{moment}

untouched beauty
in satin ribbons and blades of grass
imprints in the fieldspun in circles under the umbrella-sky
a dress
a hem
lace
swirled around small hips
each spin, the clock turned back
and froze each moment
and we watched
in slow motion
the grace of a small child
so free
such simplified elegance
with eyes closed

we did not know if we could speak
if so, what would we say?
it felt uncomfortable to move
so we fixed our eyes
and picked at the flowers
her feet were the size of our hands
and her hands the size of the flower we held
together
and the shadows from her arms
yes, they spun with her too

effortless wishes
in moments we could not even capture
in a camera
even if we'd saved the photograph
no one else would understand

we could try to make the sound
of the birds and the swoosh of the linen
or the padding of the feet on the soft, growing earth
but no one would hear it

she leaped
and our hearts leaped with her
as we could only remain on the ground
longing for those wings
that we could only find in this child
only this one special child
in momentum the ribbons in her hair surrendered
and fluttered past
as the braids flew outstretched across the horizon
whipping around her eyes in the glare of the sun
in patterns and measures no violin could match
never before could you understand
the truth of silence
and now we can read it like a book

a cloud passed
and minor keys rested against the fence
at the border of the property
we took no notice
i barely felt your shoulder against mine
how i wanted those wings

here i was longing to be that ribbon
wrapped around something so tangible
so realso new
to be in flight
paled by this sunlight

you were too real

{to define a rainy day}

a single button on the collar of a shirt
traced down to a hand
in the pocket
of a pair of jeans
just a simple pair of jeans.
where baseball fields were more than baseball fields
and birds flewmere specks from the window where we watched.
a woman walked past.

her hair was frizzy from the pouring rain.

home plate floated in the muddy groundwater.
wandered towards the chain link behind.
speeding cars and puddles overplayed the soundtrack
of community


but we didn't mind


stumbling in the meadow 'cross the street
arms linked
strides in muddy unison



like we were
just



something else.

feathers in the book pages
like faded print flies away...
morning stifled by dusty curtains
why is the bedroom so cold?
awaited phone calls muffled by
the last tone of a flatline
and the monitor fades black and we
are leftholding on to nothing butcolorless photographs
takenfrom their gaudy silver frame
son the dresser.
the fire has died and all
i can hear is a
clock chime,
four,
five.
i used to be in this very room
when it was alive
and i was a child.
when the armchair was occupied
and now the fire has died
and the only one in the armchair
is that old tattered afghan
his wife knitted


eighteen years ago.

like the traffic lights on
46th and broad
we change our futures
and j-walk fate
like it's just anotherstreet.
and
our inner city dreams
became so small
(i thinkthey can fit
through the storm drain)

"i'm eleven, (she) is nine"
part of the { cymbal crashes & silent ashes }

it is raining outside this morning.
i like to (watch secretly) the
storm drain because i

know how he feels
to be r a i n edon
the storm drain is my friend. i asks him
one day,

sixyearstwomonthseightdays ago(i counted)
it was my birthday (mommy and dadd forgot
again)
and i asks, "storm drain, has anyone ever stepped
on y o u?" "yes" "does it hurt you, too?"


"yes"



"storm drain?"
(the rain is making poundings against the windows
tttapptapttap like my (sister) on the dance floor in (her) pretty
black
shoes
shiny, like a penny i found once
(top drawer in my dresser under my socks) that is where i keep it;
the shoes used to be mine

but i tried to make taptapings
and they


came
out as clunkclunkings.
so daddy took them and gave them to (her)
(the pretty one)
tapppttataptappttap
i n e -ver- liked the sound of the taptapings of the shoes



i like the taptapings of
the rain better
but the windowsill told me it was

be

cause
i didn't like my (sister) and
that i wanted the shoes back
so then i made whisperings of tears and the
windowsill won'twon't talk anymore.
(i think it is my fault.)



(i think this because
the floor told me so, and) the floor is my friend, too.
(she) thinks i am not nice,
my (s i ster)
and daddy thinks so too



but
the
storm d
r
a
i
n
ttaptaptttappp taptap t t a tapp tap
made an echoey cursing sound
"bullshit."

mommy and daddy,
they says that word alot and my (sissy) says
it's not
a nice word.

the the storm drain he says
it
because he is having angry with
my
mommy and dadd

y

so i guess i am nice.)



it took a very long time for storm drain to answer
and he maked a sighing sound that was filled with big taptaptapttapings
and he says, he says


"yes?"





"i'm sorry."






tapttappptaptap
taptap




t
a
p

"good"
part of the { cymbal crashes & silent ashes } collection




mellow electric guitar fills my room
love lyrics leave me to assume
the reason why exactly daphne loves derby
i lisen alone on a friday night; it's almost five-thirty
i look out the window but there's nothing to see
it's dark and now it's just me and this cd

i ask, do you like to dream?
i ponder in between sheets frayed at the seam
and wish it were your skin
as i lay here in pleasant isolation within
acoustics in blue, awaited verses to pursue
how i want this dream to come true






as the sun drifts to sleep and i'm here in the dusk-light,
tell me, do you drink coffee at midnight?

