It Is

Drown the
cupid's bow
almond eyes
dark curls
Forget the
one dimple
straight teeth
soft hands
Bury the
hazy night
bright morning
guilty memory

All of You

Slip into your shoes
and I try to
walk, walk, walk
Paint my lips the same
and I try to
talk, talk, talk
I look where you looked
and I try to
see, see, see
But where you are now
I can not
be, be, be

You

Yes, I see you
peeking through your lashes
Yes, I hear you
your lips move and I can
feel you
quiet laughter like
fingers on my spine
I watch you and I think:
I know you
The curve of your cheek
color of your hair
so much like mine
You have a look in your eye
that is hard to define
It says:
Yes, I see you
and
Yes, I hear you
and
I wish I did not know you

The Thought

Can't shake it --
thoughts anchored in my brain
taken refuge under the skin
swimming inside every blood vessel
toxic
Want to hide it --
words are all betrayal
voice dissolving into whispers
easing into soft consonants until
silent

Talk

The silence seems fragile and I don't want it to break
Words that used to tumble from my mouth
like so much steam and heat and necessary substance
are now things I have to search for
Talking seems weightless and empty and without meaning
something I do because the quiet is oppressive
to the world out there
All it does is fill the space around us at the table
or between us in the streets
Most of it is just small talk
and it's getting harder for me to find the right things to say
Half the words that filter in tend to ricochet
dull rocks that make my head ache
day after day after day after day
It's become a tiresome thing at best:
listening and being listened to
Silence would be bliss
and to be silent a thousand times better
I think it is too easily shattered
for me to really hope for

False Skin

The biggest star reflects off of
the most lonely car.
I am not alone.
I sit and watch the parking lot of the motel.
A man walks out
surveys his kingdom.
He is suspicious of me.
I could be fresh meat;
I could also be a bust.
Everyone here wears a false skin.
The trick is discovering the nature of it.
My mother is in a deep sleep
awake, but eyes blurred by
self-induced coma.
I smoke cigarette after cigarette.
The air teases my hair.
Asphalt glistens
and boys who act like men
ask me if I have someone in my life.
I wave them off like flies.
They hover not far off
their distant words like buzzing
in my ears.
Another sound intrudes:
my name.
I unfold myself and follow,
unresisting.
Later I will ask myself
which lies were too practiced
and which truths too forthcoming?
Even I wore a false skin
during the night that came
on the heels of that day.

Dream Catcher

The downward spiral is an easy one to march.
Recently I've been plummeting down as though propelled by wings,
darkly feathered ones that span greater than my desire for survival.
I've been lulling myself into this false sense of complacency.
I'll tell myself it doesn't matter how far I go,
as long as I can still function day to day,
still put out an outward appearance of being "there," of being "present."
They say that I'm destroying myself,
like I've just now passed the marker that separates
simple negligence from active obliteration
of self.
I don't want to tell them that I purposefully chose this path.
That the reason the downward spiral is so fast and so easy
is because every step is greased with the fat
of a thousand good, solid arguments.
At least, they sound good for a little while.
I'll admit that I have my days where I look back,
and remember where I've come from.
Days where I want to shed my guilt like a second skin,
and believe in the gift of dream-catchers,
that can pluck the nightmares from your mind.