God

In yellowed brightness, standing, humps a letter
M
over an automatic door,
and air conditioned scent.  
The paint is as bright as the bell in my chest sounding,
When I taste its artificiality 
pure and vivid. 
I need not to bow
only to break
down the bits with my teeth,
as Aaron built up
with yellowed brightness
a calf,
and called it God. 

Satin Shoes

She was the girl with two flat feet
Walking East without the streets
Her feet bent in from satin shoes
On stages where she paid her dues

Ribbons tied on neck and hair
Sunlight left to make her pale
Fragile limbs and finger tips
Could not scratch her fragile itch

But lovely down and lovely up
Lovely porcelain starving luck
Lovely legs to watch to bend
Picking up the scraps they’d send

And why do people cry when they’re sitting all alone
Missing their mama cuz she never came home
Why do people cry when they’re lying in bed
Laughing so hard to the music in their head
It’s telling them to go--telling them to flee
But momma’s car is parked out back
and parking lots are rarely free

She was the girl with two flat feet
Mending up with torn white sheets
the toes that bent into her shoes
The flatness of her inner bruise

Papa had stayed at home from war
They day they’d seen aside from poor
He couldn’t walk a mile straight,
his feet a turning mess he made

But daughter took her turning fate
And walked into the turning streets
Bracing through the pain of it
The pain of tired brittle feet

So why do people cry when they’re sitting all alone
Hear the phone as it rings
pretending no one’s ever home
If you pretend that you’re not there, a falling tree
without a noise
Listen hard and you can hear
the sound of your own crying voice

Why do people cry when they’re lying in bed
Laughing so hard to the music in their head
Why do people cry when they’re sitting all alone
Missing their mama cuz she never came home
Pick up the phone that rings again and again
Listen to her voice as she says Amen
Girl you have to go you have to take my car
And girl you have to go very very far

Marina's Song

A song written for a dear friend:


She said my friend, I know a girl, who's got a love like this
Of different faiths, and different minds, but with one heart of bliss
They cry at night, under lock doors, of separate houses where
They write the letters of their soul and all that they can share

I said my friend I think I've heard that one a time before
It was a story legend's width of distant seas and shores
I heard my mother share it with me night coming on fast
Recall her trembling lips as she'd quickly laugh


Her song went something like this
A love without a kiss
It shook our breath's and made us smile
At least for a small while


My mother's rock of arm's tight hold
She'd try to smile there
As she taught me that some pure loves
Are not a part of life's hard fare


But baby love you to know
That every life can't have
A love that is with passion
A love that is grand

Some loves are simple like
The universe has done
They tie a boy and girl together
Or a mother to her son


My mama took me by my fingers in her palm
And kissed me on the forehead
Whispering of the dawn

The universe looked up
And saw the smiling girl
And hoped to her that she would see
Something more than what couldn't be

With boy and girl in locked house each
The universe would have some peace
That dawn would still come on
Somehow some day
in mother or friend's song

Or a girl's soft hands
Can find her dearest friend
And hold on there with all her love
Along until the end

Trains

We cower,
here,
in the white tile room,
lights flickering like a horror film
above.
The soaps shiver
violently
by the sink,
threatening to fall.  
My eyelashes touch
the vellus hair
of my arm,
as my eyes see the darkness
of myself
curled in.

Hand-Holding

like a child again
my mother holds my hand

i'm afraid of the other children, they're all...
cooler
and dressed in pants that cost more than
we have and
hair so lovely
ribbon tied.

nineteen now,
and yesterday
i told my mom "the kids
made fun of me
then
because you dressed me
in boys clothes."
i wish that hadn't gone through like everything else
never does
but i saw it register
facially
and it hurts me like my own face has registered
that her daughter holds a grudge.

you let go of my hand
and every day i cry
the children all can laugh
but im too scared to raise my hand
to use the toilet.

itll be thirteen years
before i will raise my hand
and look at them
when i speak.

so why now do i cry
every time a hand lets go
nineteen and
when the school bus pulls away
my face still cringes
and i know
what will register
again
and again.

Slowing times,
When you realize,
That hearts are breaking
For you. 
And everyday, another.  
Slowing times, 
When selfish acts,
Selfish hands,
make. 

