Home

Last night I felt like I was
home.
My eyes were closed and warm
foreboding sleep
and rain met sidewalk
like the thud of a pillow.
The room was thick with darkness
and silent, save the soft fall
outside of my window.
I started to drift,
my body swaying between
sleep and cognizance
and I thought I was home.

I wear my heart on my sleeve,
outermost layer
Exposed shine or
impaling rain.
I don't expect much
I just
need
you
to want
me.
Gratify me
take me from the corner
(nobody puts baby there)
and put me on your
pedestal.
Make me feel
special,
like I
mean something,
matter.

I am a leaky faucet
taste the salt on my
lips.
Listen to the
soft and sad
vibrato
of my
bleeding heartstrings.
I am sick to my stomach
with
angst induced nausuea.
Just reach in and
rip it out,
I am better off
without it.

The Line's Break

You are bold-type face
jump.
You twist, turn,
curl in a
sadistic macabre
frolic.

You are
significant,important.
You are
intelligent design, sent
to pen from frontal
lobe.

You are
The Intended;
Married to the page, making
love to line after
sweet line.

Your body bends in schematic
dexterity.
Your heart pounds,
Trying to escape
your rib
cage. Beat
beat beat, creating
rhythm, thumping
furiously.

Your hands reach to
sky, grasping expertly
for a tangible climax.

At the end of your
consummation, you fall
dead, in
aesthetic grace.

Autumn

I. I am the
Girl Who Dances in Rain.

I am not graceful
I am no ballerina
As I gulp and absorb

I am just one
twirling and falling and soaking
drenched in cool autumn rain
I am just at peace with the water gods.

II. I am falling down
in slow motion,
in a fuzzy daydream.
I twirl, my body spins 'til I hit pavement.
I am one with red yellow orange
I am one with leaves,
dancing, floating.
I am falling down,
I am detached from home
I do not gasp or try to hold on,
I am a free spirit
I am alone
I drift in and out of being.
My body drifts.

Writing Poetry

Sometimes i feel like
writing poetry,
like being important for
a few moments as
I
create
Art.
I want to escape
angry words
bad drivers
long, crowded hallways.
I want to become
one
with wet streets
sinewy trees
and my thesaurus.
I sit
I pretend
that I am a poet
a creative artsy beatnik
in a beret and thick eyeliner.
But I am just a little girl
in blue jeans and loafers.
But sometimes
I feel like writing poetry.

Insomnia

Why am i up to greet the sun?
Sleep is foreign,
folklore that I vaguely remember.
The sky is cold blue
and the ground is frozen and covered
by a veil of falling snow.
I am sitting in the dark of the room
the sun
blocked by clouds
meekly slips between venetian blinds
but all in vain;
the room is still a cave,
a den of lethargy and evaded sleep.
Maybe tomorrow it will be easier
to slumber,
when you are gone
for good and my mind can
stop spinning.
Or maybe next week.

Where I'm From/Who I Am

I am from puddle jumping
and umbrella hopping.
I am from running through
the rain,
drops kissing my face and hair.

I am from Pioneer Square,
running to Starbucks as we wait
for the tree to be lit.
I am from MAX and good friends,
traveling towards obscure
shops, waiting to be found.

I am from Hawthorne and Belmont,
in search of used clothes and videos,
New York style bagels and
Beautiful pizza.

I am from the murky depths
of the beautiful brown Willamette,
decorated with spoiled diapers and
hazardous salmon.

I am from j-walkers and roadkill,
from hippies and hipsters-
I am from Portland.

Dry

I have lost my art.
Poetry used to nourish my body
like water running
through the
veins
of an evergreen tree.
Now I am barren.
Bones brittle and
disintegrating, begging
for
something, anything;
for passion
or even
lust.
Pragmatism
has infected my brain
and spread.
These malignant
tumors
have left me
numb.

I'm sorry, but what was your name again?

I am forgettable,
forgotten.
I have
escaped
memory and thought.
I am nameless
clueless.
I am the spaghetti
stain
on the other side
of the cushion.
I am
the sock
left
at summer camp.
I am
math homework.
I am the stranger
on the sidewalk.
I have set up camp
in your junk drawer

Portland at Midnight

The night is damp and freezing. Stale raindrops drip down my shirt from the bus stop awning, and send shivers down my spine. My hair smells like cigarette smoke and a still drying spot on my jeans smells suspiciously of beer. The rain has slowed to a violent drizzle but the murky puddles have already become oceanic. My shoes are wet; my socks are soaked; my feet are frozen. My head is reeling and foggy as I lean degectedly against the cold glass of the bus stop shelter. A man sitting on a bench oggles me from beneath his Goucho Marx eyebrows. His jeans have grease stains that may very well have dripped down from his slick hair. I pray that the Number 4 comes soon and that he is going a different route. I close my eyes and fantasize a warm bed and a shower; burning water and cleansing steam.

A Monday, Mid August

I.

Watched the sun set as I walked to work. The is is low and glows pink like a highlighter. Clouds soon devour it and hold it hostage till late afternoon.

II.

Glorious, glorious rain! The sky is flat gray- the color sandstone, and i couldn't be happier. It's sweater weather; sixty-six and perfect.

III.

Hot chocolate and a cheese bagel.

IV.

Book store paradox; Bukowski or Pahlinuik? Mermaid Chair or Inferno? Too many choices. I leave before I can change my mind.

V.

Greek pizza at the Blind Onion. Feta, Artichoke, Pesto.

Evergreen

I see your life
as an
evergreen
tree,
glowing and effervescent.
When time changes
maples and willows to
shades of age
and death,
you stay
green,
verdant and alive.
You stand
tall
and proud
like the Douglas Fir
whose needles are
forever
green.
I see your life
and it stays
like a photograph.

Autumn

My heart is frozen
over.
Icycles
like frigid fingers,
stiff and swollen,
solidify around the edges
of the
torpid muscles in
my body.
Autumn bites my bare skin, leaving
tiny puncture marks.
Chills
like blood
sluice through my veins.

Gelid rain
accosts the sky
beating it to a
matte pulp.
The sun is obscured,
hiding itself in
trepidation;
all ardor
is extinguished.

Leaves like fallen soldiers
are strewn
across the wet black roads.
Piles of them lay
as funerary monuments.

Baby

I wear my heart on my sleeve,

outermost layer

Exposed shine or

impaling rain.

I don't expect much

I just

need

you

to want

me.

Gratify me

Take me from the corner

(nobody puts baby there)

and put me on your

pedestal.

Make me feel

special,

like I

mean something,

matter.

I am a leaky faucet.

Taste the salt on my

lips

Listen to the

soft and sad

vibrato

of my

bleeding heartstrings.

I'm sick to my stomach

with

angst induced nausea.

Just reach in and

rip it out,

I'm better off

without it.