Why I Don't Talk About My Feelings

Just want to remind my audience that author does not equal protagonist, etc. etc.

Why I Don't Talk About My Feelings

When you agree with someone else
I want to tear their lying
Tongue out of their mouth and burn it.
I want to rip the hair from their head.
To lift them by the shoulder and hip and
Throw them out of the bar.
When you smile at someone else
I want to scratch their eyes out.

This is why I don't talk.
This is why I can't say
I want to be with you
Until the stars die
I want to live with you
In a boat on a river
Seeing no one else
For years
This is why I can't say
I want to explore you
For the rest of my life-

Because if I said all
That I'd have to murder
Everyone else who'd ever
Loved you. Just in case
You loved them back.

Trapped

Trapped

I'm trapped at this live mic
Fenced in by poetry
Stifled by bouncing
Egos, panicked by the
Feeling in the air;
We're all listening so
Closely but there's
Not much to hear.
I am so, so tired and
Cranky. I have only just
Discovered what I need:
To go home to your
Place, crawl under your
Sheets and your coverlet,
And wait in silence, sleeping quietly,
Until you find me, like a long dark
Present you may or may not want.

Coming Home to You

This is the one I got stuck on, about a month ago; don't ask me why. I have two or three poems backed up behind this one so I'm going to try to get it out, but it needs major work / revision / reconsideration / etc / etc.

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Coming home to you

Your kiss was lush
Like the wine
And I tasted it long after I went out-
Dancing, drinking, smoking little black cigars
In the cold with hipsters and rastas,
Singing with pop songs, bouncing to rap beats,
Closing out the club, numb with vodka-
So I could collapse into an empty bed.

Honestly the night was a
Waking dream; and I was dreaming about
What I was going to do
I was dreaming about
Coming home to you.

There's a taste in your breath, dear,
Some intoxicating smell that lives
In your throat, and I don't ever want
To tire of it. I try to
Sample it slowly, but I get
Greedy for it - don't want to
Get addicted, so I try to
Separate myself from it
But then I find myself
Dreaming about it
And dreaming about
The way we fit together
And how it will feel
Tomorrow night,
Coming home to you.

LOVE

Usually I don't find it necessary to make excuses for my poetry, but seriously I have had a run recently of very sappy poetry and I'd like to apologize for it. If it makes you feel any better it starts out mean.

LOVE

Love is a four letter bridge
To the mist-shrouded home
Of fools and old men
Speaking Hollywood
Languages of cotton candy.

Love is the flimsiest excuse
For abuse I've ever heard.
Love is a chafing ankle-chain,
The most beautiful lie you'll ever
Celebrate saying, Love is
Pain and a commitment to loneliness.

Love is a spiked bat
With two handles.

Love will tangle up
Your arms and legs as
You drown in shallow water.

But.

There is a word for when
We're close together,
For my lust for the
Salt in your lips. For
The feeling when we
Wake up smelling each other.
For the delicious
Hollow of your throat,
For the murmurs as I
Kiss and touch you. And it
Is not caring and less -
Though it hurts me when you are hurt -
And it is more than
A wild abandon in flesh. It is two
People learning to trust
Again, coming to a place where
Only two live. There is
A word for this world
That defies my halting
Tongue to say "love."

the backside of NOTHING

An exercise at Zelda's. We had quotes to work from. Mine was "the backside of NOTHING" which I felt was kind of difficult to work with.

the backside of NOTHING

Holding nothing high, I'll slap its backside.
Startled, it will gasp air for the first time and scream
Exactly as loud as the cold outside, as loud as a
Thousand people watching the blank night sky for lights,
As loud as my eyes, as I lie here, watching your face
For signs, in this breathless space where we move in time.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

Seeing the signs for Arundel Mills
I knew I was halfway home and felt a strange
Warmth; and I drove into
Baltimore past the harbor I realized no
Other shoes had dropped - and it was
Suddenly so easy and clear, it was only
An hour away, no terrible fights there or
Brought with me, it was even my
Birthday and there was a cake; I was
Brimming over with this feeling and this whole
Season has felt impossibly lucky, and finally I
Understand this holiday; several quiet
Unearned seconds together.

Storytelling

Storytelling

(for Samantha)

My niece, who is three, calls for her
Popup book as I imagine kings of old
Called for drink, slaves, or favorite
Dogs. When it arrives the pages
Are opened and she gestures at
Alice. Wonderland becomes
A princess's journey through
Enchanted lands...

Cardboard unfolds from each
Page as we turn, two dimensions
Mimic three. We watch her
Spin new stories.

In memory I see old popups of
Mine, pages now worn,
Figures torn. With age
I ruined all these books,
Clutching at cardboard;
I reached through
Silhouettes as I grew
Older and lost
Youthful patience with
Surfaces. I wanted so much
To make my stories real,
I clutched too tightly,
Collapsed the mystery.

My wish for you is to keep
Telling yourself stories,
Find life and love in what you see,
Trust dreams. People can be flimsy,
Possessions betray. Always be ready
To turn the next page.