Postcard Poems: Six

I hope you never hear this
because I wouldn't want to see you blush
red like the six seeds swallowed
to give Hades a Queen.
Six seeds for six months
because six months separated is long enough
to abide Hermes' escort from this mortal coil.
But
we all have an Orpheus
willing to follow us into the dark
to plead their case past three trials
and carry us back into the light.
Even if they look back, don't fade away
unless the sadness and the silence
should rival the burning hate of Styx
in ways even Lethe cannot wash away.
For Odysseus does Penelope wait
greater times than half circles round Helios' hall,
hiding daily devotion in nightly tricks.
Sometimes even the brightest lights
cast the darkest shadows.
And I would carry you away like Ganymede
if you wanted to be closer to the sun.

Bonus pic! Because Ethan requested a hand-painted postcard I took a picture of myself in process.

Postcard Poems: Untitled

Thank You

Postcard Poems: Reminder

A soft security blanket found
smashed between the mattress and the wall
smells like a day's sweat, like fresh deodorant,
like the strumming pangs of missing you.
White fabric and a faded design
linger in the cold aftermath of departure,
a memento of the nights prior.
This is the fuse that lights fireworks.
This is the inspiration that moves mountains.
This is the start of change.
This is love.

Postcard Poems: Make a Contract?

What if he was proposing?
In a different time and place
a contract passed ownership onward
she bargained with her being
signed and
give away a name
wedlock only to throw away the key
give away a self
these little deaths make room
for who we are to become
a blessed union
devoutly to be wished?
nay, an institution that brings down empires
and traps princesses,
murders witches to foul the land.
Marry me, sweet Entropy
carry me 'cross the threshold
to the light on the other side

Postcard Poems: Glitter in my Eye

I got some glitter in my eye
It's itch was something tough
But before it fell it sparkled so
a diamond in the rough

So superficial pretty it
flickers faintly the dazzled joy
reflecting an affected happiness
the bliss of a boy

It burned at the touch
bursting into a thousand matching flares
revealing to me the heARTland
at which this hero stares

I got some glitter in my eye
it took me for a turn
gave me incentive in glue to invest
lest again my eyes shall burn

An Image of Eros - May 4, 2012

Start a poem, never finish, draw a pretty picture instead. 

Eros shoots true, his arrows machine gun rapid

pop! pop! pop! and hearts bleed, shirts soaked

crimson by this violence of love.

Venus laughs, a joyous and terrible sound,

echoing down from the slopes of Olympus

Postcard Poems: Untamed Heart

You can't take pictures of nature
You can, but how does a picture
capture the majesty of the outdoors?
A picture is beauty removed from experience
you had to be there.
You had to feel and hear and taste and smell it.
Nature is a full body experience
gifted us by our ancestors.
You can't take pictures of the past,
only the right now
which quickly fades
behind.

January 15, 2012

I have a confession:
I want you to break my heart
and prove to me this thing called love.
Because I feel it.
Burning.
Somewhere deep in my chest
waiting for release.
This Pandora's box contains a sun
that I want to shine
that I want to incinerate this tragic body.
Once I've been overwhelmed
with the fury of a newborn star,
I'll be left holding the shards
of the fragile container
lucky enough to have housed
such brilliance.
I want you to break my heart
and set free the sweetness
I've been holding back
like candy from a piñata.
The act of release is violent
but it makes it rain
so others may find joy.

Pasta Sauce

I am pregnant,
waiting to give birth
to the Love holding me and tethering me
to a future unforseen.
I feed it from an umbilical
fastened of heartstrings.
Greater and lesser loves exuded
as radiance
in the simple act of a smile.
I am pregnant,
waiting to give birth,
the Seed that was implanted in me
fertilized with warm thoughts

Postcard Poems: EtOH

EtOH
I would find you
all the more intoxicating
if I removed but two letters

The Postcard Poems: Otoko

so great
the will of man
erodes
in the face
of this adversity
that is isolation
give me what i crave
arise

The Postcard Poems: Do we need?

Do we need music
for this thing called dancing?
Do we need sound
to lead us across the floor?
Do we need drums and synths and guitar
to give us a semblance
of the syncopated rhythm of two beating hearts?
No.
All we need
is the space for two bodies
to coexist for a moment
in contact.

The Postcard Poems: Untitled 7/15/2012

It's 11:25pm and I'm walking across campus.
It's silent out.
I remember that day we watched the sunset,
that day I wanted to cry
because the weight of a temporary goodbye
was crushing me.
Excuse my innocence in the
tired cliche of new love
as I partake in reminiscence
of the day our fingers laced
and it felt like the only thing
I could hold on to.
I look out at the bay now,
the overcast clouds reflecting the stars 
grounded between me and the horizon,
their incandescence doubled 
by the waters below.
Once we watched Astraeus work 
on this, the hill where
I wrapped my arms around you
and kissed you 
to tell you
you make me feel a king of the world.
That day, as now,
I'm filled to overflowing.

