My Surrogate Thanksgiving

I enjoy the taste
Of a turkey pot pie
Not a mama-home-cooked
But the cheapest you can buy
I like radiation gravy
Peas and soft chopped carrots
The crust must
Be crispy
Burnt
So not
Soggy
The potatoes
Don’t want plenty
I’ll take processed
Turkey
Thank you.

When we squint, our wrinkles go away

You and me
We’re flannel sheets
We’re apple chancery font
We’re a dreary cloudy beach
We get better with time
We’re fancy with lines
We get by

"It's all about the spacing"

I looked outside
Saw a star
Reminded me
How far away you are

But kiss me out of desire, baby, not consolation

So, maybe we didn’t dot all our t’s, but we’ve sure as hell got our i’s crossed.
and although the vision’s blurry
it’s getting easier to see with
the blindfolds tossed
all the ideas, the idiosyncrasies
chalked out on black construction paper,
mapped out like pros and cons.
Decide which horse your willing to put all your money on
‘cause she’s bound to barrel away
at speeds even you can’t catch;
and after that chasm cleaves
it doesn’t matter how many mannerisms
you loved.

I know you know me well
and no, you don’t owe me a thing.
I will let you walk away or stay 
but please, really realize
what walking away
may bring.

Forever Forlorn

The moon was half last night
clouds covering
to create a lemon slice table
not quite yellow
more a fair-skinned
Irish child

Like that child
this half-moon smiled
and although it was cheesing,
all gums revealed,
I saw right through
the lunar shroud
of clouds.

I saw an empty face:
the sullen craters
shaping eyes
sunken deep
into its
mind
the
moon
was weeping
for a cloud
to embrace it instead
of erase and
change it.

Songwriters are my poetic muses.

the atlantic was born today and i'll tell you how:
the clouds above opened up and let it out.

i was standing on the surface of a perforated sphere
when the water filled every hole.
and thousands upon thousands made an ocean,
making islands where no island should go.
oh no.
those people were overjoyed; they took to their boats.
i thought it less like a lake and more like a moat.

the rhythm of my footsteps crossing flood lands
to your door have been silenced forever more.
the distance is quite simply much too far for me to row
it seems farther than ever before
oh no.
I need you so much closer
i need you so much closer
i need you so much closer
i need you so much closer


-Ben Gibbard of DeathCabForCutie

Sibyl ate escargot

She sells seer shells by the seashore.
These snail skeletons
see subsequent events
before they take place.
Based on visceral senses
emitted from the mystery intestines
left by the mollusks
that have vacated
their long-term lodging.

My, what a festive respirator.

Yes, I feel the wreath
It chokes my vocal chords
my breathing patterns
become crooked
and sputter towards
breakdown.

How I am to breath
this holiday atmosphere
when the heart of it isn't even here?

Bound

Traveling north then
west on the rails
crawling along
mostly moping
like snails moving across
conglomerate rocks.
The scenery slows
escaping sideview
veins of the bridges
broken bare trees
scattered snow
patches and
grey sullen sky
backdrop.
Only Upstate New York
just tilted over
the brink of winter
claims this
disastrous canvas.
A catastrophe so dull
it could only be caught
by a rough
sketch in pencil
no mistakes erased
all marks stay in
place
because the allurement lies in
its imperfection in landscape.

a light verse

chap of stick
laps my lips
with a sappy kiss

bleh

tears brim
come down to
cleanse the skin
on my cheeks
but it's not the kind of clean
i need
i need a cleansing
deeper in.

I'm tired
worn
somewhat scathed
can we take a break
from this
charade
?

to such a great extent

So you say
distance far
So I say
not plane, only car
So you say
let’s just wait
So I say
it’ll be too late
So you say
where’s your patience?
So I say
it only makes sense
to me,
to be together
we should try
make it better.
So you say,
I’m not ready
So I say
because it’s steady?
where’s your confidence?
So you say
you made this mess
I trusted until you
destructed my heart
So I say
fine, apart
So let’s leave
So let’s go
So we’ll move on
and save our “so”s
for tomorrow.

