The Feast

I’ve had my moments of dishonesty,
but honestly
at that point I was so unhappy
you could wrap it in your hand
and the sadness would slide and seek,
bite down with teeth
into the soft blue of the veins beneath
your wrist.

Make a fist, honey,
and release—
let the blood flow openly
like your door flew open
and let her in
so quick,
your heart thick
with lust and darker things…

But I’ll tell you the consequence that rushing brings:
you do not know her.

She’ll eat you alive,
she’ll roast you at 400 degrees,
20 to 30 minutes in that heat
until you give her all of you
so she can feast
on what’s made you soft,
then chew on your bones
like she’s one of those dogs you love.

I hope she doesn’t hurt you,
but she will.
Girls like her, they get a thrill
from pounds of flesh
they pull from far beneath your chest
in the caverns of a place
where you once loved me.

You’ve probably learned to forget
what made us break:
your first mistake,
to be made more of skeleton
than heart.
You made the concept of dishonesty
an art,
then pretended it was me
who killed us.

The Pillow

“Impressions” — a marble piece depicting a pillow showing the indentation left by a sleeping head — by Sebastian Martorana

Have you ever rested on a pillow
and wondered
whose head has rested there before?
Whose strands of blonde hair are caught
in the side zipper?
Whose body wrapped around it,
a snuggled head,
a little bit of drool,
the remnants of foolish love,
of heartbreak,
of her home before she knew him?

She left that pillow for you,
so you could rest your head
on what’s left of her,
a piece of
false comfort,
a pillow she used to love,
before time wore it into
faded fabric, unwashed,
the scent of her so intertwined in thread—
you couldn’t even tell
she had been there.

The [Face]Book of Inspiration, Part IV


The title of each poem will be shown as it was written on Facebook. And beneath it the first name and last initial of whoever presented it.

The significance of colors
Nikki B.

I feel red,
then orange,
then the lightest shade
of pink

sometimes I think
I am rainbow
prism or prisoner
of clearly defined hues
masking themselves
as expectations:

you are blue,
and green,
and purple.

No.

I am sunset,
hope, passion, fire.
I am Prometheus
human-bound
then bound for all eternity.
I am
summer’s day
the way you look in the morning
when light hits your face
just so
I want you to know
you are opal,
sapphire,
gem,
not quite one of them,
but you reflect
one color, then many—
your eyes,
emerald then golden
depending on the way you tilt your head
dreams of terra-cotta skin
if you stay outside
just a little bit longer

I want to be every color imaginable

When we speak, it is in CMYK
we exchange words in tinted syllables,
my skin is opaque peach,
my eyes, undecided

my face turns a darker shade of red under the following conditions:
embarrassment,
love,
anger,
glances across a room,

and when you break my heart,
I know the shade I’ll be:

colorless

and you,
you will become transparent.

The Cassini space probe!
Bryan L.

I seek you out in cold dark
god of plenty, of agriculture,
magnetic field
of Cassini dreams
I dive between the spaces of your rings,
to understand
your moons and limbs
and universe.

A description of the sound that Mouse feet make when they run.
Rio C.

Rice dropped onto a wooden floor
Light tapping of long fingernails
What I imagine the word “scatter” sounds like
Tiny representations of anxiousness
A miniature Morse code machine calling for help

Why you asking people to do the hard part for you?
Benjamin S.

Difficult
is stepping from the pillow of your comfort zone
and diving
into a hole
that could be filled
with knives,
rocks,
or more pillows.

The Twelve Steps

I believe in second chances. I believe in third chances. This poem is about belief that things can always change, that they can always get better once you confront the things that scare you.

-Alexa

1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol — that our lives had become unmanageable.

When you lose the ability
to breathe, is it better to gasp for air
or learn how to live without
breathing. Do you feel like air
may kill you, that words may kill you,
that the world may leave you behind.
Sometimes I feel like you do, but instead
of liquor or wine or pills or powder
I am powerless to an immense feeling of loneliness,
drunk with an anxiety that leaves me scared
to leave the house, to face you or the world.

2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

You told me once that I saved you,
but I needed you more than you
needed me. I was so afraid of what it would feel like
to live in this world without family,
that it wasn’t so much saving you,
as saving me from being alone.

3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

I do not believe in God.
But I find comfort in the fact
that you do:
to believe in something so much that you’ve come to find personal peace—

I respect your decision to believe
in something greater than yourself as I have chosen to turn
life over to music and family and truth.
You believe in the good and the kind,
though sometimes you say things
that are unsettling and I tell you
this is so.

