for the birds

Is the day beautiful,
or
did you make it so?
I do
not think I'll ever know.
I am content with
the uncertain if
it is you
who keeps me
on my toes.

I am perched on this
sturdy branch
sticking out my neck --
save me before I fall
(unless)
it is into your nest.

Second Time Around

I will kiss your face until
it stops recognizing me. When that comes,
I too will call Lacuna and
beg for the offending stain to be lifted,
like the best of dry cleaners.
I pray for enough time to properly
wear out this shirt with sleeves,
hope for enough memories captured in
its threads before its edges fray, irreparably
damaged with no chance of
a replacement button or bow. I shop exclusively
in second-hand stores, knowing all the good
things have
had a time around before.

Past owners who have
hung you back on their shelves then
released you for a tax break, I thank them for the
opportunity to cavort in your wrinkled strands,
sturdy and waiting to be picked up again, set aside
amidst drawers of thousands of other multicolored
rags from styles past to be reimagined, recast as
another's outfit. The uses for you may not end with
a stash to the back of the closet,
my dear,
you may be found again.

A Senior Design

I have attempted to put words to this many times.
many times tried, many times failed,
many times staring at a screen glaring
at me for my finger's inadequacies and my
mind's inabilities to satisfy the source, fill
the page with what it seeks, separate the
forest from the trees of this deceptive, deceptive
imagery floating precariously above me begging to be caught,
snatched like a ripe apple in its improperly labelled orchard.

I have taken on scarier things: death, depression, and
whatever lurks in the deep dark crevices of my mind.
I take
one look at you and
my muse excuses itself from the table and books it.
It says: I am not getting paid enough for this shit.
I say: you're getting paid?
It shakes its head and walks off.
I guess you are the final project of this class untaken,
the lecture without textbook and a professor with an accent
from the kingdom of babble, the land of gibberish,
the island of the incomprehensible,
residing in the sea of
"I simply do not know".
And I, eager student, want
the A+ in this class of vicious overachievers.
I do side work. I perform studies,
I conduct research. I have a focus group on
"whatever the hell it is you do with your time when I am not around".
They have inconclusive results.

I salvage these findings, put them in a blender and
hope to God "frappe" means something friendly.
The shriek of the whirling blades, as they jumble and mesh
whatever intimate details I can find stashed in my kitchen cabinet,
reminds me of the hopelessness of this practice.
Irrationality being the "doing of something over and
over again expecting a different result",
I guess I am the poster child for the
academic office's demand for an extended "drop" period.

I still want an A, though.

Earth speaks to Moon

It is a strange centripetal force that 

tethers me to you, 
though you are a 
world away.

I cannot pretend I do not feel it, 

do not hear its whisper at 

my back willing me to you. 

You bring rise to my tide with 

only a crescent smile exposed, 

my shores you unfold.

Full exposure commands this lunacy, 

the new a darkened sky. I count the stars 

that surround you in jealousy, forgetting 

the distance in my mind.

My eternal fascination, the glow 

to guide me home. Every night I 

find you and yet 

I am alone.

On (Heart) Regressions, Digressions, and P-p-palpitations.

(Or, now for something completely different...)

This is stupid.
but really, if you think about it,
this whole concept of
sharing one's inner thoughts is
utterly ridiculous.
Random strangers
poking around in your mind's diorama,
knocking over the clay figurines and
sparkle-painted ocean you spent
so much time crafting.
they don't know how valuable those
cotton-ball clouds are,
only you do! why share?
they won't get it anyway.
(amateurs.)

I decided to try
writing from the heart, because
it gets bored sometimes, just hanging around,
beating the same monotone pulse... It's like
exercise for your love-and-loss muscles.
It reminds me that I have them in the first place,
which is huge. I try to ignore them when I can and
I think I could be sued for negligence by
the State of the New York. Let's just keep that
between you and me.

Also between you and me,
loss and love muscles get far too much
credit in this day and age.
"follow your heart" and related maxims suggest
that the heart is something to be followed, when
really all it's trying to do is beat a drum, so to speak,
over and over and over again until you die, at which point it
may begin drumming again, slowly this time,
pending "do not resuscitate" clauses.
It's not asking to be a leader, it just wants to
do its simple job of pushing blood and bits around until
there's a hostile takeover, or the company goes
bankrupt, and he gets fired.
Then he sits on some ice for awhile until maybe
someone important or rich or important and rich decides
he or she needs a heart, because he or she is
trying to start an indie rock band and the pacemaker
is simply a subpar percussionist, no matter how you scale it.

