Katrina

I wasn't kidding when I said

I eat men like you for breakfast.

You should've heeded that warning last night--

because now, as you are tumbling

through the waves of my stomach acid,

you realize just how right I was.

I am not just a play thing or

a gentle little girl.

It is not a coy joke

when I whisper calmly in your ear:

"Do not fall in love with me unless you are prepared for war."

I am a walking earthquake,

bringing down cities

with nothing more than a gentle sigh.

I am the flood that finds you,

and after me, there is nothing left.

In your vain attempt to dry off

and find anything of value,

you will find only choked up crops

and bloated living room furniture.

I am tornado,

tearing everyone around me apart

after they've come in contact with me.

If you're strong, you hold on

while the weak go flying

across fields and dreams.

There is hardly a reason to chase after me

if you are not willing to swing a lasso of barbed wire,

spur your horse until you both bleed,

or live in longing of developing

callouses along your rope burned fingers.

I am burning wave of fire.

Shield of cannonball

and falling crash of firework

in a shower of confetti and acid rain.

I am grindstone,

crushing noses and hopes

directly into bread crumbs

--every ounce of which

waiting to be consumed

on a slab of ashwood

dripping in boxing glove blood.

I am parafin,

sucking air out of lungs

to preserve only the most perfect notions of human,

counting the months lost to stillness.

It is only in the outburst of violence

that I may find peace.

I am not looking for you to come

and bridal my tempest, merely hoping

that you can meet my shock of lightning streaking across the sky

with your own clap of earth trembling thunder.

So you must understand my disappointment

when I managed to unhinge my jaw

and snake-swallow you entirely with such ease

that I barely thought twice

about what bones might get stuck in my gut.

You were all talk with no punch,

all tomato juice and not a slight tickle of bloody.

I had hoped for anything but a lamb to take to slaughter

even as you wrapped the leash around you own neck

without my prompting.

You are cornflakes, boy.

You had no idea that this battle would take your legs,

that I would sink your eyes into star-filled oceans

and you could never look at other women without seeing me.

I will ruin you.

You will find my face in every turn,

my name ringing past your throat,

you will follow me blindly,

haunting yourself with the memory of my lips.

Originally performed on 3/28/11

Originally written on 7/26/2010

Endlessly Edited.

Backdraft

I read this less than an hour after it's completion. It wrote itself, mostly.

The fireman's wife will tell you,
my limbs were on fire the night we met.
dancing in the breeze
and licking the air
with a raging passion
that set your hands in casts for weeks.

My skin singed a new trail in your mind,
a path you walked carelessly
with no other shock than the delight

of setting your newly charred feet

on the earth that

would soon foster seeds for another wild disaster.

My eyes filled with a blaze,
an eruption of hue
so brilliant
that I swore you
were the cause for my blindness.

My mouth sparked with every breath.
I could only speak in verse for the months
that we traced each other's flesh suits,
mapping out possible futures
and fantasies
that came to suffocate
in the smoke rising between us.

An unlined chimney is the difference
between a cosy living room
and a devastating heap of rubble.
When I promised to burn for you,
I did not expect it to be an everlasting smolder,
a pile of lumber,
or a wisp of ash floating across the sky.

I made a promise to the cold brick walls,
with the hope of wrapping myself around you,
enfolding you safely from your own consuming flame.

But you never hear the ticking

inside the chamber-head of a murderer,

claiming it was all in the heat of the moment

as the world world caved in.

We had no way of knowing that cotton sheets

and terrycloth could catch so quickly,

and we were fools for even thinking they wouldn't.

The fireman's wife will tell you,

that no room is safe.

There is always a fiesty stove,

a zealous fireplace,

or an over-working furnace.

Don't get heated floors, your convenience could end you.

Originally performed 12/23/10
Originally written on 12/23/10

dream job

there is something so sacred
and tender about the strength
resting across your shoulders
that asks to be crawled upon,
and the broad plain of your chest
that seems so willing to be carved into.

i would like so desperately
to peel back your skin
and suck the juice
straight to your bones.
--to grip the back of your neck
and show you i am just what you're looking for

if we could get past the posturing
and the petty politics
i could make you realize
that when you look at me,
it is your knees that should be weak.
because i have the power to make you tremble,
to make you invite me to wrap myself around your torso
and squeeze into your ribs
until you beg me to never let you go.

no one at work would have to know.




anthony.