Stomach pains

Stomach pains.  Slowly tearing me up. 
The shadow memory of my esophagus this summer and the fear of death
curls me into a protective ball on hardwood floor.
You're there today, my little sister, to take care of your pains,
to put you up on bed once more, to diagnose,
when my own pains no longer resonate as clearly,
and I want them to fix you. 
But there is the one whose hand I enclosed in mine,
just outside the hospital doors is the one
whose flowers I smelled, lovely and embarrassing. 
So I am here, arm handcuffed to machine,where you all exist,
contained within. 
As I click,
and you do not react.  Digital faces seem so real,
and I forget that I do not mean anything and I am NOTHING,
my own face flickering into oblivion when the power fails. 
My pain is less now that the words soothed and soothe,
but when I remember, the chills, the clenching chest and stomach,
the tears that refused to emerge,
I wonder. 
To put you in shoe box, tied with ribbon,
or to quench you. 
To drown you. 
Because you say I should remember, and learn from it. 
But I say,
last time,
that almost killed me. 

Paper Dolls

When your faces threaten to become one in my mind,
and your lovelies separate to force the difference between,
I cut you out like paper dolls,
and dress you up, matching outfits.
I now see there are limits to
the page.
Or my hand.
And you must become one, or two, but not five, not ten;
if only because it will be easier
to remember
if i can forget
the differences
between.

On streets.

note: an old poem i felt deserved to be edited


I'm not the gray stain on your shirt.
Not the girl that makes you hurt.
Not the one that cannot cry.
I can look straight in your eye.

I'm stronger every day that's born,
Smarter every day that's worn,
Wiser than I was before,
Not a loser, not a bore.
If you can't see that I am me,
That I'm all that I want to be,
I know my skin and know my tears
I know my hopes, my dreams, my fears,

Then maybe you should leave me be,
Turn that stare away from me,
That sees me as I place in seat
Or step, no weary head, on streets,
Your quick stare and jealous smirk
Can no longer make me hurt.

Say your words and I will smile,
I am strong, you're in denial.
Take my hand so you can stand,
And I will never push you down.
I'm all that I want to be--
All I do and all I see
Is everything inside my hand
At my fingertip's command,
Take your hand and I'll caress,
Gently on your soft pink flesh,
Comfort in the form of take,

This confidence is for your sake.

and wishing II

 (poem format)

It started with a love letter,

the destiny of an almost-summers day,

a boy and a girl too different at a time when

differences made all the world of change,

high school's end and

a promise a girl made to herself and

a simple white paper. 

Blank, and then, no longer.

She flew into her life,

making up,

it later seemed,

for years of lack of living. 

She had been stony silent, stone that

smiled sometimes and felt and whispered things at night,

things she desperately craved for others to hear, for him to hear, but alas,

the stone was all they saw, was all he saw,

and she grew

and she flew out of it. 

Three wishes on a night where

— were the stars clear,

were the clouds white,

did the moon shine through and

was it full and

I don't know—

a basketball in her hands, she bounced it

angrily onto the floor

and demanded from God that he

help her

that he change her and make her beautiful and make her bright and bigger,

bigger than the acne face girl with duct tape covering

her mouth that she saw—

she knew she did—when she looked in the mirror
and then there was change and then there was life

and then there was beauty written into

the lines of her face. 

A love note,

a basketball-night wish, a few

nightmares and dreams

later and she had fallen in love again and this time... this time

there was no six year dormant love note

delivered in

disguised envelope

by shaking hand. 

Russian voice and

Russian face and

she kept this in her head, even after it

ended in tears and bodies slipping over and out of one another and art class.  And repeat.  Russian voice and

Russian face and

love from afar, it seemed like a

quadrilateral.  Point one: 

LF (Love from Afar). 

Point two:  Russian. 

Point three:  LF.  Point four:

Russian. 

Connect the dots

and what do you get! 

That's right, all together class!
Stony student, mouth closed,

doesn't want to cooperate.
I wish I were

that student.
Like

you, you

who sits in class, organized like a

Facebook page, organized by

desires and friends and

consecutive posts, right along with

Wenselous Ratking Smith Who Looks Like

Orlando Bloom, and below She

Is Attending Chabad's Purim Party. 

You were never more than that, though.  Just a

sitting boy

in a room with other students,

noticed by your rough hair

and your big Russian lips.  A week and she is

in love. 

She's repeating old cycles,

old habits,

improving on the things that were already

good, taking away from those

hateful things,

making them worse. 

A word vomit mouth is better than other types of vomit

but they'll kick me out for that.

Word vomit doesn't get you kicked out of school but it does pull the plug on desire and quaintness and too bad I'm too human for my own good

you'll never realize what I used to be but alas, as a song

I read

puts it vaguely like this: 

I won't change for you because

I'm good and

I deserve more than someone who doesn't like this Me. 

I wish I could remember the

eloquence in those lyrical words but it wouldn't produce this blunt emotion that 6 30 in the morning

does to a girl that can't sleep.  Defense mechanism of rationalization or not,

it makes me feel better.  This me I've worked so hard to be. 

