Seasons of Love (WIP)

You remind me of sunflowers in the summer,

You remind me of snowflakes in the winter,

You remind me of birth in the springtime

And in autumn, you remind me of falling.

Hard, and fast.

But sometimes, slowly.

Staccato.

Keystrokes on a piano.

I have never been wise enough

To play an instrument,

But if I ever had the talent,

I would serenade you

With an entire symphony

Because my voice will never carry

Enough

Of our memories to the table

To make this any kind of Thanksgiving feast.

I don’t want you to eat my words.

I just wish that you would listen.

Just listen.

Crack

It hurts too much to talk about.

But let’s talk about it anyway.

See

The way the light hits you

Is like

too many whiskey sours

Like

hours behind closed doors,

Like

sharing one word in common

With the floor

CRACK

Can mean so many different things.

My body

Remembers singing

Yours to sleep,

Holding your breath like a promise

To my cheek

And knowing

That we could

Exhale.

The fumigators said

That the air was too toxic,

Said there was no hope of recovery,

The carbon-monoxonated atmosphere

Was beyond repair.

Get out.

Get out

Of my bloodstream,

Let the flood waters recede.

I am a tree

That was immaculately conceived.

I have no roots.

Nowhere to go.

Nowhere to run.

Nothing to hold me

While you bark hard

Against my bite.

Light hits our thighs

Like an afterthought

We could not recognize each other

Through the hot and the bother

The hot and the shiver

Take my teeth

And sink into this.

I can’t do this anymore.

Crack.

I can’t do this anymore.

This

This piece was written for a performance at JMU's Take Back The Night 2012. Such a moving, beautiful event... if you've never heard about Take Back The Night, go right now and look it up. Truly something that everyone should know about.

The inspiration for this piece comes from Anis Mojgani's wonderful piece "Shake The Dust". You'll notice a great similarity in styles, but I promise that each word is my own. Enjoy!

This

is for those moments

when you have stared so hard

at the mirror

that she cannot hold your gaze.

This

is for the haze

through which you have

experienced pain and

the dull ache of the morning after,

for swinging from the rafters

and crashing back into reality.

This

is for those of us

that do not remember.

This

is also for those of us

that do remember.

This

is for those of us

that have

jet engine voice boxes,

for those of us that earthquake

every time we cry.

For those of us

that try and hold a candle

to the face

of their fears

and find a great vast

nothingness.

This

is for those of us

who until tonight

did not know how to

create sound,

for those of us

who hear gunshots

in every footstep

and find bullet shells

in our tear ducts.

This

is for those of us

that have friends

that don't come around anymore,

because they don't speak

the same dialect of Shame,

for the outspoken

who cannot give

their fear a name.

This

is for the lost

and the nameless.

For the aimless wanderers

who try to feel

but cannot dial sensation

back into their fingertips.

This

is for the rips

left gaping open.

This

is for hoping

that the sun will open

its eyes again.

This

is for the men

who don't shower

naked

anymore.

This

is for the layered

who constantly feel

exposed.

This

is for the hidden eyes

who never had time

to pose the question

“will it hurt?”

Tell me.

Will it hurt.

This

is for your insect-ridden skin,

for doubt finding its way in..

For trust that does not know how

to come home to you.

For rust

that has eaten away

at so many things

but what is meant

to be taken away.

This

is for the porch light

in your rib cage

that needs you to believe harder.

Clap louder.

Live bigger.

This

is for the women.

This

is also for the men.

Most importantly,

This

is for you.

Yes, you.

May you peel back the paint

from the walls closing in your mind

and let my truth shine through.

Tell everyone

that will ever question

the strength of your heart

to pull back and let

arrows bound with love letters

addressed to every dark corner

of your body

sing hallelujah through the air.

This

is for the worth it.

This

is for the powerful.

This

is for the lionhearted

dragon fighters

who will speak out

with flaming tongues

and flashing lungs

filled with song.