The heart gets far too much credit for being this
"sensitive guy",
just because he was willing to sit through a
couple romcoms with his exgirlfriend and cried when
his grandma died, somehow we think he deserves
"matters of the heart". Heart is a liar like
those people who rent leather couches for parties.
He's not the expert on emotions at all. Actually, he's been
borrowing emotions, (at a good price though, he knows
a guy... ) And by a guy I mean the boss, the mind, who got tired of
being blamed for everyone's poor decision-making, especially with his
reputation for being the best decision maker there
ever was. Pride before the fall, lovelies. Whoever decided the
brain was the best at choice clearly never met my
friend "eenie meenie miney moe" or my other friend, fatalist Tom.
Clearly these people never took a behavioral economics course,
or are too biased in their search to even
stumble upon an article telling them how silly
human beings are, and how incompetent they are at
maximizing their own utility.

Heart is actually the most famous scapegoat. But
he doesn’t care, he’s a sucker for attention and loves
getting referenced by every single country singer
there ever was, because for every song title with
“heart” in it he gets at least 3 cents. I digress. I digress quite a bit actually,
it is a hobby of mine. I plan on digressing in Europe next month
at the digressing convention, pending someone gets off topic enough
at the professors who forget to drink coffee convention to plan it.
Banking on a tangent always leaves you someplace interesting. Or
at least unexpected. Or at least three-dimensional, if we are speaking of planes.

"stranger's diary"

22/30

we found you on the steps
of an abandoned church in the countryside
looking for a home
you sat open and inviting to the occasional
passerby, should one ever approach.
page 131 cracked open, dog-eared with intention
begging for the intimacy of a close read
like a exhibitionist with an ever-unbuttoned trench coat
you sacrifice mystery for the simple
thrill of being seen
forgetting this is not the same as being known
or understood
for the abstract painting dwelling within,
sometimes it all a matter of thinking you are appreciated.

hold me like you would a thriller novel
clutching the pages with earnest
desire to see what's on the other side.
Getting high off the wrong turns and
feeling justified in the right,
fully absorbed into
whatever emotional connection the author
prescribes.
I write our story like smoke in the sky
look up while you can, before it absorbs itself
into the clouds.

"burnt dinner"

21/30

My lips are sunburned by the thought of you
the rays, they tickle like sunshine and
scald like overcooked dinner

You remind me of
absolutely nothing familiar.
I study the instruction manual of your palm
for clues to your efficient operation,
I dig into the dirt
mound where you hide your secrets
and maintain the shovel isn't mine.
I speak to the birds who grace your window
chirping your praises in interpretation,
revealing more than your
eternally blank stare.
You're empty so I paint you
in the prettiest of greys,
may you never shower off my
efforts of delicately faded shades.
A marking melts like
the warmed-over ice in
espresso to awaken you,
leaving but a watered-down jolt.

Like ice
I hold you in the palm of my hand.



(note: I know I took some liberties with this prompt, but I could not help but run (away) with it.)

"box of teeth"

15/30

nibble at your earlobe, dear
just to have you listen close
buy a box of teeth to always keep
your attention on it's toes.
(be sure to
protect them from the cold!)
for
idle chattering is a turn-off and
gossip is a crime.
click your tongue against your palate
as if the plate were mine.
sensitive and razor-sharp,
your eyes mirror a
kind shark's jaws.
layers and layers serrate rescue attempts,
slice open the bowels and
dump out contents.
Anything to read your mind
and inhibit risk of victim's tricks -
a palm of a hand or a
finger wrapped.

swim with blood and
up! you're snapped.

"after death"

19/30

I, your Lazarus,
require a savior to remove my stubborn stone.
is he (she?) to be delivered unto me
via Harvard med school prophesy?

For rebirth commands some kind of death,
bathed in some newness of
carefully constructed DNA
dangling strands intertwining,
(presumably not strangling)
the delicate ecosystem of my inner self.
I must open myself up to the suffering:
lay myself upon the perilously uncomfortable bed
intended for everything but rest,
to be strapped up as sacrifice
to the life-eating bits
sniffing out prey in my blood stream.
take me, all of me, render me useless
pull the hair from my scalp,
strand by loving strand
20,000 pangs and
only then may I begin anew.

