Author: poetryfest

I do Pilates every day
20 minutes
40 minutes
Go for a run
And take a rest.
Stretching out, waking up
Aphrodite’s smiling from above.

She also wants me to calm down.

But it doesn’t matter what I do
Will never be skinny
Enough for you.

The sharp glares and cutting frowns
Size large, better watch out,
She’s coming around,
to grab you tight until you drown.

It could make a girl not want to eat
but that’s not my reality,
coin’d me
The “Kung Fu Panda” of the family.

I do Pilates every day
20 minutes
40 minutes
Go for a run
And take a rest.

All while wanting to rip my stomach out.
Hip dips and the creeping love handles on my back.

Swap them out like in a store
But it doesn’t work like that.
And u didn’t build me like you’d hope for.

I met her on a Tuesday.
But it wasn’t an ordinary Tuesday.
Sort of lukewarm, but heavy.
One of those just get in the car,
cut the music on and drive
kind of Tuesdays.

She was at the gas station,
wearing Beats headphones.
Not the discreet ones that fit
in your ears,
but those big-ass ones
that go over your head
mouthing the words
to what I guess
was her favorite song.

Moments like these happen quick.
All it takes is a look.
When she looked at me,
she looked like I interrupted a thought
she didn’t get to finish.

Some people just have a look
the sort of look that’s far from soft.
The look I reflected back
was one that wanted to know why.

The thing about her is
she talks like a puzzle.
Not a full one, already put together.
When she opens her mouth,
imagine 10,000 pieces flying at you
all at once.

If you can imagine that,
I don’t trust you.
Like at all.
I am laughing but I am serious.
Because you’re another one
that sees things
the way you want to.

At some point
especially dealing with 10,000 pieces
a few are bound to get lost.
But I like that about her.
She makes you earn those pieces.
Consider it delayed gratification
in separating intention.

It’s not really the pieces that speak.
It’s the silence between the words.

You learn she’s the type of woman
who shuts down at the slightest octave of your voice
whether you’re too excited or not.

At restaurants,
or even at the movies,
she counts all the exits,
knows where every door is.

She’s not really a match that’s been struck
but soon, you pick up
that many have watched her burn.

When she loves,
she tends to hold on to it
ultimately burning herself.
But she tries.

I, myself,
like a good rattle every now and then.
Nothing like the taste of splintery wood
soaked in gasoline,
melting in your mouth.

I live in my own world.
So it was an adjustment
learning how to wait without asking,
how to listen
without trying to fix anything.

She might have been burnt,
but she isn’t a victim.
Understandably, there may be a ghost or two
that keeps her up
but she faces them,
even calls them friends sometimes.

Some nights,
she cries
without so much as a single word.
A single tear.
Even then,
I just hold her
the same way people hold their jewelry.

Doesn’t matter.
Real or fake.
No judgment.

Everyone needs something to believe in.
Something to ease their mind.

Not everything is made to last.
The important thing
is to let it breathe
Rattle around your neck
Until it gets comfortable
but ultimately,
you protect the things closest to you.

You don’t ask about the scars,
the burns,
or the bruises.
Not even the names
of all the flames
that were fought
just to survive.

When I met her,
she told me she doesn’t believe in forever.

I looked at her and said,
“That’s cool.”
Then I told her
I believe that not all short people
should carry sharp objects.

I can only imagine
what ran through her mind.
But it couldn’t have been too bad.
Enough time has passed
to memorize the things she never says.

How she’s always intentionally early,
just to avoid talking
when everyone else arrives.

How her favorite foods
are the ones she couldn’t have growing up.
How she always wanted to travel,
but never had anyone to go with.

I think to some extent,
we all want to be touched
just don’t know the right words.
After all,
in certain states,
that’s a charge.

But more importantly
the memory of those who took
and kept taking
is still there.

All of that,
I get.

Then, on a random Tuesday,
it hit me.

While it’s a beautiful thing to witness
I realized
I am just standing still.

Breathing, nonetheless.
But I am standing still.

She disappears and ventures off
two, three days.
I am standing.

She forgets to call.
I am standing.

She forgets my name.
I am still standing.

Eventually,
I become a stranger.

Some days,
a smile casually strolls in.

Turns out,
she actually is a match
a match that forgot how to breathe.

I realized this some time back,
but didn’t know what I was looking at.

Eventually,
she’s going to learn how to breathe again.
And when she does
she’s going to burn everything down.

She doesn’t even talk to her ghosts anymore.
Then again,
the scars,
the bruises
they all make sense.

