mid-air mumbles

pause. sigh. go. hi.

April 22nd 2011

|#

i am the salty mist
of God’s tears hitting
baked sand; the innocence of April
lilacs at 6 am on a sleepy street
in Westwood; blistered corn, swathed
in sweet butter during dog day
lullabies.  i am cinnamon bark,
nutmeg cloves, and ginger
roots drowning
in tepid Bordeaux.
i am bing cherries

in August, punched with lime; iron
in blood; cotton candy burnt
by a sculptor’s blowtorch.

i am the shrill wail of a freight
train in the distance.  i am the screen
door slamming because she is
home; the birds singing
to Fogg from the willow
tree; the motor whining
in your Mazda as the thunder broke
over Monument Valley—how you
giggled in the monsoon.  and hail
shattering my windshield.

i am purple velvet swaddling
couch cushions with
cacti poking legs—piercing—
ripping holes, but we sink
deeper.  i am Cleo’s
breath on cold foreheads.  i am
the leather of my
Mama’s face.

i am blueberries—sweet
and discrete—ripe
bruises; sunshine fields; little
girls with fuschia blush; golden,
glowing sunsets; and brown
flannel.

i am the hush of Sunday mornings
at the lake.  i am his heartbeat before
he’s awake.  i am the clatter
and clang of dishwashers.  i am
the tide and ripple of
streams in Estes.  i am ashes
descending Never Summer.  i am
flapping hawk wings in Big
Sur.  i am whispers
told to Niagra.

Posted at 7:20pm and tagged with: full width, photography, graffiti, love, poetry, poem, photo, synesthesia,.

i am the salty mist of God’s tears hitting baked sand; the innocence of April lilacs at 6 am on a sleepy street in Westwood; blistered corn, swathed in sweet butter during dog day lullabies.  i am cinnamon bark, nutmeg cloves, and ginger roots drowning in tepid Bordeaux.i am bing cherries in August, punched with lime; iron in blood; cotton candy burnt by a sculptor’s blowtorch. i am the shrill wail of a freight train in the distance.  i am the screen door slamming because she is home; the birds singing to Fogg from the willow tree; the motor whining in your Mazda as the thunder broke over Monument Valley—how you giggled in the monsoon.  and hail shattering my windshield. i am purple velvet swaddling couch cushions with cacti poking legs—piercing—ripping holes, but we sink deeper.  i am Cleo’s breath on cold foreheads.  i am the leather of my Mama’s face. i am blueberries—sweet and discrete—ripe bruises; sunshine fields; little girls with fuschia blush; golden, glowing sunsets; and brown flannel. i am the hush of Sunday mornings at the lake.  i am his heartbeat before he’s awake.  i am the clatter and clang of dishwashers.  i am the tide and ripple of streams in Estes.  i am ashes descending Never Summer.  i am flapping hawk wings in Big Sur.  i am whispers told to Niagra.

January 23rd 2011

2 notes |#

it will all be
okay. he said it
to me like he
meant it, but i could
see in his face
that he didn’t
know. i wanted him
to know, but i—
as always—knew
better…knew that
this was some sort of sincerity
i lacked.  i loved

him. in that tragic way
we sometimes do.  in
that way that causes
splintering.
like cracking a pigeon’s breastbone
during a tough
dissection. 
put some elbow into it.  and then
collapse.  faster than
you think.
like a perfect life
unraveling.

i smiled.  that tight kind
that happens when i’m
rescuing someone.  blinked
hard and sank.  inside,
not where he could
see.  i was always the one
who stood tall when
my knees were buckling. 
a tug, a squeeze, his arm
on my wrist.  i shook it clean. 
i would be alright.  the belief
mattered more than the ache
in my chest.  i felt light and warm like
bloody feathers
floating a gusty
blizzard.  again.

that room, now
so empty and
clean.  finally, mine
again.  i watched his
feet make clicks and
his hand turn
the knob.  felt the soft
down of her head and her
bright eyes watching
mine.  he didn’t.

i didn’t
get up.  didn’t
open the door.  didn’t
kiss him goodbye.  i
don’t do this.  i
don’t—goodbye is not
in here.  goodbye implies
choice, and that was not
mine.  i just
watched, like i had
so many others, and
stared straight ahead—waiting
for something i’ll never
understand.

i shook
at first, grabbed
the phone, and stared
at it.  watched
my world closely
to see if it
would boil.  it
didn’t.  i could
still breathe.  so, i stood
and locked the door. 

i didn’t
believe him when he
walked away.  it was just
another bruise to nurse
and examine.  another
indication of what is
wrong with alma.  another reason
why not.  another not good
enough.  i didn’t
want to. 

instead, i kept
my eyes shut and
the rooms dark.  i sat
and waited for something
else.  i let the wounds weep
on 16th, and i held on
to someone else till
the room stopped
spinning.

and then, i got up
again.  by myself. i
stitched the contusions
into resilient quilts, and i
kept myself warm.  and
it was.

—AIM, all rights reserved. 
Written on no sleep at 6 am this morning.  Took about two minutes.

Posted at 6:38pm and tagged with: full width, poetry, poem, love, relationships, okay, colorado, photo, photography, landscape, estes park, sunset,.

it will all beokay. he said itto me like hemeant it, but i couldsee in his facethat he didn’tknow. i wanted himto know, but i—as always—knewbetter…knew thatthis was some sort of sincerityi lacked.  i lovedhim. in that tragic waywe sometimes do.  inthat way that causessplintering.like cracking a pigeon’s breastboneduring a toughdissection.  put some elbow into it.  and thencollapse.  faster thanyou think.like a perfect lifeunraveling. i smiled.  that tight kindthat happens when i’mrescuing someone.  blinkedhard and sank.  inside,not where he couldsee.  i was always the onewho stood tall whenmy knees were buckling.  a tug, a squeeze, his armon my wrist.  i shook it clean.  i would be alright.  the beliefmattered more than the achein my chest.  i felt light and warm likebloody feathersfloating a gustyblizzard.  again. that room, nowso empty andclean.  finally, mineagain.  i watched hisfeet make clicks andhis hand turnthe knob.  felt the softdown of her head and herbright eyes watchingmine.  he didn’t. i didn’tget up.  didn’topen the door.  didn’tkiss him goodbye.  idon’t do this.  idon’t—goodbye is notin here.  goodbye implieschoice, and that was notmine.  i justwatched, like i hadso many others, andstared straight ahead—waitingfor something i’ll neverunderstand. i shookat first, grabbedthe phone, and staredat it.  watchedmy world closelyto see if itwould boil.  itdidn’t.  i couldstill breathe.  so, i stoodand locked the door.  i didn’tbelieve him when hewalked away.  it was justanother bruise to nurseand examine.  anotherindication of what iswrong with alma.  another reasonwhy not.  another not goodenough.  i didn’twant to.  instead, i keptmy eyes shut andthe rooms dark.  i satand waited for somethingelse.  i let the wounds weepon 16th, and i held onto someone else tillthe room stoppedspinning. and then, i got upagain.  by myself. istitched the contusionsinto resilient quilts, and ikept myself warm.  andit was. —AIM, all rights reserved. Written on no sleep at 6 am this morning.  Took about two minutes.