4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

What did you find when you sorted through
the files of who you were and
whom you wanted to be? Did you remember nights
where you left me alone on a couch,
my knees wrapped in a large T-shirt that you got
at a charity event where you probably drank
and I probably noticed, but didn’t say anything
because I was too young to know
I should speak up?

5. Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

There are still things you haven’t told me
and I’m okay with this
because the past for you is a place
you do not want to go,
and I do not want to take you there
like I don’t want to go
to the place where I’m in an airport
hunched on the floor
finding out my grandmother died.
Let’s avoid these places
together.

6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

You cannot remove
the birthmark that has nestled itself
into the beauty of your skin
without leaving
even a faint scar.

7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.

It will hurt,
and someday they may come back.

8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.

Was I first or second or third?
I grew up strong and strong-willed
so you cannot say I was harmed, but tested
by the lack of you.

9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

You wrote me a short letter, almost the same length
as the letter I found in a yellow box
meant for my eyes first—
an antonym to everything I understood
about my place in the world to you.

If I had known
depression rested on your heart
like a paperweight
maybe I would have come sooner.
Maybe there would have been no yellow box.
No letter.
Maybe.

I’ve felt that weight,
hard to remove when you live alone
and your arms feel as flimsy
as paper—
weight made heavier by overthinking,
a fear of sinking,
and yellow boxes.

I did not mean it when I said I hated you.
I did not mean it.

10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.

I lied.
I was selfish.
I didn’t know better.
I lied.
I did know better.
I was selfish.
I loved myself
more than I loved you.

11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

Sometimes I talk to my grandmother,
conversations to my ceiling fan or to my wall.
And I try to believe she can hear me.

Sometimes I think that is the same thing
as believing in God.

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we tried to carry this message to others, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

Fear grips my hand
like a child,
little fingers attempting to interweave
with mine.
And though my hands are small,
he cannot get a full grasp—
because Hope makes Fear’s hands smaller than mine,
Hope wraps her arm around my shoulder
pulls me close
and tells me it will all be okay for longer
than a little while.

Assurance

“Hold Me” by Kathleen Horner

Arms

I want to feel safe in your arms,
but I don’t want to need you to feel safe:
does that make sense?

I think I want to be my own arms, able to assure myself
that everything is going to be all right
that everything is going to be okay
if you go your way and I go mine,
diverging from each other like Frost-built roads in yellow woods.

I want to feel safe but not too safe,
safe, but not fearful,
to have confidence in my own ability to manage my life,
to handle pain with dignity, to handle strife
and then to keep a chin so high
it touches clouds that look like ships or dragons or faces
from long forgotten places that span the distance from my understanding of love to yours,
a breadth made wider by lack of conversation.

I do not trust you.
I trust me.

I must confess,
I wanted your arms to be my haven within seconds of meeting you:
your words melted into the pages of me like ink,
slick and black and shaped into serifs against the stark white,
volumes of poetry and pretty words and promises
that would be written, but would be proven false,
and I’d be proven right to have never trusted you.

Your arms are straw,
and mine, brick.

My tongue is filled with truth,
your tongue, thick
with molasses words that drip from the corners of your mouth
and when you wipe that mouth
they stick.

You’ll have to try much harder to assure me
you are nothing more
than arms
and tongue
and teeth,

that what lies beneath
is not just another body filled with falsity.

I don’t need you to feel safe,
or assured,
or comforted.

I need you to be this:

to be honest,
to be more heart than arms.

How to Fall

So due to a request, I am finishing a post I started about 3 years ago. There wasn’t much content to it to start (literally just a phrase or two), but some of the best work often comes from nothing.

So to begin: I haven’t considered falling. Haven’t fallen recently. Haven’t stumbled. But if I must…

A Guide to Falling Head Over Heels

Woman Falling

How to fall:

gracefully, with palms splayed out,
you should hold your hands just so,
ready to clench
and take the maximum impact of the world away from your chest,

breast shaking with the nervousness of seeing him,
the what if’s hanging like a burning halo,
the will he still’s tugging at the heart like it’s wrapped
with ribbon—
ribbon that’s been cut, scraped against the blade of a pair of scissors, and curled so tight
like a lock of unkempt hair.