The Postcard Poems: Untitled 7/11/2012

I miss
the smell and heat of you next to me
the slight sweetness of Old Spice
as I warm my face against you,
and that spicy and subtle
aroma so
quintessentially Ethan
that I can smell at the back of your neck
when we're spooning
and I squeeze you in close
before we fall asleep
My life is challenged and enriched
for having met you. Thank you.

The Postcard Poems

Postcards should contain poems
because the medium has the message
and the only way to share this
is to hide it in plain sight.
If it slips off the sheet,
addressed and stamped
I mail it anyway,
forgetting for a moment
the eyes that might see
what so publicly I declare.
Postcards should contain poems
because nothing else fits so concisely
on four by three spaces.

The Postcard Poems: Say It

Say It

This one goes out to the lovers and the unrequited.
When did "I love you" become such a hard thing to say?
We used to say it all the time.
I love my mom. I love my dog. I love my brother. I love you.
It was an innocent love,
a free love,
a love unburdened by this fear of an exposed heart.
It was a love that embraced our vulnerability
rather than hide it.
I understand the hesitancy, the risk of devaluation in putting it out there too often,
but how can you place value on something so infinite as love?
I have more love in my heart than I know what to do with.
My love is a gift as free as rain and I offer it to you.
My love is unafraid of politics and society and I offer it to you.
My love is beautiful as darkest nights and brightest days and I offer it to you.
It cannot be silenced.
It cannot remain unspoken.
So this one goes out to the lovers and the unrequited,
I love you.

Funny story about this poem. I wrote it for my boyfriend Ethan on May 18, 2012. I remember the date because I wrote it on a napkin during dinner with my friend Morgan. I wrote it so I could perform it at the VOX Rox Benefit show at the Underground Coffeehouse on campus. I was filled with anxiety because at this point Ethan and I had only been seeing each other about a month and I realized I was falling in love with him and didn't know if I could say it. This poem was my compromise. That night I was drinking with him and some friends in his dorm room and afterward, he said it first: "I love you so much." Serendipitous, no?

I love you.

SSBsb3ZlIHlvdS4=

Separation Anxiety

Assisted by a puppy's youth, I miss
you, for you fill me with a wagging wish
that crosses miles and hours alike. Dervish-
like I spin circles in your praise and kiss
the face I've learned to yearn for. Puddles then
appear, though call them not tears, when salty
floods hide behind these eyes. It's a faulty
fear that makes forever bereft of men
who transfer lights and love, giving solace
to this singular heart. But dear, I'll tell
thee how the excitement seems so hopeless
when all I want is your familiar smell
intoxicating my senses, caress'd
with your smile that rings me like a bell.

Obscene

Obscene

Sometimes I feel obscene:

indecent. lewd. offensive.

Because I can't go unseen.

Somewhere along the line

I broke the dimmer switch

ripped the dial from the wall

and started to shine.

See,

this little light of mine

has never been so little.

It's obscene because

I refuse to hide it.

I refuse to cover it up.

Because this light is a fire from gods,

a fire called love.

And the love of gods is

indecent, lewd, offensive,

painfully bright,

and hard to ignore.

I'm not a burning bush

because this voice is my own,

but sometimes the words are inspired

and I feel consumed to speak

truths bigger than myself.

Dawning

Dawning

May Erato bless these words:

I am a child of Eos.

A bastard of the morning,

with warm-tinted fingers

I rise from the womb of the horizon.

A herald of the day, I brandish my colors

from mountaintops and flat expanses alike.

I am the settled orange
peeking from the liminal folds of my mother's dress,
standing with a sentry's patience
while pink and purple

ascend the heavenly ladder

to breach Nyx's encompassing grey,

and make way for Hemera in her shifting chiton of blue.

The four stallions of Lord Helios

pull His golden chariot o'er my spinal track,

leading the Helionic parade westward once again;
the consequences of Phaeton's trial continued.

I am sunrise, the final gleaming remembrance

of sword-fire in the east,

my only guide to follow the mourning star,

that last solitary beacon, once fallen,

now fading in the brilliance of the coming light.

Ties

Ties are a temptation
when that windsor wedding of silk 

presents its dimpled cheek
to this discerning eye,
magic abounds.
Why use four-in-hand when one will do
to take the knotted neck and pull –
Pull, pull close enough for lips to touch.
Yeah, there's the temptation:
One kiss? One kiss is not enough.
Make-out for as many minutes
as stripes in today's green and gold lined neckwear.
Are you hot under the collar yet?
Perhaps I can loosen you up,
but
you look so fine I
wouldn't want to ruin the aesthetic.
The philosophers would have us believe
that passion undoes us all,
and had it not been our first date, 

I would have ignited passion
under the pink tie that remained hidden
beneath your sweater vest all night.