In her language,
The one she speaks between words.
Maybe she doesn’t believe in forever
not because she doesn’t know how to stay,
but because a fire always moves
suppressing,
devouring,
everything it comes in contact with.
Everyone needs something to believe
In

Preferring a pitch black, I crawl
And slither alongside walls
And stride out of sight
I cannot control these urges
I wither my human self
I gain understanding of
The finer instincts called “mad”
Once a predator, always a hunter
Once a prey, always hunted
Lurking in a violent purgatory
Underneath a blood sky
Finer details, finer scent
Finer appropriation for the
Veins in the neck, for the kill
The thrill, the sickness and Hell
The mind in chaotic fringe,
I slash and there are no screams
And I have accomplished my dreams
The fantasy to keep me alive and thrive
Within my hole, a thief awaiting a noose
The loose cannon firing off wildly
Inside, I prefer to give in to the urges
I hide my bloody hands in throes
Of wild flowers and mannequin parts
Pornographic images and videos,
The sexual depravity I have craved
Beaten off, empty human cavity
And residing in regret
I succumb to all these ideas
And I cannot control the urges
I take no joy in quickness
And find comfort in the prolonged
Events of limitation obliteration
When done,
I stride out of
Sight
“Mad”
The idea
The ruination
The taste
The urge
Frayed ends of synaptic calibration cut
Like wilting daggers severing the strings
To my last puppet of humanity
Slithering in and out of remembrance
Once a predator, eventually a prey.

I don’t fear death
But rather the unknown
I don’t have a choice
I need to make peace on my own

No matter what happens
Death is inevitable
We just want to achieve what we can
To find it more acceptable

It will happen to everyone
It is the ultimate conclusion
Why all the competitiveness?
We like to live in an illusion

You changed my life.
I wish I did the same
To you, dear friend.
My darling, you
Always showered me
With sweet words,
Praising and helping
Me even when I
Don’t ask for those things.
I’m just like any
Other friend yet
I still cherish you
More than the rest.

I wish you would notice me like I notice you.

I love your subtle, witty remarks.
Sarcasm flying from your lips,
And your voice,
How it comforts my anxious heart and racing mind.

I love how you twirl your long brown hair between your pointer finger and thumb,
And the way you look at friends in conversation,
To judge their reactions,
And then smile when they catch your eye.

I love how often you quote various musicals and sitcoms,
Even when I have no clue where they’re from or what they mean.
I love hearing you rant about which shows and music you like,
Because only then do I get an excuse to watch as you talk,
To watch the way you move your hands with every word,
So eloquent and full of ease,
And to see the rapture of joy and comfort cascade across your eyes, and cup your cheeks.

I notice how you scratch at the tattoos on your left arm,
Two little ghosts,
Each with different hats,
When you’re nervous.
I notice how you pick at your nails,
And don’t like the heat,
And how you were overwhelmed by the flashing lights
And loud noises of the arcade we went to one afternoon in June,
Yet still stuck by me,
Because you know I love the claw machines.
But what I really loved was spending time with you.

I notice how badly you sing along to every song in your car,
But I still smile and listen as I watch you drive.
Your hair flying in the breeze,
And the sun capturing your glow in the palm of his hand,
As if you too, were golden,
As if you too, were full of light.

But how could you notice me like I notice you?

How could you know that what to you might be a quick flick of the eye,
Is to me, an endless gaze that burrows deep into my core?
Your eyes leave trails along my skin
With even the quickest glance in my direction,
And your smile is lightning – the twilight that erupts in thunder.

And I miss watching shows with you and our mutual friend,
And how we played Jackbox games on their TV.
You kept putting your feet up on their lap,
And they would get so annoyed.
I miss how I’d stick my tongue out at you,
And you’d do the same,
I miss the countless bracelets and drawings I made for you,
And how we played truth or truth while sitting on bleachers,
With the zwoop zap zoom of go karts in our ears.

And I miss the times we’ve spent in your car.
It felt like home,
You felt like home,
Our friend felt like home,
Driving along the highway,
Music in our ears,
You and our friend shouting out the lyrics to songs I didn’t know,
And me in the backseat,
Taking it all in.

And I hated counting down the days,
To when you’d leave.
Me holding on tight to your stuffed bear,
His fuzz brushing the tip of my nose,
Breathing in the smell of you.
Because everything you do,
Everything you are,
Will always leave me breathless
And wanting more,
Even when it shouldn’t.

But you’ll never notice,
And I’ll never tell.
For I could write you poem after poem,
Draw you picture after picture,
And none of it could ever compare,
To how fast my heart beats to the light of your smile,
And to how much love I have for you.