red-hot coal feels cooler

…we’d rather be
out flapping snow
angels into the
light layer
of powder snow
like devils cooling
off our bodies
steam rising
from our feverish
pores
chilling our
wits
cleansing our souls
from what the radiator
emits
zephyr, gust through please
take the heat that
moves me
I’d rather be the winter
I’d rather be outdoors

with you

I walked the steps (took the stairwell to soak in the anticipation)
& found far within - a courage to lead your hand into mine
around the corner (on the roof, of course). I wanted to hide
with you
in a position appropriate to our chilled appendages.
Turns out it was quite conducive to the discussion, as well.
I hid my eyes while plotting possible ways to catch your glance.
At each chance, I cowered and kissed your knees instead.
At this moment, I realized I wanted to sneak up stairwells
& sit on rooftops in this exact position every night
with you.
We were caught by a flashlight & fled the scene with calm steps
but you didn't flee me and my heart phewed with relief.
Next, we picked a place perfect for tossing thoughts;
my mind's refuge arena- that I've only shared
with you.
From the time we entered my cubicle to the second I am
writing right now, I knew this smile would persevere.
My smile wishes to only exist in a world
with you.

No más pots

Three hundred and fifty
every two weeks from each.
Three hundred and fifty on top
as a security deposit.
A summer crowded
in need of a plumber.
No place to park.
No space to even fart
without crushing the nostrils
of our front-door neighbors.
But hey, we sustained it
and we were late everyday
we laughed real hard
“On the way to Cape May”.
So why do you have to ruin it
by doing it.
I didn’t steal your pots
so why’d you steal my security deposit.

Things you wouldn’t necessarily tell someone unless someone said to you “Hey, tell me something you wouldn’t necessarily tell someone unless they

asked you to tell something you wouldn’t necessarily tell.”


I Febreeze my favorite jeans
when they reek of weed
because I’d rather have the
artificial scent
then send them to
the Laundermat.
They wear much better
when they're worn.

And while I touch this topic,
the comfiness of clothes,
I’d also like to expose
the fact that my shoes
appear altogether gross
and I know
that people stare at
the paint speckles and holes
but I’d like to vindicate
their state of existence:
I like them because of
their social resistance.

A Blast from Birmingham

So you say,

"Wait."

Easy for you

who've never felt

stinging darts

of segregation.

Wait for what?

For the vicious mobs

to lynch my father

drown my sister?

For a hate-filled officer

to kill at will

curse and kick me at a whim?

I will not wait for this

Hate or this

Brutalization.

When we see our Negro brothers

smothered in an air-tight

cage of impoverished night

amidst the affluent society

which spits its twisted speeches

as I seek to spell out

to my six-year old daughter

that's it not her fault

but she can't go to the public

amusement park

because the social abuse

the author of our lives provides

by writing clouds of inferiority in

our mental skies.

When you too feel this sense

of 'nobodiness'

you will not need to wonder

why we will not wait

to sever ourselves from this

disconnected state.

password

I decided today,
this morning actually,
after much too much to drink last night
with the uneasy feeling of thoughts revolving
in my head, squirming
through each wrinkle in my brain
without any say
as to what they would be
where they would go
how I would interpret them
under the fluorescent lights
that shone much too brightly
for that hour
and my condition
which beat against my head
like a flat bass line,
a crash of cymbals
pounding distracting messages
from whatever it was I was thinking
I decided
a password is the greatest symbol.
It is secret and used to gain
access into someone else's something.
But the word or combination of letters and numbers
in itself will tell more
about the person than
most anything in the world.

I sleep like a jackknife

i sleep like a jackknife
curl my blankets to my chin tight
never stray from the chasm of black night
wake only when alarm resonates light

Nel's Diner

The records on the jukebox went around & round & round
but it was clear to Dennis that there was no sound
He yelped out his own lyrics & the manager calmed him down
While Dennis' life was frozen, the world kept spinning round

He burst out words of Japanese
About American politics & types of cheese
& continued to persuade imaginery people with his theories
Some people stared, but the regulars knew
As he told an old woman about his sojourn to Belize

And as the waiters served up the last rounds of pop
Dennis rested his head upon the countertop
Cause if he tried to walk home, he'd never stop
His feet would never find a place to call his home
So Nel's Diner was has always been his place to plop
Feel sympathy for Dennis but for him, life is fun
And maybe he's not the crazy one
He resides at Nel's while we're all out on the run

If you think about it from a different perspective
Maybe our world revolves around Dennis
& he is the sun.