Take the varnish off nails and
ruddiness off cheeks
the spring from my step
and the step from my feet
My mind’s a wedding cake
and you’ve had but a bite
it’s bad luck not to take but one more slice.

To rise again they say I must first die
To the graph I host I beg:
don’t even try.

I’ve added up karma and hope for a 10th cone free:
have pity upon a reincarnated me.

Transplant Me, Baby

A social optimist who casually dips in morbidity,
I bask in a sun whose clouds are
dispersed by the right word.
I handle the drizzle of a rained-on parade and
dictate the rules of a world outside of my own.

I know nothing of altruism, save for
human beings' willingness to share
literal pieces of themselves to
save the life of a stranger.
Be the match! A profile
never more clearly indicated compatibility.
10 defining factors.
(But, what if you don't like dogs ...or long walks on the beach!?)
Can I still accept you into myself, in order to become whole?
A marriage to last for eternity,
(or at least the next scan)
to divorce is to divide the children
organs, maybe.
I hear the court hearing is absolutely deadly.

"memo"

18/30

I want to express my hesitance
and this
is the only appropriate medium to
express unshared sentiments heading
to the trash heap.

You see
I found you once,
twice,
again, again,
all with the intention of
making our next encounter intentional.
alas, never to be so
and now
we will escape to separate spheres and
never again experience the beauty
of the occasional overlap in the
space-time continuum fate grants us.

I speak of fate because I believe in it,
like the tooth fairy before age 10 or
Santa before I got too wise.
Fatalist with some free will,
I guess I'd hoped for enough
of a nudge from this paternalistic universe
to make something happen.

I know you don't believe in anything but
humor me just one last time.
I swear the sound
of your voice could wake the dead and
I've been a flesh-eating zombie in your absence.
(I swear that was meant to sound more attractive than it did)
but it's been awhile and
I'm fresh out of reasons to perform for you.

So lull me
back into my grave before you leave.
turn out the lights and
wait for the storm.
leave me a post-it at the door.
--
A momento,
the memo
from a past unexplored.

"masters of the universe"

17/30

Legend said only the mighty may handle the sword
and rule Camelot.
We are Arthur with a 3.9 and leadership experience in
only the most prestigious on-campus activities.
Watery bints astound us, confuse us, refuse us
grant us thy sword and let us rule over the land --
eventually, we shall
turn your lake into a toxic waste dump,
pave paradise as it were and just
put up a parking lot.
(you'll have a reserved spot!)

Excalibur an offer letter,
(thou art VP of the round table!)
success is conquered territory of
an uncharted Saks Fifth Avenue.

Tax ye, peasant, because power in inheritable and
don't you know we own the plot you stand on?

Consider the facts, the figures of this handy report we've drawn up.
We are masters of the universe, and we've earned our spot.

"last, best kiss"

 11/30

Let us entertain the thought of artifacts bestowed
with magical powers. I enjoy
the notion that a kiss could grant me the
gift of persuasive lips,
not knowing, perhaps forgetting,
it's just a stone covered in piss.

I don't know what you could give me,
besides a herpes sore. Let us embrace the whimsy
of a gift with regenerative powers.
There is no need for finality
when
you can relive the magic every couple months
with the aid of Valtrex.

You seasonal strain of flu,
if your accent were contagious I'd
expose myself
(without vaccination!)
Yes, I guess you could say I believe in
the inherent risk of
getting too close to you.

"astronauts walking slowly"

I capture you
touching down upon my surface.
the craters stimulate caution —
acting like generous land mines, they
inform the user before purchase
and insure against buyer’s remorse.
In a world with asymmetric information,
it is nice to know that
visible scars exist as signals; keep the
soldier from stepping carelessly and
losing what is deemed central to his existence.
Keep us, our planetary gaze, from the mutually assured destruction of
being revealed for wanting,
possessing the desire to coexist and
exert the effort of a gravity-resistant step.
May we remain weightless
and numb to the friction
of our cratered spheres and merely watch
from a world away.
We remain in orbit, fearful of what we may touch.
If we place the wrong foot forward and
potentially say too much.