The course of that force could not be stopped
As she plowed down prescribed aisles–
But what couldn’t be paused with pushes and shouts
Could be twisted with tickles and smiles,
And nudges and winks and side-eyes,
And words left half-unspoken.
Fate is shaped by those who realize
Paths are easier bent than broken.
They said, So what’s your type?
I said, Haven’t got one, But there must be more than two, And if you’re in, me and you We can play this game with no teams and no winners– We’re neither the saints nor the purest of sinners, But be my incentive for sticking around on earth, And I’ll be yours too. We’ll never find stars down here I’m told, But our participation here’s prized above gold.
So let’s make a story about me and you No need to represent Nothing to represent
Not theory nor experiment. This is a story about me and you:
Did he think of it as birthing or purging when he tore me out of himself? It was hard to tell.
No sooner did he fixate on what he loved in me–the beauty, the softness, the fragility–than did he gag at reminder that it had once been a part of him. Then he sighed in relief that it was all now apart from him. As if he didn’t have more ribs where those came from. As if we weren’t made of the same bones.
And I thought: what a self-loathing creature to draw such a wall between what he loves and what he hopes to be.
But maybe that moment of shock was when he became determined to see no reflection of himself in whatever came out of him. His colorful musings were Pure Reason. His sappy tunes and poetry, Straight from God.
Of course, anyone else could see otherwise, but I didn’t have the ribs to break it to him. Yet. When it came to the baby, though, we had to talk.
Car-towed and phone-dead
You stumbled cold inside
Searching for a place to charge
So you could call a ride.
You couldn’t reach the taxi
But somehow, by mistake you
Came across some car-owners
Offering to take you.
You came looking for power
But upon further inspection
It wasn’t power that saved you
But rather, some connection.
A Haiku About Writing Over Sharpie Marks With Dry-Erase Markers So You Can Wipe Them Off (And Other Things):
Is so quick to overtake
What seemed permanent
This Can Be The Last Poem Entitled ‘Almond Eyes’ Written:
Her eyes were like almonds
in that they produced a watery substance
that could not accurately be described as ‘milk.’