Yet the comfort and familiarity of it all,
Is what now makes my heart cry,
Like the sweet tears that trickle down overripe fruit.
I miss you so much,
And the red of your car,
The waltz of your voice,
The comfort of you,
Continuously bleeds their rays across the lids of my eyes,
And sometimes,
I still find myself scanning each red car that drives along the road,
Just waiting to see if it’s you.

Why the hell can’t I have clean water?
I said why the hell can’t I have clean water?
Are we gonna turn this into a fight?
Shouldn’t crystal clean water be in sight?
Who knew about emergency managers?
Who knew he was the devil’s ambassador?
As a bureaucrat, it’s your job to protect us.
Not create rust and lead
That causes all kinds of abnormalities and internal
tragedies in a child’s head.
Fuck that…In my head!
And it leads to all kinds of pathogens, which starve for
unique antigens.
I describe my temper as shorter
All I’m asking for is some new world water
I describe my temper as shorter
All I’m asking for is some new world water
Right now, I’m drinking piss
Or something that looks like piss
Something’s amiss
As I fish and dig and research
Clearer water for us was besmirched.
How you saving the State money?
When we find it hard to breathe?
How you saving the State money?
When the result inflects disease?
These are laws against human nature.
When suddenly the State becomes a traitor.
As if someone anointed them creator.
Waiting for the government to fix it can be slow yo’.
Or actually the problem is infectious with the slo-mo.
It doesn’t matter if you’re rural.
The plan is all about systemic poor urban removal.
You charging me for water I can’t drink?
Obviously, you have a PHD from the University of Don’t
of Think.
About the irrevocable harm and symptoms like:
Hair falling out what’s that all about
Back and muscles ache stuff you can’t fake.
Seizures in her sleep, now I can’t even sleep.
Long term heavy metals poisoning that I can’t say how
annoying.
Anemia, memory loss, brain fog and fatigue.
There have been reports of diverticulitis, a digestive
disease.
Chants of you gotta get the lead out
You gotta get the lead out
You gotta get the lead out
You gotta get the lead out
I describe my temper as shorter
All I’m asking for is some new world water
I describe my temper as shorter
All I’m asking for is some new world water
You mean to tell me that if it wasn’t for General Motors-
who complained that, the water was so corrosive that it
was affecting the manufacturing of their cars
That the people of Flint would still be displaying
undrinkable water in jars?
Rusting engine blocks exposed the problem
High levels of chloride was the problem
But if there was no General Motors would there be a
problem?
They threatened to leave the State if you don’t straighten
this shit out!
We can make cars in any fucking State with a doubt!
Man, you gotta cut off that water and switch back to the
Detroit water system now
Or we gonna move our whole manufacturing facility
somehow!
Finally, they have began to indict a few
But the process is so damn slow but you already know
what they were gonna say, “This will take time.”
Not when my friends are dying and it’s fucking with mine
These are inexcusable acts that are immoral and clearly
lack
The ability to right a wrong and get back on track
I say these are crimes against humanity
A psychosis defined as insanity
Equal to a cultural/class genocide that should be tried in
the world court
I say Loretta Lynch, please do your job
Before people assemble on the Great Lawn resemble a
mob
Put the Governor, Director of Water Works, and lastly the
Emergency Manager in jail
Left to drink that nasty shit they define as water with
every meal beginning with no bail
I describe my temper as shorter
All I’m asking for is some new world water
I describe my temper as shorter
All I’m asking for is some new world water

(Church of the Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ)

I.

In a small Eastern European town,
A painter swiftly walked on through the square
Of the city, past old roofs colored brown.

There was a metallic smell in the air,
Caused by the rain, once it had ceased to fall,
And there were shallow puddles everywhere.

The steeple of a cathedral rose tall
Above the cold, rigid cobblestone ground,
And statues of saints stood over each wall.

Each day before Mass, the bells would resound,
And summon the townspeople from their home
To gather and worship from all around.

They left their farms, and stopped plowing the loam,
To praise the Lord beneath a spacious dome.

II.

As the painter entered through the front door,
His eyes met the dark, and the air was cold,
And a soft light reflected on the floor.

The candleholders lined up past the old
Wooden benches slowly guided his view,
Through the daylight, to an altar of gold.

As he walked down the aisle, past the front pew,
He looked up above the altar, and saw
The colored glass gently sparkled with dew.

Admiring the altarpiece with awe,
He saw a statue of his Holy King,
Which was crafted without a single flaw.

He looked up at the cathedral ceiling,
And a choir of angels began to sing.

III.

With the first strokes of his brush, he began
Painting an image upon the plaster—
Envisioning a beautiful woman.