Play your music,

you beautiful warrior -

ward off evil

with your eyes made of steel.

When your heart

forgets how to beat,

let my words become your

cadence -

I will pound

the sensation

back into you.

I will tree root you

in this life,

when you feel like

the wind is so insistent

that you would look better

six feet under.

Shake everything

from your eardrums

and listen.

Lie between my syllables,

and rest.

I am here

to tell you

that you are

safe.

I have been waiting

to tell you that

since the night

you fell asleep

from the fear,

erased the world

behind your eyelids

like stains in the carpet

that you don't bother

explaining anymore.

This is to whom it may concern:

I am here to tell you

this no longer concerns

you.

The Astronaut's Marriage (WIP)

(so many rough drafts... I hope that you like this latest piece!)

The astronaut's marriage is failing,

and he does not know why.

On its last orbit through the year

it gravitied through the cracks

like falling leaves through empty conversations

and he does not know

if the wreckage can be salvaged.

There is no scientific data

to be found

in her passive aggressive missiles

jettisoned from numb hands.

She just comm links into his brain,

“I can't do this anymore.”

She says this over and over,

her words like falling rain

hoping to hit the mark

of truthful or even just get repetitive enough

so that one day

it will come true.

The systems failed

just like the statisticians said they would,

they said

1 in 5

4

3

1 in 2 marriages

will fail

so love her more than

fifty two percent of the time.

Remind her that her eyes

Rhyme with your bottom line

So that when you hit that bottom line,

She can be your reserve tank,

Hit the surface and thank

Every lucky star you named after her

When you got all the way up there

That she is still willing to be

Your tire swing.

Your chicken soup.

Your teddy bear.

Her still-soft hair

Hangs like unspoken promises

Across her unopened book face

And you must remember

To thank Grace

For everything she has ever done for you.

You will hold on to

her untethered fingers

and whisper, I know.

I have seen this scene

play out before

diamond-eyed and running for home

in five

four

three

two

many times

I have sat on your waterline windowsill

and collected all of your rain drops,

even though you thought

that I didn't give a Hoover dam

but I did.

I did not know

that it would mean something

in the end.

In the beginning

we were the ninth inning

heading for home

waving to the crowd, already

so many shades of way too loud

turn down the volume,

you said.

So I did.

I can no longer hear

your heart beat

like I used to,

filling the cavernous quiet

with its necessary cacophony.

Victory Face (Work In Progress)

(this is such a rough draft, but I wanted to share what I have so far in order to start getting feedback - I hope that you enjoy it!)

Weeks before graduation,
Rising seniors stand riveted
In place
Like holy men at an altar
At their bathroom
Mirrors,
Practicing their victory face.
This is the face
That they will make
When the dean of their college
That they've never seen before
And will never see again
Hands them the rolled up letter
That will inform them of two indelible,
Inescapable truths,
Truths that come for them
Like bloodhounds,
Relentless,
Merciless.

Fact one:

The paper with the
School themed ribbon
 is symbolic.
Like cake at a birthday party,
It represents time gone by.
It represents memories,
Moments that have been
blown away.
Much like cake,
The paper that he hands you
 is a lie.

Fact two:

You have not handed over

enough Washingtonian dignity

to them yet,

and they are here to collect.

Let me show you
My victory face.
There is enough heart matter
Rattling around in my shoelaces
To make an atomic bomb,
And I have timed my entrance
Perfectly.
I will walk right up to you,
Douse you in truth, and
I will blow up in your first place
With such stomach-felt grace
You won't know what
past-tense verbed you.
Come in to my present,
You harlequin hippie,
You pretentious penguin,
You side-stepping syllable
Sucking soulfully on so many sins
Straight down the barrel
Of my cocky loaded fingers
Fuck your hyper criticality,
Trade it in for musicality,
Or technicality,
Or Transformers tech mechs
dining on Tex Mex.

Some call me hysterical.
Some call me lyrical.
Some call me fanatical
And I'll be damned if they aren't
Absolutely right.