Her shaky hands

handcuffed in ransom notes

holds on to bridges.

I look at pretty girls
and torture myself
with thoughts
of your lips
on theirs.

I find my stomach
wrapping tightly
around the eyes
of your future
muses, seeing you
love the red
of another's mouth.

I see a future
of trembling
hands, clutching
another wrinkled
love letter,
not knowing when
to let go

even when you
push me into moving
cars and tell me to
get home safe.

Pennsylvania gave us
rest stop kisses,
chicken wings,
and laughs about Victory
pursuing southwest Jewish
boys of Brooklyn.

There were no kisses
on the Ohio Interstate
as toes crossed
snow covered fields,
pushing icicles to
corners of Indiana.

We got a little tipsy
underneath
a patch of stars,
clarity far from
the reach of this city
girl willing to
stick her neck out to
catch a gust of road
in between her lips.

When the Devil 
goes international and 
God asks you 
for a napkin, 
you open your palms 
like the world is a mass - 
waiting for parts 
of his body to be 
placed on your skin. 

The brushing of 
a fingertip, the slow 
smile of an accident 
quickly fall underneath 
your tongue 
as you remember 
the last time 
you fell on your knees, 
the last time
the Devil and God crossed 
paths, as you held parts of 
the Beloved in your mouth 
like a benediction.  

Your communion stays 
in your blood stream, 
filtering through your body 
during the reenactment of 
late night
beneath the covers 
of memory. 

You're ashamed 
that months later, 
you still taste 
the earth that shattered  
in the outfall of your ocean 
ridden body that tries 
to forget that time, waiting 
for the wind 
to pass along 
a 'peace be with you' -
where kryptonite 
does not 
weaken you 
to the knees. 

Where you can count 
one, two, three...
and know exactly 
what the Devil and God 
may want of your valves
as you close your eyes
at night to pray,
wiping your mouth 
clean of declarations. 

Dear God, 
today I wrote 
a poem. 

I saved it 
on a napkin 
for you after the 
Devil tore my dreams 
in two, taking off 
on the next plane 
to Calcutta. 

...Now can I be saved?


Hello Write Queeners,

I have a case of writer's block due to a lot of personal issues, but I still want to stay consistent with updating. So sporadically, I will share with you pieces I have written in workshops in the past few months. I would love feedback so comment away!

I haven't posted a poem in ages, especially since I have been workshopping a lot of my pieces, but since I wrote this nearly a half an hour after my blog post, I'm kind of feeling myself - blog and poem all in one day in the span of an hour. Plus it was one of those Here write a poem moments via text with my dear writing biffle (If I keep calling him that, he will disown me). Plus it's an excuse to come up with a new section - The Write Poems.

Vacant

I wonder who else I may be lost to.

The stage is lit, the crowd full,
but my struggle is bee-lined to you -
an apocalypse in the middle of 
book writing and a girl's night out,
vacant eyes dreaming our moments
against vibrating speakers or
with fingers in mid-air, keyboard 
waiting stiffly beneath my fingers.

Voices rattle around my ear drums, 
hushed against the silent movie of our 
memories - repeat repeated over and over 
until one of my friends or the 
gentle buzzing of the screen 
wordlessly touch the back of my neck,

the stage lights dimming down as I pull 
in another tale beneath the folds of my chest, 
a gentle smile that cannot climb 
to my eyes, mouths the words

"I'm here."



Then the glorious editing suggestions. I like this version too, though it takes out a good line.



Edit:

Vacant

I wonder who else I may be lost to.

apocalypse in the middle of 
book writing and a girl's night out,
vacant eyes dreaming our moments
against vibrating speakers or 
with fingers in mid-air, keyboard 
waiting stiffly beneath my fingers.

Voices rattle around my ear drums, 
hushed against our memories - 
repeat repeated over and over 
until one of my friends or the 
gentle buzzing of the screen 
wordlessly touch the back of my neck,

lights dimming down as I pull 
in another tale beneath the folds of my chest, 
a gentle smile that cannot climb 
to my eyes, mouths the words

"I'm here."


Opinions? Comments are always welcome.