Poetry

Works of verse

Plasma

I still expect you to…

to do what? I don’t know.

You know where my house is,

have it mapped out somewhere in the folds

of your ever-clicking mind. I want

you to drive up here

and save me, do something… anything.

I’ll leave it generalized like that, open,

gaping even. Like the space in between

the brown jutting earth and the black

contorting universe. We were in The Dalles

that day when we noticed the sky, noticed

how it bucked in desire for precision and

details. I won’t ask anything of you,

demand that you come over, wrap something

around my eyes and gently lead me away

from the fire. I expect you to

though. Perhaps because when we stooped

under the weight of being only fifteen years old

you made those thin gauze promises

and I wound them into balls and saved them

for when I really got hurt. Can you call this hurt?

I could think of many

different names, each one obscure and pointing…

they want me to call it hurt.

And so I do reach out to you, I

try touching you with frozen fingers, even though

I know we’re long past the age of touching,

into and out of the era of hitting… what are we

wallowing in now? It’s something

separate

something soft and pliable,

perhaps spattered with picked-through memories,

only the good ones though, this isn’t

a time period for sadness or anger.

You and I… we could come up with memories

full of those things, but we choose not to anymore.

You’re on your way out, and I’m

just starting on that road. Perhaps

it’s because of this, the fact that you’re about to take

the final bow in the play of my life,

that I cry for you now. All alone

upon my wooden floor? Preposterous!

And yet it’s happening. So I finger you,

my parched flesh swollen with expectations,

and you know from experience that the best thing

to do for me, is to wrap me up with some

more gauze.

Black Mamba

As graceful as a swan

But steel fast and deadly

 

Its leathery and slippery coat

 

Shines under the African sun

 

Its lengthy and lean body

 

Rests tranquilly in its masters firm hand

 

While the slave obediently

Gets ready to be whipped.

Blind Love

The moment we met

was everlasting.

I never knew any secrets you kept from me.

You always seemed

so absent, so prevalent,

when we shared our thoughts

together.

You told me

you were in love with me

But you turned your gaze

from me

and started to go off alone.

Don’t ya know

That I will always love you

Till I die.

Weekends

I spent the weekend

Doing just what I wanted

Sitting alone at home

Talking to no one

And thinking

 

I played some new songs

On my beat-up stereo

And sung along

With all the passion

I ever had

 

I read some out of a pulp novel

I bought at an airport

And wrote a little

A poem or two

But nothing too good

 

I picked up the old guitar

From next to my bed

With the broken string

And played three notes

Then put it back down

 

I turned my stereo back on

And played a tape

That had been given to me

By a good friend

Who moved away last year

 

I remembered how we

Spent our weekends together

With me on the guitar

And her singing softly

Her voice choking on emotion

 

I spent the weekend

Doing just what I hated

Sitting alone right here

Talking to nobody

And crying

With all that I held

Within

’til the pain went away

Talking to an Image

I showed you my report card, all As,

But that wasn’t good enough for you.

 

What can I do to make you satisfied with me?

 

I went out for basketball, and I made varsity,

But you couldn’t care less.

 

What can I do to make you be happy for me?

 

In P.E. class, I ran the mile in less than seven minutes,

But you weren’t even proud of me.

 

What can I do to make you praise me?

 

I put on make-up just like the beautiful models in magazines,

But you didn’t even give me a glance.

 

What can I do to make you notice me?

 

I went on a diet, and I lost a few pounds,

But still you just looked down on me.

 

What can I do to make you accept me?

 

I treated everyone like my best friend, even you,

But you didn’t even show any friendship in return.

 

What can I do to make you love me?

 

I am talking to an image

In the mirror.

One for the Ladies

How to Deal with a Fashionable Lack of Self Esteem

 

In an age where successfully confident empowerment is the

Lord High Desire,

There exists a downright irritating irony… no, worse… a total contradiction.

 

Your see, the coveted few (though more than you think) who possess these

gems, those who

Undoubtedly inspire,

Must pretend to think nothing of themselves.

 

See, it is perfectly expectable to have talent, brains, and skill. And to

display it is delightful,

Long as the display is kept meek.

And to expect compliments is well… expected, long as they’re not accepted,

but modestly denied.

In fact, it seems refusing you have any redeeming qualities

Is positively chic.

 

But here’s the twist that irks me most. It’s an evil spiral, let me tell you.

 

It starts with “Oh, my dear Jessalyn, how wonderful you sang tonight, you

have the most

Magnificent voice!”

And goes on with “Oh, but darling Hyacinth, my voice is truly nothing.”

And if poor Jessie wanted only a brief chat, her reply was one of

very poor choice.

 

Now, you see, she’s sparked an unending stream of “Oh, pish-posh” and

“Certainly

You know you’re good.”

And she does, but she must continue in the negative or face a dire

consequence.

For the moment her exhausted tongue slips and utters, “Oh, you’re right, I’m

fine,” she’s behaving

As a snob would.

 

And so you see a bit of praise becomes an emotional hostage situation, where

one’s very

Sanity is pressed.

Well, to combat it I’ve devised a clever quip. When someone says, “You’re

great,” I reply, “Why thank you”

with bright eyes and full smile.

Because letting them think that I’m stuck up now, saves a me a great deal of

Undue stress.

Smell of Sleep

The stale smell of sleep

Floats

Through my nose

Up from the damp pillow.

 

My sticky face soaks it in

As it dries.

I curl my arms around

The old teddy bear

I’ve had for fifteen years.

 

He smells like sleep, too.

 

Outside my window

Clouds pass over stars,

Sipping their light

And mine.

 

Shivering,

The tears start again,

Crippling the wrinkles

In the pillowcase.

The Romanticized Star

Slinky, bright pink

bubble gum snapping

blond.

A head cocked back in

movie star laughter,

stained white laughter.

Leaning forward,

your designer sunglasses slide down your

purchased nose.

The toocoolforyou shades

quickly moved back.

Your trademark accessory,

or do you have world-fearing eyes,

deepdark eyes,

afraid of the burning light,

the scintillating light which sees right

through

you.

A porcelain hand emerges,

Barbie-pink nails,

now gliding through the

blondest of the blond.

My hand reflexively places itself

on my own hair,

and is caught up in curls,

a mass of auburn tangles.

My glance falls to the mirror

and my flawed self,

but my eyes prevail.

Bluegreen,

surrounded by cheap, ebony,

wet-n-wild lashes,

which can look straight at the world,

and not flinch.

Even without rose-tinted plastic.

Drowning

I saw the world

in a reflection

in her tear

I Hate People, I Love Strangers

People may walk side by

side

But animosity lies deep within one another

People are selfish creatures, preying on the weak and bowing to the strong

When will hate fall and love spring?

Emotions run wild when I see people at first glance

Sometimes when I’m in bed I think of faceless dozens

I’m surprised at how much I love them

Those intimate to me don’t compare to the love I have for strangers

Needless to say, I hate people—I love strangers