"get dressed"
part of the { vetements } collection

i like to know that i am not alone
as i reach for you under
the covers.


i think i hear your parents coming
(let's hide)

"the wine"
part of the { it's a leave-alone kind of love }




murder.
we pick flowers for no purpose
and look up to see love
(nonexistant)
as though something is waiting
up in some inverted sky of poppies
bold
simple
cups
of
sanguine
(drink up)
radiant fires aglow in her hair
anger? love? hate?
the simple questions we ask of ourselves as another
heart is hung at half mast
oh, the mournful vernal vespers,
we gather
by white lilies, sharing one another's breath
in silence
deep
alizarian violet
velvet
crimson
cold tearstained grass
on our backs
naked
lying in a field where we speak, sighing
another day, yes, dying
just one more glass implying
that we've already drunk too much
(sipsip)
sweetsharp taste
of grade to drape
over a lonely night
(without you)
is this on purpose,
this slow
soundless
torture..
you obviously do not remember me
from those nights we kissed
for if you wanted to kill me now
you would know
to force me
to drink
my own guilt
(i daresay far worse than poison, dear)
and now the pointsettias wilt
hushnow
(drink up)

"denim"
part of the { vetements } collection

why do stars explode?
it's like your voice
it's the sound of swoop-swooping curls
on your shoulder
bare
like our
bodies

.whisper.
and maybe you can hear it too
kiss me, and maybe you'll feel it
like the humid air that separates only our breath
or the feeling of denim
and what a pair of jeans looks like in a heap on
the floor
next
to
yours
?

"dusk and dying"
{ part of the sundays spent collection }

i like to watch how you walk
while i am unnoticed
how your jeans crease and how they fold
and make scattered lines over
the denim,
the way your pockets move with your
hips with every stride
that you take,
hems trod upon by an old converse
shoe.
i like to laugh at how you would wear your
hat on backwards
to impress me
just like i wore mascara
as thought it would have improved our
relationship.
i like to watch how the lines in
your face change over time,
how you shirt wrinkled up near the
end of the night,
grass-stained
from rolling down the hill
at the park
with me
before
the
sun
went
down.
i wish we could go back to those
days.
at the park.
after school.
in my room.
in your room.
because now i can only go there
when i'm asleep
and dreaming
about what could have been the
most famous romance novel ever>
(but twilight has arrived.)

"look"
{ part of the sundays spent collection }

yellow sundress in a vacant wheat field
amidst the daises, who
gently flow
in the breath of vernal air
beautiful
like her sunhat that folds her ears over
streaming sepia waves
cascade
down
the
clavicle,
highlighted in quilted sunlighted
between the trees
shaded with a paisley
shawl
of verdantesque life
regardes, la,
elle danse entre les abres
avec une
sourire,
mais
pourquoi?
le ciel devient gris
like my cold eyes
how they complement each other
as though
a
fated pair, les deux,
like her eyes
are
destined
to close



while




we
















kiss.

"concrete"
{ part of the semi-emo collection }

back against the wall
cold.concrete.
you've cornered yourself
purely out of selfish emotion
and now you've let me
break down the walls of your citadel
i've torn you apart,
you explain.
deep.
cold.
concrete.
feeling.
through the veins
chills.
cold.
concrete.
i've taken your city of heart
by force;
you are defenseless.
i cannot silence you, for, i myself
am speechless
and you put words
inmymouth, words of guilt
so that i choke on them
in attempts to swallow tears
but you are not watching my eyes
because you are avoiding my gaze
and you make me feel so
cold
(inside).
unfathomable.
endless.
hurting.
i lay in a heap on the floor
with the Weapon in my hand
and i cannot bear
to watchany longer
and i wish that my heart
were made of the
cold
deep
hateful
concrete
but i must live with this flaw
that you remind me of day in, day out
and we lay here
in a perfect silence
and wait
for each other
to speak.




it never comes.

"ode to teenagers"
{ part of the semi-emo collection. aha. }


farewell to friends on face
book, and dances we attended like we were something else
the inferior freshman we were,
stabbing our friends in the backs with an axe
of immaturity;
trying to find our way in such a place.

sophomores we became to, later, our dismay
and learned how to copy homework
without getting caught
and how to stay up all night as to write
some essay
we'd put off til the last day.

then we got smarter.
and learned how to skip classes
and smoke cigarettes when we went out late, double date
with our friends
who cared about school
just as much as any other junior.
(how cool.)

here we are.
seniors derived from detention
lied to by our lovers
somehow we enjoyed ourselves
(even if that meant making fun of nasty p.d.a.)
and we've learned oh so much.
like how to cheat.
and be cheated.
and what that's like
and what's wrong and what's right
how to be strong and put up a fight


for ourselves,
our selfish selves.


are we really prepared for our lives
for what awaits us past the double doors?
we utter parting words and

forget friendships




and write something fake in a yearbook.
we bid each other goodbye
and say like it's a school motto
"i dare you to be someone that you're not"








even though we knew we'd been playing such a game for years.

"hushlily"
{ part of the 'sundays spent' collection }









There, the tips of their fingers
( prodding the battleship sky




gray, blue, or


an ge ) trees will tell; snow-fallen day
,thine forest is Green
sunlight pristine
her tassels golden lavender
and soapy white
.underbrush hush-hush like the rose in your blush




oh, oh, dear...


it seems our conversation is no longer private, (though no
words can be used against us for they,
were

not


spoken)



She enters silently, padding her tiptoes across the hardwood

cold.hollow.





ss oo uu nn dd ss reverberate
by
ones
and twos
how quickly She closes the curtains
on us just a



little
more time, we (ask, as our hands
diverge to conceal the evidence
)


we will wait for Her (reflection)(noitcelfer) reh rof tiaw lliw ew
to
f
a
d
e



from my love-ly vase of lilies. “Truth or dare?” I inquire.


She does not respond.