sleeping alone

Sleeping alone is awful.
A bed to myself is too big,
I miss your long arms and your
everything.
I thought I heard you trudging up
the stairs in snow-laden boots,
but it was just the rattling vents
making a fool of me.
Please come home soon!
I need your sleepy eyes
on the pillow next to mine.

How to write

Do I need to feel heavy when I write?
Do I need a weight on my wrists
to feel alive?
This is wrong.
This is stressful.
I can write about many things
I do not feel.
I can write about love as though
it lives on my sleeve
and about death as though
it stains my fingers tips.
But neither love nor death
pulse through my veins.
How then, one asks,
can I KNOW,
if I do not FEEL it?
I am quite certain it
isn’t about feeling at all.
It’s about
remembering.

love poems (yuck)

I am most tired of love poems.
Yes, I am surely most certainly
absolutely
SICK
of love poems.
Their arrogance,
their smug confidence.
I will be most glad to never
hear another.
Most glad indeed.

Some words

If I may write some words for you,
if I may write one single syllable,
I am afraid I must not write at all.
I am afraid the room on this page,
(existing eternally),
is not a sufficient space for the words
I wish to write you.
I am afraid the childish metaphors
I had so cleverly crafted
are bound to wilt at your eyes’ first glance.
They are weary,
they are tired,
they are so much less than you deserve.
An absolute over-simplification
of your hands
of your sly smile
and your voice.
I will, though,
attempt to convey a glimpse of the
you I love.
My words are all I have to give.
They may not be dignified
or news-worthy,
but they will be sincere.
That much I can promise.

Tomorrow

When the day is Today,
Tomorrow seems so far away.
When you’re not making me pancakes Today,
Tomorrow is like, really stinkin’ far away.
I want to take Today and smash
it in the driveway,
run it over with my car,
then burn it with matchsticks and lighter fluid until
ashes of Today float into the air, never to return.
Today is so.......what’s that word?
LONG.
Because Today is certainly not Yesterday
when I saw the smirk on your face
when I sang that Alicia Keys song
at the top of my lungs in the car,
and you said I was ridiculous,
but I KNOW you meant that you love me,
and no other girl makes you smirk like that,
and I woke you up with a story about my dream
with the baseball bats, and Tom Hanks,
and double-headed cyclops eating bombpops in the bathroom
But that was Yesterday,
which was significantly more exhilarating than Today,
sharing hands and cups of coffee and six packs of beer
with homemade chicken and dumplings.
And, god, I wish Today would just throw itself off a cliff.
I wish I could take a “nap” with you Today.
Because we both know that “naps” are just code language for a
little afternoon delight in the daylight,
We could “nap” Today just like we did Yesterday,
but Today we have responsibilities, Today we are not together,
and it’s driving me out of my mind, and it makes me crazy to wonder
if I induce the same insanity on your brain,
and I wish I were freaking Einstein so I could invent a time capsule
that would beam us into Tomorrow,
and I would make you chocolate chip cookies,
because I know they’re your favorite,
and then we would play trivial pursuit until you let me win,
because I really, really hate losing,
and then we would watch one of those awful indy movies you can’t get enough of,
where everyone cries, and dies, or tries to run away to Toronto
with a coke-addict they met on the subway,
and I would fall asleep in your lap while you brushed brown hair
behind my ear,
and then you would wake me to love me because you couldn’t wait
until morning,
and then we would sleep, you to my left, arm over my chest,
breathing in sync, legs tangled, sheets mangled, smiling through dreams,
knowing Tomorrow we wake in each others arms,
and Today is just a little sliver of history.

three words

Sometimes when I’m alone
I think about it.
Damn, I think about it even when
I’m surrounded.
Think about what it might be like
to say it. To you.
How maybe the world would stop turning
for a split second,
and maybe you might listen more
attentively than ever before.
Maybe the sheets on my bed would turn
to blue,
and my pillow, a ship,
to sail us to the middle of the ocean.
And there I would say it
again,
and again,
and again,
until you saw my words float on top
the rippled surroundings.
And maybe you would say it
too.

no you?

no you?
no star-lit summer skies.
no you?
no crunchy, caramel leaves.
no blank pages
in want for words,
not a single silver nickel
shining brightly on the sidewalk.
this world with no
you
is no world of great worth,
of course,
days will still come,
nights will still fall,
babies will cry
and mothers will coo them to sleep.
but with no you,
the days will be dimmer,
the nights will be longer,
and i will sleep lighter
in hopes of hearing steps on my walkway

have i loved you

Scarcely,
through dark-paned glass,
have I wanted you.
Rarely,
though I’ve wanted,
have I held you.
Barely,
Hardly,
Deeply,
have I loved you.