And this is where you tell your thighs to hold steady,
knees at the ready to take the brunt of the drop,
because you know full well what comes next
after the world stops,
and you feel your heart exit
in a stage dive into an audience of one.

Will he catch me?

The faster the fall, the less time he has to keep you
from launching forward,
your head hitting ground before it has the opportunity to think,
before the heart’s allowed to sink
into feeling
too much too soon.

But this time the fall is semi-slow,
unhurried from one phase of descent into the next,
and when he hesitates, like you expect,
you’ve already hit ground,
your hands cut up,
your balance unbound
to gravity.

You decide you don’t want to be hurt so badly
so you push yourself forward a little harder,
somersault through the hopes for something more,
and pick your head up from the twists of the carpet,
from the comfort of floor.

You rise from the ashes of your fall like a phoenix

you rise
you rise
you rise

from the fear of heartbreak,
a woman privy to the trick of falling
to sustain less damage
because predictability
is never something worth falling for
(at least not enough to actually hurt yourself).

You want something more:
something worth diving for
face first into the waves,
unpredictable in their undulation.

You want the clean chaos
of a home that looks neat to the naked eye,
but when you pry a little deeper
is littered with the artifacts of life.

How to fall:

you don’t.

You rise
you rise
you rise.

Divided

I’m a person split in half: one half is creative, emotional, artistic, passionate, and all the other adjectives you’d associate with someone who has a penchant for lyric; the other half of me is logical, direct, and in constant need of clarity. The work me, the me who gets it done, who protects and who reasons through everything. Sometimes these two halves meet, shake hands, hug, share a little bit about their lives. Sometimes they keep away from each other, give each other space. Or they crash, head first into one another so that the heart and mind are spinning on a dance floor, music blaring so loudly that neither can distinguish emotion from truth— their ears ringing from the realization that there is no division between how they feel and how they want to be feeling.

So here’s a poem about that divide:

Lay lady lay

Pigeons

Sometimes I think I imagined it,
the whirlwind of feeling so quick
that the whirl portion of that word doesn’t seem fast enough to adequately describe
how I felt,
a hand that was dealt,
and then picked away like pigeons with crumbs:
rapid, but in such small grabs
that it made it last longer,
those little bits of bread memory still falling to the floor
and that pigeon cooing for more,
like I have so much more to give.

I just want to live.
I want to expand moments with more moments,
to feel chaos mixed into the predictable fold
before I start to act like I’m too old for this or that.
I need to feel life happen.
I need to stop waiting for responses that’ll never come,
for plans that are undone before they’re even made,
for promises that are never kept,
to stop blaming my personality for being so inept,
when really it was never me to begin with.

My heart and mind have started to agree,
to realize that they shouldn’t change to fit the mold
of someone else’s expectations,
to feel happy with their motivations,
to know that emotion and logic can walk hand in hand,
and just because you misunderstand
who you think I am as a person,
you just need to know I’m split.
That what you think you get, that that’s not it.
I’m not predictable, but I’m not complicated.

I am human, though; I’ll make mistakes
I’ll try to keep a calm demeanor, a stoic face,
even when the world feels like it’s closing in,

and I can’t even begin to tell you how little control I have
of how my body reacts.
I try to say, “hey, heart and gut and mind, can you just relax?”
But even logic comes in and tells me, you can’t un-feel,
that you can’t backtrack on what you know is real
just because you want to make it so.

I just think it’s important for you to know,
that who I am,
is not who I will always be:
it’ll be a part of me,
a piece of an expanding deck of cards,
a new constellation of stars,
a me that is ever-changing,
ever re-arranging itself into tessellations
of moments had and moments yet to come.

And if this me is too much for some,
who cares?
As long as I am well aware,
I cannot be divided from myself;
I’ll always know that my mind and heart will
keep each other company,
that the part of me that needs closure and clarity
drags my emotional side by the ear
to say, “we need to be clear how we’re being treated.”
That you don’t need to feel defeated,
only sad for the person who couldn’t get to meet
the person you’re going to be tomorrow,
a personality you could never borrow,
moments non-existent,
so much so we’ve starved the pigeons.

Matters

Sorry for the repeat hiatus, loyal readers (of which I think there may be two or three of you?). I’ve been in a constant state of transition since August: I moved, I traveled (California, New York, Dominican Republic, Orlando), I’ve been working on other forms of writing (mostly lyrics), and I’ve been re-focusing on work and thinking about ways to be better at that, since that’s where I spend most of my time during a given week besides sleeping. So for old time’s sake, here’s an on-the-spot poem about what it means to matter.

