Secondhand Smoke

Composed 5/31/13
Description: Something short and sweet today.

If I die because
Of your dumb little death sticks
I will be so pissed


A Walk

Composed 5/30/13
Description: I took a walk this evening; this is the result.

We’re so numb in our metal cubes
With their artificial air
Their hard vibrations and pointless noises
Drown out every care

It’s only when you step outside
And kick up dirt and grass
And smell the green and brown of earth
That you start to live at last

Little squares of thick paned glass
Are no comparison to the sun
That makes you aware of your own skin
With sweat and burns and grunge

And you don’t even notice
When you’re stuck inside
The overwhelming pleasure
Of the forest’s shading line

When you’re out of your little box
You feel the consequences
Your pulse, your thoughts, and emotions jump
When a rabbit bolts at your fleeting presence

And the slight bumps in a little cube
When seen from the other side
Are wide eyed splatters of red on pavement
They’re disgust and sorrow combined

The naïve pleasure of coasting by
Does more damage than you think
I’d rather feel my brain and muscles fight
To know my body is all in sync

Those little metal boxes
Drain our feelings ‘til we’re dead
You truly only begin to live
When you walk on nature’s edge


Composed 5/27/13
Description: I went to Ikea today, and, in addition to inspiring me to design an entire house, the trip also led to this.

Striped red clothes hanging in a row
On a single clothesline
A black frame with white sheets stained with red
Tucked between a towering chest of drawers
A small silver table
All sharp and shining
A white lamp emits hazy light
Black and white paintings on blood red walls
And a single white vase of rigid red roses
That’s it
That’s all
No clutter
No mess

I wished I lived
In an Ikea display
Where everything was black and white
No stress, all matched
Organized and neat
Unlike my own abode

But if I did that
My life would be an Ikea display
Artificial, too clean
Devoid of all life

The Price of Power

Composed 5/25/13
Description: This poem came from a very strange place. After I came home from lunch this afternoon I got enwrapped in the last part of that show where they fix/cover up really terrible tattoos. This got me thinking about tattoos, and suddenly I had this idea. What if certain tattoos could give you magical abilities? The tattoos would be very intricate, and, I imagined, the ink used would not be typical tattoo ink, but magical ink that was, indeed, very painful once injected into the skin. Therefore, only the strongest individuals would be able to tolerate it and therefore be blessed with these powers. I even have the main character of this poem/universe created. I can picture her perfectly — she’s apart of a tribe with dark skin and pitch black, short, crazy curly hair… And totally badass. Haha, anyway. Hope you enjoy! More stuff may be stemming from this idea…

The ink in her skin
You can’t imagine the pain
It left her screaming
Mad, deranged
Each color a poison
Every stroke a slice
The reward would be great
But was it worth the price?
Her resolve was strong
Sixteen hours she whimpered
And when she had stopped
Fire shot from her fingers


Composed 4/‎‎22/11
Description: One of my old favorites, probably because of its subject matter, which is still as relevant today as it was two years ago (and will undoubtedly remain relevant for awhile longer).

How do you know?
A look?
A smile?
Or is one only sure
After talking awhile?

Is it a physical chemistry?
Mental stimulation?
How he acts in
Various situations?

Is it a mathematical mix;
A list of compatible traits?
Simply liking the same things?
Enjoyable dates?

I’m starting to think
I’ll never know
Or maybe I just need
To develop, grow
Learn what I want
Or what I need
A man who can laugh
Who has goals to succeed
A man with intelligence
And humility
A passion for life
And eventually me

Honesty’s important
As is commitment and trust
But how will I know he has this,
Or even tell love from lust?

Can you ever know?
Or do we just guess?
Ah! Love!
It’s too much stress.


Composed 5/21/13
Description: I am currently housesitting for a family as they move their son into an apartment out of state. Though I’ve been at this house many times before, it’s always strange to be at another’s house completely alone with the freedom to explore.

A stranger’s house
Is a castle to be explored
With secret staircases leading to
New rooms
Each one a mystery
Filled with items never seen
Knick-knacks in cabinets
Pictures on fireplaces
Strange food lining the pantry and
Unfamiliar shelves filled with unfamiliar books
Tell stories of an entire life lived
Without your influence

In a world of routine
Everything is new
The squish of a couch
The softness of toilet paper
The smell of bed sheets
The buttons on a remote control

Everything is an adventure
Hidden trashcans plead to be found
Showers are a riddle to be solved
And when the lights grow dim in the night
You are truly lost in the dark
No known notch in the wall
Or corner of a desk
Serves as protector
You are a victim to the demons
Of dark and imagination
Quests for light switches
Are a matter of life and death

And yet
A week of exploring the castle
Makes it shrink
Into the cottage you are used to


Composed 5/21/13
Description: A friend of mine is moving (quite far away) tomorrow, and we said our goodbyes tonight. Our parting was not all that I wanted it to be.

Your words are not sugar
Making my eyes close
As a sweet ache fills my stomach
Nor are they salt
But preserving all that’s good
They are a hand around my heart
Out every drop of hope

I Can’t Look

Composed 5/19/13
Description: Another personal piece (based on today), and my first experimentation with switching up spacing. Let me know what you think!

Your eyes

Twinkle mysteriously
Like midafternoon rain on an overcast day
The sun shines through

I can’t look

So full of happiness
And admiration
So different

So misleading
My heart breaks

The Psychology of Muse

Composed 5/17/13
Description: Another personal piece.

Freud believed
That our deepest
Most forbidden desires
Reside in the ice burg of unconscious
Leaking through in
Physical malfunctions

While Lacan
What preoccupies us most
Slips out our mouths
In phonemes
In tricks of language

My desires
Reside in both
In my muse
Manifesting in
My poetry and how
It flies from my
Restless fingertips

For truly I find
I cannot write of
But you


Composed 5/15/13
Description: A personal piece based on recent events and revelations. I ended up experimenting a little more with symbolism in this one. It will be interesting to see what you all think of it!

I sit next to my cinnamon tornado
Less thunderous now that I’m not coating him
In my usual mix of hot and cold
Though the console’s stockpile of
Fragrant tobacco might be
The origin of his placid breeze

We’re separated by all that
Evidenced by his words
Like agnostic and don’t give a shit
And drunk
And though cinnamon is fine
In small doses
I know I could never tolerate a mouthful

But through all that smoke
Between us
I still see him
Depression and laughter and
Brilliance and madness
All that debris
Twisting around inside him

Perhaps, come winter,
There will be less tobacco
Less wind
Less cinnamon
Less smoke