Diligently, he kept working faster—
As her heavenly form was developed,
He painted with the skills of a master.

Throughout each day that he labored, he hoped
For this to be his finest work ever,
And made sure his scaffold was safely roped.

As he painted her clothes, he was clever
In how he had selected each color—
The whole process was quite an endeavor.

Every day, she came to life even more,
And he worked harder than ever before.

IV.

With the Blessed Virgin now completed,
The artist began constructing Her throne—
Where She would remain peacefully seated.

A young child soon sat in Her lap alone,
Reigning as the only begotten Son—
The pair had taken on lives of their own.

Once the two angels above them were done,
The painter crafted a star to be seen,
And the Three Magi soon joined everyone.

They all surrounded the Heavenly Queen,
To bring gifts and adore the newborn boy,
Recalling the art from the Byzantine.

The painter looked at the scene with great joy,
And gave a silent thanks for his employ.

V.

The painter gently lowered his scaffold—
Once he reached the floor, he looked back up high,
And watched the Nativity Scene unfold.

The Christmas Star lit up the late-night sky
Over where the Madonna and Her child
Were seated—Where the peaceful angels fly.

All who had come from near and far were filed
Up in lines on each side to praise their King,
And the young baby Jesus softly smiled.

Each of those who approached held gifts to bring
To His Majesty on this holy night,
And their prayers rose above each angel’s wing.

As the painter’s eyes scanned from left to right,
He reveled in its ethereal sight.

VI.

The bishop arrived the following day,
And the clergy were now allowed access,
To view the painter’s new work on display.

At each future service they would address,
They knew the painting would always hold true
To them, and all the townspeople they bless.

The sight of Mary dressed in white and blue
Brought hope for miracles to be restored—
Causing their faith and their peace to renew.

Each Sunday, their prayers rose up toward
This large painting of His Majesty’s birth—
As they all gathered to worship the Lord.

A constant reminder of the true worth
Of good will towards men and peace on Earth.

VII.

The painter’s new work had been met with praise,
And after he walked out, waving his hand,
The people’s excitement went on for days.

As worshipers came from across the land,
To see what others were talking about,
They were greeted with a feeling quite grand.

People continued to come in and out—
Every time the painter walked down the street,
Some people would clap and joyfully shout.

And he would shout on the tips of his feet,
“The glory is His! It should not be mine!”
These very words he would always repeat

For those who patiently waited in line
To eat the Lord’s bread and to drink His wine.

I hope you know that even as I boarded the last train of the evening
I haven’t forgotten for one moment
About our playground meetings

I remember those long and cloudless days
When the clothes on our backs felt like sandpaper to an eczema patch
Our face and shoulders kissed so good
By the sun’s loving, open rays

Melted popsicle juice between our fingertips
Was our strategy for better grip
To log the days accurately
We’d throw the sticks down to the woodchips
As we lunged and pulled ourselves through hazardous metal structures

We’d watch the last colors left in the day bleed out over the sky
Like oil paints spilling into every kind of strange hue
Moments before grays and dark blues from dirty brushes
Polluted their vibrancy
And ran them cool in time to soak the moon
And soothe the stars that dunk in, too

Like plastic water bottles, leaves, or even your ipod tunes
Eventually the breezes picked us up and carried us in two
Leaving our skin full of goose bumps and bruises
A twig or so would catch in my hair
And uproot my braids
Of mother’s hard and loving care

Each night I’d be greeted by the click of her tongue
And the sliding of yarn in her fast-paced crochet
She shook her head from side to side
“Such a crazy girl,”
She said with wrinkles between her eyes
“To think anyone could outrun the sun”

I didn’t say bye when I left
And I hadn’t bothered to raid her purse
I took what little cents I had left from various cash transactions
And bought me a train ticket from Seattle to San Diego-
39 hours, said the ticket guy, but that’s at worst

I sat alone
On a cold steel seat

Curled into a ball
Sketching calligraphy prints with an earbud on each side
As I leaned against the window pane
I watched the otters hug and duck to play beneath the tide
I played guitar music on cd
The kind you told me was good because you can’t hear
“Whatever the hell they sayin’”
Awaiting my arrival to the farther south
Where the sun waits a little longer in the year to fall.

A stag leaps across the board run,
ditch to ditch, thorns to thorns,
muscles, music, obsidian eyes focused
to aspens beyond his landing.

Those blessed to see such things once,
and never again, carry the frames
of that motion into the story of their days,
compare the totality of all other beauty
to the flight of dun fur across the November
sky, a late afternoon ballet, a dance
that never ends in the mind’s open eye.