poetry

*Synesthesia is a neurologically based condition in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway. [Some examples of what synesthetes have reported experiencing: words as taste, personification of numbers, assigning a color to a number or letter, and associating colors with music.]



To spell out my name is to chug hot milk.
Since the crash, I miss how it feels to be empty.
The doctors said the impact jarred loose a piece of my crazy.
They call my disease the only three words that taste like peppercorn.

After the accident I went to visit my mother.
I remember the family, laughing
as I assigned condiments to all the coupon mailer sales.
Mom just mopped the floor and hung her head.
I left a note in her mailbox.
It read, Thank you for the rejection.
Writing it made my mouth full
of bathwater and popcorn salt.

The signs on her street have too much garlic in them.
The logo on my steering wheel is a fountain soda suicide.
My radio played the following songs on the drive home: red, red, deep purple, burnt orange, red.
The time is now - soulless: heavy and not to be trusted.
Holy is cheap red wine.
Love is cheap white wine.
Red lights: Dave Matthews Band songs.
Green lights: Fugees songs.
Neon lights are banana milkshakes.
Stop signs: bitter chocolate.
My street's sign: the best sushi in town.
My mailbox number: gentle
Welcome: maple syrup and waffles.
Home: 2% milk with half a bottle of Hershey's syrup mixed into it.

Seeing all of this on paper makes me want to vomit.

The doctors say if I don't eat more they’ll check me
into a room that is so white
it will make me hate The Beatles.

Before the crash
I read a lot of books; words
never made me this full.

The cost of living now is a color wheel.
Debt is warm vodka.
Since the crash
they catch me staring at pages
I fill with the words:
holy, holy, holy
love, love, love
Getting drunk is much cheaper now.

Since the crash I have read a lot of bad news, it is dog food.
Most words taste exactly how they look.

Let the phone ring. Clean the kitchen.
Call him back and say that
you just finished cleaning the house
and didn't notice he had called.
When he asks how you are, tell him
you are great & about to smoke a cigarette on the porch.
Say it like you didn't quit two years ago.
Walk to the couch and sit down
with the dog he bought you; make jokes about how much it costs to feed it.
He's going to ask you if you ever drive past the studio. He doesn't want to know
where you've been driving, he just wants to hear that you still visit him at work.
Listen to what he's saying on the other line.
There are three people on the phone right now:
you; the person who wanted to get married
and some guy who forced you to burlesque love.
That guy just misses the show. He only called
to ask if you still dance for men to validate yourself.
Of course you do, but don't tell him.
FaceTime him and prove it
because you have an iPhone. He'll believe
you found yourself a talented new boyfriend.
He'll be so wonderstruck by your ass that he won't notice
the walls: artwork all behind you.
That means he won't ask you what you had to do
to get all of it. Thank the universe that he doesn't.
Prop the phone onto something.
Make sure he can see how good your boobs look in that shirt.
This will make it feel like the last time you saw each other.
He's going to ask if you miss him.
You are going to lie.
He's going to know because that's what made him leave
in the first place. Your boobs - those are going to make it harder
for him to point out that you have been making this entire conversation up.
You just bring up the one thing that was honest;
make it be about how many men you've danced with since he's left,
because when you say one he will notice the artwork behind you
and start to look you in the eye.
While looking, he will see that you are not lying.
He will remember what it looks like because of the night you ate molly
sitting on the bathroom floor together in Louisville, when you told him
you loved him for the first time
then painted the word easy in lipstick across your own chest.
He'll make up an excuse about leaving again.
You'll say it's okay. This time you will mean it.

City-drunk fumbling doomed coastlines,
he'll be swallowed up once the rapture is done
mocking him. There is no god here;
‘suppose that’s why we like it s’damn much.

There aren’t enough jokes
about the blown out windows in our abandoned buildings,
how we fashioned ‘em with baseball bats and plastic beer bottles;
there aren’t enough magazines we could steal the letters from –
they all spell the story of how Cleveland resurrects us
before it sends us out to slaughter, how it ignites us in brilliance
each time we want to allude to our ribcage. Don’t
touch the streets around here with a shake in your step.
This rust belt city needs tangible proof that loyalty exists and
if it were in him, we would have followed him anywhere he went.

I found your testicles on the bottom of my shoe
you're going to have to show up sometime if you want them back.

build doors
taller than
the last
time you
built them

understand that
hurt people
hurt people,
forget that
smart also
means sting

and forgive

remember that
some people
share bruises
while others
hide heartaches
behind locked
doors until
someone cares
enough to
break in

dry ice
doesn't melt,
it smokes,
fires out
still leave
ashes so
you can
recall the
night they
set you
all ablaze

dust off
that dead
shell and
dance, like
everyone is
talking about
the way
your feet
waltz shadows
between cracks
under doorways,
I see
you, tip
toes swaying
slow like
you are
holding on
to all
the dirt
they spit
into your
hungry ears

you can
always find
an angry
kid somewhere
begging you
to pay
attention while
they dance
a disco
turned stumble,
only twirling
to try
and make
you swing
your heavy
door open

my love,
train your
demons, teach
them to
breathe honey,
keep them
from haunting
good people;
love; open
your door
and pray
when they
break metaphors

please, don't
let them
ruin your
resilient ballet;
if they
don't like
what they
see back
there, those
doors can
close; you
can shut
'em all
up and
not let
anyone in

and while
you're back
there, dirty
dancer, could
ya heave
your feet
onto the
floor boards
so I
know that
you survived?

I'm currently working with www.shespeaksup.org to turn their all women open mic into a larger scale poetry venue. Strictly to support women and girls through spoken word.

Check out the website, my loves. This is going to be a great year for poetry.

To the father of my first child

 

I have hired a hero -
he is taking your place
teaching lessons
on how to unfold myself
respectfully

and I am not pregnant anymore

nights without you I would slow disco to gag orders, imagine
that our wedding hymn would have been
something like gypsy's crooning anthems for war

and you are not welcome here anymore

this is not comfortable; it is honest

days with you I’d hold my palms over night lights
demonstrating how your four am silence lasts fourteen hours a day

you'd say, what kind of person
tries to bully me into taking control of a child;

I never agreed to breed with you

and I’m supposed to understand this, as another artist
who is tormented by thoughts deemed obscene;
all we share is an eerie absence for good grace

what kind of person

chooses his women knowing

those women hate love

on some days I am Thalia - a muse for giggling -
until any knight in shining armor becomes visible,
suddenly I become Erato

you are forgetful when it comes to the pet names you've assigned to all your women

you were raised by a polluted pedigree
that teaches men they are worthless if they don’t marry
Corpus Christi debutantes; my dear former boyfriend, blow glass

I am not the girl you hacked down into love; she has been murdered
at the hands of a woman who knows exactly what she wants

unfortunately, what she wants does not include giving birth to your son

 

I’ve enlisted a good man -
he is taking your post
kneading my body;
all refresher courses
on how to fold myself
respectfully.