Nice

You came to me between the hours
and the alcohol
that drenched us.
Instantly hoping for your hands
I waited.
Sprinkled silver through my fingers
the first time like magic,
ravaged.
Unable to reason through
a fog of need,
wanting touch
after touch,
after touch.
Late nights made
late mornings,
and afternoon sheets ripped
off bodies in hot desire.
Bold-faced proclamations
obviously not your style,
and I fell.
Fell hard for dry wit
and unshaven cheeks,
and I think I like you.
I think this feels nice.

If I were a lesbian

If I were a lesbian,
If I were a LESBIAN,
I would date Salma Hayak,
(if she’d have me),
because that woman has got it goin’ on,
Or maybe a Janis Joplin,
and she could sing me a melancholy song,
and we would roll a joint together, and wear colorful scarves,
speak freely and get tattoos of magic mushrooms,
If I were a lesbian,
I would date all kinds of women,
but I think I’d prefer a creative type,
like Dickinson or Angelou,
we would write sonnets and create rhyme schemes
unheard ‘til our love bloomed,
Maybe I would go for brains and genius,
Madame Curie or Pearl S. Buck,
with a hiked up skirt and a whole lotta luck,
I could convince the likes of Catherine Zeta,
or Jessica Alba to get with this,
I’d have them drooling over my quick wit
and soft, pink lips.
If I were a lesbian I wouldn’t want that Pitt fellow
and I wouldn’t need Clooney, helloooo,
I would be so pleasantly pleased with my sexuality,
I would probably be approximately.....8 times more promiscuous,
because sex would be safer and significantly less conspicuous,
because really? Where can you NOT have lesbian sex?
All you need is a blanket to camouflage those flexible fingers!
And honestly, I would never not linger in lingerie stores,
because I swear those signs are basically soft porn,
And, out? I would be soooo out.
I would be the most out.
Not because I’m stronger,
But because I’ve seen what being “in” does
to a woman,
and “in” is enforced by intelligent, intellectual,
integrated individuals,
and it is insane that anyone should feel afraid
to be who they are in this day and age,
And this is for all the hot shot,
not shit,
small dick,
threesome wishin’,
insecure mother fuckers
who say,
-yeah, I’m cool with some chicks gettin’ down,
but two men, that’s just plain wrong-
This is for every spunky sorority sister
who makes out with her best friend at frat parties,
and come Monday says,
-oh ya know, I’m not bi or anything,
it must have been the bacardi-
baby, if all you want is the attention,
then makeout to your heart’s content,
but if you wake up next to your boyfriend come morning
and wish you had a smooth-skinned, soft-lipped woman
instead, then girl, stop foolin’ yourself,
I don’t blame you,
I blame us, the multitude,
for making the closet so comfortable.
So if I were a lesbian,
I would tell young girls to follow their hearts,
and shut their bibles,
to love courageously,
live unashamedly,
to hold their girlfriend’s hand,
to kiss her in the stands at a football game,
yeah, if I were a lesbian,
I guess I’d do things just about the same,
with the one minor difference.

I'll be

If you’ll let me,
I will be yours.

I’ll be your yes
and your no,
your fast and your slow,
the beat in your breast,
the tattoo on your chest.

I’ll be the the pink
on your cheek,
and the dream in your sleep,
I’ll fill all of your spaces
with lovely temptations,
and color your eyes
with star-purple skies.

And the warmth of your coffee?
That will be me.
And the flowers in spring?
Those too I’ll bring,
and the wet on your neck,
and the sun in your step,
I’ll be those too,
I’ll be them all
for you.