Stuck to run

...And I’ll dig myself a hole
in the cement blocks of the floor
just like they used to do
in the old flicks about inmates
named Bud who was up for life
for killing his neighbor's wife
for snitching the secret
about his strife
that no one could ever quite
figure out in the plot
but everyone always cared so badly
why he was there
and we sat on the edges of our
vinyl ripped chairs
and stared to see if the
the guards would see him escape
through his underground maze
that he’s been digging for some months
with the back of his toothbrush
carving out dirt, in search of the sun
and later than soon, the plastic breaks free
he pokes out through grassy ground
and runs away, his feet still bound
by clanky chains, but he continues to flee
no where to go,
but finally
no where to be.

Pyre

If I knew you a smidgeon better
I’d be jumping through flaming rings
with you
just to show you, you wouldn’t catch fire.
I’d tie myself to your pyre of fear
and circle myself with a hoop of gasoline
tracing the radius of my feet
and let you decide whether the stake
would ignite.
Tonight, not tomorrow
no matter the hour, I’d sit and wrestle thoughts
of ‘who knows’ and ‘what ifs’
meet you in a stranded parking lot
for a conversational tryst.
Please, even if you don’t take me up
on this
don’t let today pass by
without a lyrical script
written about your viable wish.

I smiled instead

I turned to you
and smiled in my head

I spun in a circle
to dance a quick quirk move
but when Cake was played
I almost caved
almost gave in
to your lips for a kiss

but I turned to you
and smiled instead

A sneaky memory

Last night for the first time
in a while
I imagined myself
nuzzled in between
your bicep and your pectoral
Puzzled by the sneaky memory
I quickly canceled the thought and
sprawled out as far as I could
in my spacious twin bed

Compulsion

Caged in by possibility:
what a paradox
but still I feel
confinement in my inability
to choose a path without
frivolity.

Undesirable Flash Photography

And it’s not the lack of sleep I fear
it’s the faux red-eye creeping close and near
cheering delicious whispers into my ear
jeering the thoughts inside my head
asking me to make love to my delicate bed
challenging the words I write with lassitude
continually thinking up passing platitudes
that need to be written
they need to be documented
this is the time, no other minute
and so I cave and open a new
blank page
and scribble my terminal ink away.
it’s nonsense, most definitely useless
but either way, I’ll regret it tomorrow
if yesterday, I passed the chance to
dance my thoughts upon the page.

Too late to procrastinate

I’ve come to a sputter.
I cannot utter a breath without
feeling the walls in my head
caving in with distress.
I’m shivering from cold.
I’m tired and lack control.
My hands quivering
from the coffee
that was supposed to spark me.
And I’m telling myself to concentrate
but my brain won’t take the bait.
My mind won’t read
it will only writes in rhymes
to distract and quicken the time.

Coagulation

Forgotten thoughts of my memory
mist over my mind as I find
a once warm hand intervening me...

Almost as I once was warned
to scatter from you not to skinny
dip in your deeply embedded thorns

it's not as if I knew your tricks
were trickling round the rims of your rose
lingering my lips with each spurious kiss.

But now I've awaken from the abyss
of tremulous giggles and ignorant bliss,
rudely aroused by this glacial tryst

that will feel so fantastic once
you realize my eyes are past it:
Beyond the catchy tune of your tattered words.

A comfy hop out of your lure,
the chill of your touch provided the cure.

exegesis

Is it absurd to
see your words slurred
up on my cyber answering machine?
Do you even wonder what they mean
to me, to spark the use of them?
Do I need your copyright consent?
I ensure you, I'm not obtuse, my friend...
but can we try this route again,
where I pretend to speak to you
in wonderment
about your reactions
to these little things
that bring two strangers
loosely close…
A friendly visitor
requesting a mimosa to share
and stare into the spiraling significance,
a conversational chance to find
an acquaintance with your inner intentions.
I'm aware, we conversed about
this all before
rehearsed the connotation/
denotation war
but still I need to hear some
more descriptions of the avenues
that take you to
each lyric and each rhyme;
but at the same time
I keep my own interpretation locked up
in my mind:
I virtually declare it
in the away form of a square.

Anarchism

Evolves ex*
an order or
an organization
based upon
continual consent
and debating discussions
on the part of
its permanant participants
probably rotating
representative responsibilities
amid accepted equality
of all,
in a world where
everyone enunciates
their thoughts
thru automatic alliterations.

*Note... since anarchy has not taken over just yet, some confusing latin was intertwined to create the effect of recurring letters. "Ex" means "out of" in latin, for those of you who don't know.

