I've heard that Death wears a mask of something familiar

I had that dream again.

the one where I'm just lying with you
my head in your lap.
you push my hair back and try to speak
but the words stick in your throat
like wisps of angora, too soft for this world
and too quick to abandon you with the first breeze.
because we both know what this really is.

something terrible is coming
it won't touch you.
it doesn't want you.
but you can't stop it.
and you know
it's coming
for me.

I lie there in silence
hoping maybe,
-just this once-
just for a moment...

but the lights are getting brighter.
I close my eyes
focusing on your fingers,
settled in my hair, twirling idly,
and your angora voice shakes
when you tell me to run.

I know it won't help.
I've run all those other times.
when I run it gets dark and cold
and you're not there.
I tell you I'm done running.


You chuckle softly and squeeze my hand.
"You don't have choice. You have to go."
I turn to see your face
the light is blinding now, and burning hot
a thousand spotlights
and a million eyes
burning holes in our paper flesh
but I can make out a faint smile.
"You need to go up for air."

The light burns out
and the weight on my chest is crushing
everything is slow and painful
and when I finally catch my breath
I'm awake
and you're not there.

We Were Skeletons Once

we should have died years ago
in a gunfight at dawn in some dusty town
with our mouths full of blood
and our hearts full of bats and vengeance and rage

the doctors poked and the nurses prodded
and the devil squeezed our throats as we slept
but we never stopping moving
until there was nothing left but the bones of our ghosts
and a single, throbbing pulse
hundred thousand hearts beating in time
a call to arms
a corps of drums

it was dark, but I could hear you smiling
when you looked back fondly on the time we spent together
holding hands with the dead, ever marching forward
through fire and dirt and cold
it seemed like forever, and maybe it was.


I'm still not sure how we made it
or why I'm not dead
but when the doctors gave up
and the Devil wouldn't take us
I guess our bad luck ran out, because here we are:
children made of neon spraypaint,
rusted old muscle cars,
and rock and roll.

I guess we'll just keep running.

Paint the town. Then blow a hole in it.

The sun hasn't gone down in weeks
and we haven't stopped moving in years
eat sand. spit lasers.
can't trust the water
can't trust a smile
your hair is singed and full of broken glass
twisted metal, bits of shrapnel stuck in my boot
every footstep is a chorus of angry noise



Get in the car. We've got miles to cover before we can sleep.

revolving doors

"He doesn't live here anymore," or so I'm told.

but he's still sitting on the couch, in the next room

"We're changing the locks," they tell me,

But I can hear him on the stairs

and I can tell he's just left the room

because no one else leaves a trail of lights and televisions left on behind them quite like him.

"Lock the deadbolt."

It's like Guantanamo

but more indecisive

3:48AM

Cracked lips mutter harsh words
The bile keeps rising
The music skips
If only we could sleep, just for a little while
Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much

She has this ineffable ability to ruin a good day..

be a good girl, keep your mouth shut.
be a good girl, keep your head down.
be a good girl, keep your hands to yourself.

be a good girl, don't let them see you cry.
be a good girl, don't let them see you bleed.
be a good girl, don't let them see you break.



I feel like I'm decaying every moment that I spend in this place.

doctors and nurses

one of these days
I'm going to wake up
staring blankly at an unfamiliar ceiling.

and as they crowd around me
in lab coats and Bob the Builder scrubs
everyone will wonder
how the crack in my head grew so big
that when no one was looking
I fell out.

Bill Me for the Oxygen

stop touching me.
please. just. don't.
your fingertips feel like lies
and I've had enough for a lifetime.
don't give me that look.
it's not you.
it's not about you.
maybe it's me.
because right now, it's everyone.
but if I haven't made myself clear enough yet
I'm a monster in every sense of the word
a frankenstein's patchwork of broken parts
from my scarred knees
to my empty heart.
walk away now.
while I've still decided to leave your legs
intact enough to walk on
and your heart beating in your chest.
stick around too long,
and you'll end up just like me.
I can promise you that.

And I was Having A Good Day, Too

It's amazing.

sometimes, I honestly think
I could win the Nobel Prize
for finding a cure for cancer
and all my family would have to say for it
would be that it was too late to save great grandpa
and how they'd rather I'd have won a cash award
to help pay off my debts.
"Is Alfred Nobel going to pay off your student loans?
I didn't think so."

Instead, I think I'd rather
put that effort into learning how to time travel
and put a bullet between the eyes
of my ten year old self.

After all, it's not technically assisting suicide
and rumor has it that I'd be saving everyone
a lot of trouble in the long run, anyway.



God, I just want to sleep.

This Fucking Mayonnaise

It's all over everything
like unwanted affection
all I wanted was a sandwich
instead, I get the same thing as ever
everything I never wanted
in a fucking paper bag
I guess I'll take it to go, then.

an empty wallet
a spider bite on my ankle
if they were all just fleeting annoyances
it might not be so bad
but the bite swells
my bank account runs dry
and my lunch break is over
and all I've got to my name
is seventy five cents,
a nagging itch,
and a bag full of goddamned mayonnaise.