Suspense

I want to be warm with you.
Wrapped up,
skin on skin.
Let your heat make my heat,
no sleep,
absolutely
no sleep.
Sugar sweet softness
your hair through my fingers,
linger there, my dear,
yes
there.
Brush across my neck,
I can
barely
stand
the suspense.

if i've loved you a day

if i have loved you a day,
i have loved you a thousand days

if i have known your smile,
i have known every
sweet yellow ray
that ever has shone

if i have lived in your words,
and been spoken so gently,
no new sounds will ever suffice

if i have seen a star, or a sun,
or a moon beaming brightly,
so i have witnessed your keen reflection
and admired your light-filled presence

if i have loved you a day,
if i have loved you
a single second,
then full is my cup
and envious are the worlds
which exist without you.

no you in my morning

grey are my mornings
with no you to wake by my side,
dew has refused to settle on
green leaves outside my window,
pity takes refuge in my dresser drawers
next to silk lingerie
and woolen winter socks

with you went the sparkle on my ceiling
and the shocks on my doorknob,
no sugar can sweeten the black coffee
brewing in my dreary kitchen,
from my shower’s head flow rays of
luke-warm fluid,
no heat to waken me
with no you in my morning

house at home

The men they all tell me,
there’s something I’ve got,
something that makes them
forget what they’ve not,
what not to say,
who not to play,
where not to go,
whose house is home

They all think they’re happy,
green shutters and puppies,
filling SUV gas tanks
like prize-winning yuppies,
but then they meet me,
and rethink what they’ve thought,
think why,
think how,
think no,
no way this house is home

They want me to teach them,
I say it’s too late,
they’ve run straight head into
that thing we call fate,
fated ring,
fated breast,
fated poem,
fated place
you call home

She is every woman

She is every woman.
She slaps beauty in the face.
She is why men hunger for female skin,
She is why lovers hold each other
at night
and why they love each other
in the morning.
She is further than the east
and Her norths and souths stretch miles
beyond border lines,
Her voice slows frenzied cities,
Her hands cradle every baby sweetly
and brush hair out of frightened eyes,
She
is my Mother,
and my Sister,
and my Grandmother,
and all Her feminine grace
is outlined with scarred knees
and weathered crow’s feet,
because She has never taken
the trodden path,
never just
existed.
She keeps secrets
because She promised,
and Her promise is purposeful,
like Her,
and like every woman who breathed
before Her.

Come close

Why so far away, darling?
Come close,
stay closer.
Your skin belongs on mine,
our legs tangled in purple sheets.
Breathe.
Do not whisper,
Please.
Do not whisper,
I want to hear you,
I want to feel every brush
of your finger’s tips,
every moist drop from your lips.
Come to me,
I will steal you
from this place.

Her

She is the kind of girl men fall in love with.
She is the kind of girl who makes
women question their loyalties.
She is the girl with the softest hair
and the shapeliest thighs,
her smile begs attention,
and her eyes, god,
her eyes tell you all
you love and hate
and wish you could change about yourself.
And when she walks?
Well, she certainly does not walk.
She glides
like liquid-sexuality,
and her head does not
sit atop her neck as most do,
but floats, instead, above her shoulders,
as if a love song sways permanently
on her lips.
And her hips?
Her hips bend in perfection
and shame the most luxurious sensuality.
Yes, her beauty flows in waves,
and her words are deliberate,
and she listens,
and you are the most important
person
in the entire world.

If you love me

If you love me like a mountain,
which mountain?
If you love me like the ocean,
is it the warm Pacific or the cool Atlantic?
If you love me wide as this galaxy
and tall as Babel’s tower,
if you love me deep as a canyon
and heavy as rainforest showers,
Then please,
love me only as real as the morning.
And if you love me
(truly)
love me like a country road,
or a reddish rose,
like a wooden barn
or warm, woolen scarves,
Love me like slow jazz,
like afternoon naps,
like wind-blown hair
and white-washed rocking chairs.
And if you love me
(truly)
love me simply,
without selfish similes
and lofty metaphors,
just
love me.

promise

I want to feel your skin so badly.
I want it like green grass,
like fresh blueberries,
like mother’s crock-pot dinner.

I want your lips on my lips,
and my hips moving
to a radio skipping
while never noticing
passing sirens.

And though they say
sparks will wane inevitably,
I will always carry flint,
and I will make flames,
and I will write love poems,
and I most certainly will not
forget
how it feels to be
in love.