
bored of metaphors
and expectable precision
she asked me to tell her
what is was we were living for.

Pasta with a simple sauce
passed ejaculating words
choking on the broken
wisdom lost.
“Save the bread for the birds.
We desire something more.”

Eye to hand, hand to mouth,
taste the food, feel her stare
silence, simple reliance
on the ability to repair
pains caused by our wealth.
“Love comes to the poor.”

For a moment it seems that simple
to be Adam and Prince Charming
Relieved by Eve,
her nudity alarming
the snake’s symbol
she forgot how to ignore.

She stood like mother Atlas,
A world in her simple hands
a shrug and a drug
strength taken by a weaker man.
She can fall in love at last.
Her arms were getting sore.

It is perfect in the imagination
to be with only the most perfect.
Love is at the core of
the overgrown roads that intersect
as they lead from, and to salvation.
A simple world that is complex to explore.

Read Full Post »

We stand, I sigh
we knowers on the edge
the pupil-less eyes
of the over class
peering through our share
of knowledge.

To remember our history
is to watch it happen again
powerless to the sky
brilliant blue abyss
and to tell it we don’t care
we kiss, I sigh.

I sigh, we stand
our digital palms
extend over the land,
the throng of fir trees
we pretend are people
wave like the creator’s seas.

We lay down, I reply
we kissers, our feet over the edge
not knowing why from why not
our parapet forms the wedge
between heaven and earth
shoe laces dancing with the wind.

To imagine the future is to bind our potential
so just let it happen.
Let us be powerless to landscape
the ground we once lived on.
But now look into our eyes
that is were we are found.

I fall, we fly
we flyers above sea, land, air
knowing passes under us
and to show it we don’t care
we kiss, we knowers
in the unknown world.

Read Full Post »

Shattered porcelain
like unburied artifacts
look like clouds on a hardwood sky.
She broke it, she is broken.
Standing by the dishwasher
her fingers between teeth
to prevent tears.

The curls of her black hair
bounce in the rhythm of her tapping foot.
A treatise could be written about her stance,
a theory constructed out of her clothes,
she feels the tension she has on her self.
Somewhere beneath strained breathing
she is porcelain ready to break.

The setting sun behind her
represents change, renewal, and hope.
Flooding through the kitchen window
it casts her into a shadow on the floor.
It isn’t until I draw close that I feel her heat,
see the blood on her olive skin,
until I discover the cause.

My fingers on her chin give a new trajectory –
her eyes no longer on the floor.
She laughs while waving a dish towel in surrender.
That little porcelain plate was more than it appeared to me.
It was children yet unborn, it was bills yet unpaid,
it was first love, it was heart break,
it was the collected poems of our life together,
it was life unburied.

Read Full Post »