I Keep Having Sex Dreams About You

I keep having sex dreams about you
all my secret daylight thoughts sewn together with starlight
you take my virginity and I'm powerless
paralyzed by desire as you kiss my neck
I'm addicted to the nicotine on your breath
left wishing for lucidity so I can caress and pull you to me
but even in my dreams you're the one in control:
I'm just along for the ride,
gasping for breath in your bed, waking alone in mine...
Though I never see your face, I can tell it's you and
I feel the guilt of the obsessed.
In consciousness I feel remorse over the
name my sleeping self screams in orgasm,
because every time I look you in the eye
I feel like you know:
I keep having sex dreams about you.

Well... there goes that. :/

Crown

sometimes I get lost in movement.
a stretch
a step
a slight lilt of the head leftward
it takes no more than a second
I am transported
a soul that reaches toward the classic heavens
Sahasrara
Latifat-al-Akhfa

Emergence

a shiver dribbles down my skin

scritch scratch at my scalp

you wonder why I melt 

when you stimulate such a center of power

Incense Emancipator and my meditation pillow. In this journey sometimes we s

Incense, Emancipator, and my meditation pillow.
In this journey, sometimes we sacrifice wants for needs.
Sometimes we dread that great power and great responsibility.
Sometimes,
sometimes a moment of reflection is necessary.
Recuperation.
Writing.
Rally behind what's truly important.
Reminder.
Remember.
Wants and needs. Wants and needs.

Effervescence occludes the serenity of creation but it is in effervescence that

Effervescence occludes the serenity of creation
but it is in effervescence that creation harbors the chaos of newfound life.
Life is not serene.
Life makes glassy serenity from the ashes of life.
It creates new from old from formerly new again.
Cycles, perhaps
but each time is innovation.
Effervescence bubbles forth
a spring eternal
even after the final sleep.
Life marries death,
marries the reality of something
more.
Death is not end.
Death is renewal.
Beyond and before.
Static.
Life so shocked endures.

Friend-love

When I call you "love," it bears no semblance to romance because this love is eternal and grounded in the stuff of stars and stones. We are not star-crossed, and I hope this narrative defies a convention of sex and ill-conceived notions of the meaning of the term "relationship." Friend: the loyalty and truth therein deserves mentioning and every thought I turn that direction concludes in a (rumi)nation on the gods contained in an o'erflowing heart. Love, let me bless you with this light. I am he that forever dances, catch yourself in this whirlwind of my self and I will carry you in my heart, for that is the eye of the storm of my being. This maelstrom of potential healing is predicated on none such exterioralities as dependency, but the transcendence of Other. In you, I find myself letting go. (E)go. And in that release, joy. Such is the nature of trust, Love. Love. And I grow. I learn. I love.

I Guess This is Best Described as Procrastination

I suppose I'm supposed to call
this thing that I'm writing
a paper.
It has all the hallmarks of one:
words on a page.
But this is not language to me.
It's academia,
science:
foreign to this part of me
that writes poetry
and spills words like water
for the thirsty ears out there listening.
I don't want to call it constraining
when the things I'm typing
are a release  of all
the pent-up research
I've been magpie massing,
but the mediation gets lost
as I regurgitate for the hatchlings,
whose grading pens quiver,
all this knowledge acquired.
Still, this is not valueless work.
My privilege to complain as I
attend higher education
slows my typing hands.
"Just get it done,"
they whisper.
Click-clack translations
playing with a sleepless mind.
"Just get it done."

Truth. Dance. Love. Closeness. Word.

Truth.
Dance.
Love.
Closeness.
Word.

Somewhat Creepy Confessions of a Voyeur Cellphone

I've heard everything:
the moans and sighs and cries for more.
Yeah, I know all the dirty little fantasies
you're only willing to share long distance.
I keep inventory of the pictures you send,
the flirts you get and all the 2a.m.
booty calls.
That's not a roll of quarters
in his pocket when I vibrate.
It makes me feel like
an invisible pink unicorn in the room.
If only I could shower the hot breath
and lube-y fingerprints off my buttons.
How many hookups have I reluctantly saved
for you only to never call them again?
You plug me in every night, but never get me off.
Instead I'm used and abused,
thrown against walls and pavement
when you can't turn me on.
But when you're sleeping in the morning,
sometimes I scream at the thought of waking you up,
because maybe you'll upgrade to a smartphone
and fill it with apps,
because our time is limited.
Planned obsolescence made sure of that.

Mandarin Oranges

Mandarin oranges.
That's what you tasted like
the night you got my glitter on your face.
That's what you tasted like the night we met.
Mandarin oranges, like the kind I scoop out of the can.
Sweet. Not quite fresh,
processed, like these oranges
have been around the block a time or two.
Sweet.
Yeah, you're sweet.
And the taste lingers on my lips.
If I could taste it fresh,
I would share my glitter with you.

Untitled Vagina Post

In which we celebrate our formation.
Tagging the pristine white with the blood evidence of truth.
Penetrate my heart.
Fill me with your love.
so sweet
all encompasing
violate not the covenant of this perfection