Matters

I don’t know who lives above me, but at 11:45PM I hear footsteps, consistent and strong,
or banging on a wall,
or dancing…

no

it is the distinct clatter of a hammer, of multiple paintings being hung in rapid succession—
because this is what people choose to do close to midnight in South Florida
in lieu of sleeping
(I envision a painting of hot air balloons above a Paris street from IKEA)

Tonight I bang back, a hard and quick tap tap just to let them know that I am there,
that I exist,
that it’s not just them and their hammer or their hands against hurried-on paint…
that I matter

They cannot see me,
but I am unequivocally present
in the apartment beneath them

and for the first time
I’ve made them aware
that yes, the world can hear them,
that yes, despite potential thoughts that it is not entirely about me
that I am entirely affected,

and the banging fades into lighter, more thoughtful taps
(or so I imagine),
a length of silence
lighter still, and then a steady harmony of cabinets
opening and shutting,
the running of water,
the softer padding of feet across carpet

My air conditioning unit clangs to life,
drowning whatever sound is left
in the passage of cool air and ceiling dust

and I hope that for even a second that it was my taps that made the difference
and not the completion of the activity upstairs that drove them to stop,
that in a world that doesn’t revolve around me,
that I may receive, if for but a moment, an occasional revolution

The air conditioning ceases its motion

I cling anxiously to every creak or moan of flooring,
the sound of a microwave timer and a rush of footsteps across a living room much like mine

because this is what people in South Florida do in lieu of sleeping.

Wordless

I have words in me that multiply,
verbal bacteria in a Petri dish dividing via binary fission,
biological precision meets linguistic overflow.

So where do the words go?
They bubble out on pages,
make conversations uncomfortably emotional,
because my heart is writing faster
than my eyes can re-read.

But it’s honest, and it’s real,
these words I tend to over-feel,
exponentially increasing inside my gut
and roving outward,
escaping because they release
years worth of linguistic anxiety.

In society, we’re taught to keep our words at bay—
the more you say,
the less the recipient will want to reciprocate,
your words standing solitary,
blushing in the dark in their embarrassment.

But I have words,
so let me speak them:

let me overthink and over-love,
let me over-care and overwhelm,
let me me wish that these words were whispered in an ear
rather than through an earpiece.

These words:

they’re multiplying,
dividing,
colliding,
until I’m wordless,
speechless,
left listening to the words multiplying in you,

or to the silence
of words left suspended in air.

On a Scale of 1 to Even, I Just Can’t

It’s been too long, for the millionth time, since my last post. And the thing I hate more than anything, is that my friends, former bosses, etc., etc., keep asking me if I still write. I’m a writer, yo, is that even a valid question? Yes. Because it’s better to finger point at laziness than to call yourself a writer when you don’t write.
It’s not logic or science or exaggeration; it’s the gosh darn truth.

I can admit, I have gotten back into reading pretty frequently. Damned by Chuck Palahniuk, The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern and now The Thinking Woman’s Guide to Real Magic by Emily Croy Barker. I’m a readin’ machine when I’m not at my desk.

And about that little detail. My current job status: still employed. Current happiness level with type of work: Ultra High. Current Creative Level: +1. And what do I do for a living? Create names. Like a boss. For companies. All types of companies. For products. Corporate IDs. Clinical trials. Things. More things.

Yeah, buddy.

So a poem, for my tiny, itsy bitsy audience that reads my web of work:

The Lessening

It hurt a little less each day
once I figured out
that really
no matter what I did,
no matter how hard I pushed
or pleaded,
it would not change
or replace
the heartbang
that went
with lack of love.

Maybe she didn’t know
right from
wrongish,
the pieces of feels and fonds
all jumbled with white pills
and liquorish drinks
she thought more appealing
than dinner dates
with peeps who missed her.

Really though,
more personal than peeps,
more familial in their cut
like unclear diamonds from an old ring,
they wanted someone
to pick at the past,
a little kid
shoveling and separating sand with a giant plastic fork,
piling shell and salt and people dust into castles
that looked much more obelisk
than fortification.

The digging, after too long, sored the muscles,
ached the fingers,
until the digger felt no need for castles
or diamonds
or dinner dates.

They stopped missing her.

They stopped hurting.

And eventually:
they just stopped.

A pause. A memory.

Then hurt again.
Glimmers of hope
as fine as sand.