Originally performed on open mic 2/17/11
Originally written on 7/23/10

Encounter.

when the muse comes for you, you will know:
she is not a kind lover,
but she IS beautiful.
her breasts, despite the cliches of mountains,
are but sleek river banks---soft and warm,
but before you rest your bones,
she will find a flood
and drown all your comfort.
when you look into her eyes,
you will see not stars or lakes
or pools of ethereal light
but vast deserts---you will see
where oceans have missed the land
and you will learn
of desire beyond your physical body.
the type of ache that
stretches for miles and eons.

she will appear in the shroud of twilight,
just as the sun is escaping the sky
and the opposite horizon echos a purple hue.
at first, especially if you're not paying attention,
she will seem to be an old maid,
bent over with a cane to support her wilting frame.
but as your eyes learn of her image,
you will see the waterfalls of hair
flowing down her back
and a face that tells fortunes for a smile.

when the muse comes for you, you will know:
she is not a kind lover,
but she IS beautiful.
remember not to run as you see her.
at first she is frightening,
and as you look on,
she will only become more so.
don't pretend that you are brave,
just let your fear wash over you.
though her gnashing teeth may make you falter,
and her claws seem sharp and angry,
her hips are built to rock you
her skin sewn together to fulfill every wish.

when the muse comes for you,
put down everything else you are doing
and run to her side.
she is not here to comfort you,
but she will show you things you've never seen
before and could never see without her.


Originally performed on open mic 10/14/10
Originally written on 10/12/10

Still Life

An edit of this. Feedback is thoroughly encouraged. Criticism extremely welcome.

Eons have passed since we walked through that green maze to bronze fields.
Yet I have visited our park so many times in my thoughts,
with the heaviness of death hiding so close to my heart,
it would seem as though it was only yesterday since we were walking side by side.

With open eyes and bare feet,
the music of the air spilled into our ears
and we swayed like stalks of wheat.

Under the blue autumn sky,
I can still hear all of the words you ever spoke
echoing through the blades of grass.

We were not silent then;
we were not patient
and there was no need to be, either.
Our souls touched and grew inside one another.

I can only dig down so far
to find where there is a difference between us.
It would not matter if you lived in any other place,
if I could not see you with my eyes.
We were born to meet each other and live to learn.
(Perhaps if we had never met I may have died?
What about you?)

If my legs could carry me,
I would run.
If you could open your mouth,
you would conduct symphonies.

It was so simple for us.
We were creating worlds by discovering what already existed.
We were flourishing in the void.
We were making peace by not needing one another.

My only fears for you are that fear would get in the way of any life worth living.
That something could paralyze you beyond ever
understanding or experiencing the most necessary affairs.

Waves passed and oceans flew,
time churned and next thing I knew
you were walking away from me.

The crisp air hit my lungs and I decided this wouldn't be when I chased after anyone.
I was tired of walking so far North
that I forgot where the beach lay.
When I was at your place
I never knew which way was home.
I got so comfortable in your bed
I began to dislike my own skin.

Four years ago I might not have known any better,
but four years from now I might say the same thing.

I take a deep breath and plunge in.

---maybe I'll find you after all.

You Don't Even Have To Wait*

We are walking without crutches and without bandages.
You are going to see these wounds as they are and you will take notice of how I can heal them. We are moving at lightning speed to a greater understanding and my arms are waving through the air to feel the push and pull of the tides. Look at me, I am walking on my own. Feel free to get out your camera and talk about it in a sweet voice, but I am not doing this for you. I have had a taste of freedom and I am ready to feel the rush of wind in my hair once again. Keep your pills and your support beams for your other friends, I am something else in the running. I will be showing off my new bruises and scars in no time.
I will move faster than anyone has before.
I will take you by force.
We are walking without a crutch.
We are moving without your bandages.
I wear these faults as battle scars and I am not afraid.


*Placeholder of a better title. From "Let the Drummer Kick" by Citizen Cope.
Inspired by a phone conversation with a close friend.

Before This War

There is a man and he rocks me.
This steady motion follows a path and sets music to life. The notes show a dreamscape he's only spoken of before and here it is on the walls around us. I could live in his arms, just in this moment. So that every time he holds me I hear the same melody whispering from another dimension and another time.

This is a different kind of safety, where I am not just saving you but you defended every bit of me.

Sick

i wonder how much time of someone's day is really given to really uprooting every single good thing that could be laid down.

i am listening with my entire being and i'm finding that i'm out of practice. i miss the point sometimes, please bear with me. the words won't make you hear what i have, you need your skin for this, your ears, your soul. you need to absorb it all the way that we can.

i was in love with your history. i was in love with your history. my past was in love with your's but i don't know where i stand now. the brink that i am teetering on is showing signs that if i take you with me, it will mean a swift plunge and certain death. but once i let go of this rope that holds us tight to one another in a swirling current, if i just loosen the grip of my bonds to anyone in particular, i will find exactly what i've been searching for. and whatever you see as beautiful or amazing or grand, none of it will effect what i see. rather, none of it will have to effect it. that effect is ugly and cruel.

maybe the nice things are the ones that i need the least. perhaps i wasn't built to simply enjoy, and a lot of scripture points to this. but that really means something a lot different here, i think.

"nothing about us is simple"
(the phrase "i don't want to lose you" is very real and obnoxiously useless.)