Anyways, confidence?
Dictionary: confidence;

1.      (noun) She who is beautiful

and she who is bright and bigger, bigger than an

acne face girl.

2.      (verb) The act of removing duct tape from an acne-scared

girl's mouth. 

3.      That shit wish.

Where has it gotten me. 

A pretty face and

many

guys

later,

a sore

head and sore

belly, and

myself,

realizing

there is something nice

about a girl

playing basketball

in the night,

and wishing. 

bounce.  

And in life.

You said there's a place
where it all goes away.
Amongst the clear Japanese sky
floating like tanzaku
emotions morph into wishes and
our bodies rise up.
Hair like wind becomes spirit,
and in life we are spent.
I'm there right now.
Focusing.
On 707.
Dream within limits--soft lines are
safe.
You said there's a place where
bodies are nothing
And I'd like to see this place
Because right now
I am a corpse,
living
breathing physical
walking physical
And I can't decide
where my finger stops
and my touch begins.

eyes down.

Eyes down,
and seeing all around
They want you to speak
yell at you, shake
up your limbs
And sew your mouth to your cheeks,
your tongue to your roof
your heart to your hand.
Give me a sign you say,
with hand out
and heart spasing there
To become like this was what you wanted
It made you a friend like never else
and a lover like naught before
A beating bloody mess is a shining beacon of--
come here--
and taste it. 
Why do you gag, when I hand you my soul
like you begged before,
wanting
for.
I give myself more credit than that and I am right
Don't push your human faults onto me
And don't look at me with those eyes.
Brown hair over sight
life
over right. 

and wishing.

It started with a love letter, the destiny of an almost-summers day, a boy and a girl too different at a time when differences made all the world of change, high school's end, a promise a girl made to herself, and a simple white paper.  Blank, and then, no longer.

She then flew into her life, making up, it later seemed, for years of lack of living.  She had been stony silent, stone that smiled sometimes and felt and whispered things at night, things she desperately craved for others to hear, for him to hear, but alas, the stone was all they saw, was all he saw, and she grew and she flew out of it.  Three wishes on a night where--were the stars clear, were the clouds white, did the moon shine through and was it full and I don't know--a basketball in her hands, she bounced it angrily onto the floor and demanded from God that he help her that he change her and make her beautiful and make her bright and bigger, bigger than the acne face girl with duct tape covering her mouth that she saw--she knew she did-when she looked in the mirror
and then there was change and then there was life and then there was beauty written into the lines of her face. 

A love note, a basketball-night wish, a few nightmares and dreams later and she had fallen in love again and this time... this time there was no six year dormant love note delivered in disguised envelope by shaking hand.  Russian voice and Russian face and she kept this in her head, even after it ended in tears and bodies slipping over and out of one another and art class.  And repeat.  Russian voice and Russian face and love from afar, it seemed like a quadrilateral.  Point one:  LF (Love from Afar).  Point two:  Russian.  Point three:  LF.  Point four: Russian.  Connect the dots and what do you get!  That's right, all together class!

Stony student, mouth closed, doesn't want to cooperate.
I wish I were that student.

Like you, you who sits in class, organized like a facebook page, organized by desires and friends and consecutive posts, right along with Wenselous Ratking Smith Who Looks Like Orlando Bloom, and below Mimi Is Attending Chabad's Purim Party.  You were never more than that, though.  Just a sitting boy in a room with other students, noticed by your rough hair and your big Russian lips.  A week and Mimi is in love.  She's repeating old cycles, old habits, improving on the things that were already good, taking away from those hateful things, making them worse.  A word vomit mouth is better than other types of vomit but they'll kick me out for that. Word vomit doesn't get you kicked out of school but it does pull the plug on desire and quaintness and too bad I'm too human for my own good...

...and you'll never realize what I used to be but alas, as a song I read puts it vaguely like this:  I won't change for you because I'm good and I deserve more than someone who doesn't like this Me.  I wish I could remember the eloquence in those lyrical words but it wouldn't produce this blunt emotion that 6 30 in the morning does to a girl that can't sleep.  Defense mechanism of rationalization or not, it makes me feel better.  This me I've worked so hard to be. 

Anyways, confidence?
Dictionary: confidence; 1. (noun) She who is beautiful and she who is bright and bigger, bigger than an acne face girl. 2. (verb) The act of removing duct tape from an acne-scared girl's mouth. 

3. That shit wish.
Where has it gotten me.  A pretty face and many guys later, a sore head and sore belly, and myself, realizing there is something nice about a girl playing basketball in the night, and wishing. 

bounce.