She's Dangerous

There's venom on her lips
and her fingernails are sharpened.
Don't let her smile fool you.
She has to be dangerous.
Otherwise, why would it be
that every person to ever cross her
has done so from a distance?

The Dashboard Clock is Blinking Twelve

the stereo is too loud to sing over,
just loud enough to be heard over the engine.
a world passing by beyond the windshield,
wipers blazing a staccato beat.

a sudden collapse,
not with a bang,
or a screech,
but with a deafening silence

as everything shuts down at once:
the stereo.
the engine.
the power steering.
the breaks.

and in that silent moment,
as the car hydroplanes toward a telephone pole,
the distant squeak of leather gloves in a white-knuckled grip on the wheel that won't move,
and the scraping sound of the brake pedal grinding clean into the floor,
both seem muffled by the silence,
a hundred stifling pillows, enough to smother.
and in that last moment before steel meshes with wood,
the muffled click, clunk, grind of the gears being forced into park.

nothing but a heartbeat that rattles the skull, and shallow, rapid breathing for a moment


then a chorus of manic laughter,
cutting the stifling silence with goosebump-inducing precision.


the sound of near misses.

The Steel Girl

she was hollow, metallic, rusty in places.
she shouldn't have been done being a child yet
and maybe, in her own way, she wasn't.

she smiles when she tells me what I'm made of.
charcoal, wires, grades she could never get,
and spare parts from my old Buick Regal.
forever raising the bar.

we sat in her car in the dark parking lot,
watching our breath in the February air,
and speaking of a time when we were made of porcelain.

'platonic love' has been redefined to be strictly ironic in the modern tongue

I wish I could write a song
and tell the world about the lightening and ocean storms in your eyes
and waltzing in parking lots
until our lungs can't take the laughter,
Or how you taught me to fence
under christmas lights
how perfectly my head fits
against your clavicle
and what a mess you make every time you try to cook.
But oh, what a scandal that would be.
For every girl who's hand you've ever held,
who seemed almost happy to assume we fucked the moment she left the room,
For every man who I ever wanted to be close to,
who got frustrated and gave up on me without really trying,
using you as an excuse,
I wish my fingers could find the notes
So I could sing for the world to hear
that our lips haven't touched since the second grade.

Letter to Rob

The shirt you gave me is too big.
I wear it to bed sometimes
it reminds me of your leather coat
and I swear it still smells of hotel soap.
sleeping in it gives me dreams
of cherry blossoms in Boston
and the Baltimore shores in midsummer.
It feels like it's been years,
but I have a reservation for next weekend
and it's your turn to bring the wine.
so comb your hair back
I'll wear those boots with the heels that you like
if you'd be so kind as to meet me on the chessboard.

Some Words on the Recovery of Trevor, From the Notes of His Physical Therapist

"Your hand is so warm," he looks up at you,
but his poker face is, as always, short lived,
and before you can say a word of praise
in terms of his recovering nervous system
- as last week, he still couldn't feel his legs at all -
you might want to rethink your words,
and instead comment on his improved dexterity in his hands
as those fingers that have been so clumsy since the accident
are currently wrapped around your wallet.

1-30

She wants to be here, she says.
She's so glad to be here, she smiles.
but the empty room speaks volumes,
underwear strewn on the floor,
like the scene of a sex crime,
the only thing missing is a body.
because she's never home.
But she wants to be here.
She's so glad to be here.
Honestly.

Tu Me Manques

Tu me manques


I was already taller than you
my french was bad, but we were working on it
"Quand est ton anniversaire?"
Mon anniversaire, c'est le neuf août.

you make me say it two more times in french and again in english
my pronunciation must be awful
a smile so big and a hug that nearly crushes me
left unexplained
it isn't until you finish telling the whole class a story
about second grade and the birthday crown
and how you lied so you could wear it but your mean cousin tattled on you
and you tell me as we all leave
"that's my birthday, too."

ten years later my french is still terrible
but five minutes to midnight on august 8th
and I can remember the words that I need.


Joyeux anniversaire, Professeur Beaulieu.

Scylla

you never meant any harm by it.
politely declining the invitations of a man is hard,
and when he wouldn't take no for an answer, you walked away.
but it just couldn't be that easy.
when even just taking a bath can turn into a massacre,
and you're left with the bill.
but look at you now,
such a hot mess.
between you and the nymph next door,
it's no wonder the sailors keep dropping dead.
mother always said you were too pretty for your own good.

welcome to hell?

this blog is going to be a depository for writing, primarily blank verse poetry. Some of it is pretty old, but I'm overdue for a place to keep it all together. there isn't going to be much of an overlying theme, other than my life and my writing. If you choose to read on, well, best of luck.