Devoid of verification on the latin lingo? Check it out yourself: http://www.yuni.com/library/latin_2.html

Social swingers

Let's toss our keys in a dish
and learn to intermix
Each second that ticks
the hands on the clock
marks another second lost
of walks in the park
and coffee talks
So let’s share one another
with our friends
our lovers
with the world.

Maybe I'm a...

And I know it’s hard to sift
Hard to tell
the real from the bullshit.

But drop the smiling mask,
your words aren’t as
beguiling when you act.

And get off the stage,
You’re not even an actor
…this is coming out all wrong,
I am saying it all backward.
Because really I just want
you to open trusting eyes
it will help you peel off
the disguises
of those who adore you
for what you do
and shine through
the ones who love you
for who you are.

A characterization of the virtue of his patience

He doesn’t understand the urgency
I see
He sees this life as a long country road
where the horizon is the end
and since it’s boundless to him
there’s actually some optimism in his blood
Which is unheard of
with a man like him
Cynicism
is his distinction
A conviction
the world is inherently bad
and it’s not sad, it’s true
His duty: to save it all
before it falls
into hopeless oblivion.
Isn’t that noble?
Whereas I’d like to just
stay privy to him,
he’d like to cradle
the Universe in his
Arms.

my machez a mio

I see you flash your eyes,
that smile
and no, I don’t have an alibi
I’m frightened, timid, even
Shy. Despite the way I
dance around and clamor my mouth,
it’s all to hide
my loss of breath
my clenched up assessment
of how to speak
how to say something completely unique
when really I don’t even want
to be
distinct. I want to be me, just patented Meghann.
Because I’m as close to certain
as I can get
that you’d like
this person… that we’d both get
anxious and tense
to see each other next.
But as for now, this is all in my head
because I saw you last night
and I remember what I said:
I uttered a “hey” with a vapid
comment, rapidly expressed...
which isn’t even close,
it isn’t even remotely near
the length of conversation
I'd like to whisper into your ear.
That was yesterday, and you’re my persistent
Regret;
that I haven’t met you yet.

An Occidental Orientation of Words

Ciao chowder

Dining in a diner
American French fries
New England Clam chowder
A last supper
While he’s still American


Fairy-dust powder

Her toes touch the ocean
His dangle above it, also
Her tears drop to water
He left her with
a false hope


Right or wrote?

Dear Lakshmi,
Here are some pictures to pretend
You are with me
I am living
You are breathing
We are both fine
Away
Love, Venkateswara


Trampoline boat

One night, while you were away
I lost myself in romance.
We embraced, long lengths
underneath an abandoned hobie cat.
And still, I think back on it
with passion.


Chilluns

“He asked me a rather
question.
Would I rather have a misquito
or a monkey
stuck inside my belly?”

“I was head-butted today.”


Villains

“…it said open feet
which meant I had to part
with my sandals.
When I returned, I had been told
A monkey snatched the left one up
And ran away giggling.
But here it is! I retrieved the simian sandal!”

“Orange Peel died today. She was
the one with the left finn
smaller
than the right fin,
and so swam in circles.
Do monkey’s giggle?”

“That’s how I interpreted it.”


Communication costs

When we would converse
I swear we were cursed
We could only communicate
Through howling whistles
And screaming winds.
Not to mention
The time…

“As the sun rises on Mary,
it sets on him.”


Lamp we wish we tossed

Enlighten me. Leave me an idea,
A parcel of hope to breathe with.
Keep me company with
reassurance, atleast.
It’s the least
you could lend.
For a friend.


…thoughts with conformities

Doyoureallyhaveto
leaveagain
justwaitaweekformetobe
backfromthewest.


“Interpreter of the Maladies”

Something’s been lost.
A passion, perhaps.
An identity we once shared.
When we were a “we”.
We were a great we, weren’t we.

A Piquant Moment

The sunset shell appeared mace-cerise
Fading to saffron pleasantly
Screaming mustard seed sunbeams.

As it sunk gingerly
Deep into the galangal horizon,
Every cacoa tree branch waved goodbye.

A few drooping, emphatic sumac leaves fell off
The tender boughs. The pomegranate stained
And a few pimento stragglers…

But the juniper fronds held on
With finochio hopes to live forever.
Every berbere verdure should know: this will never be so.

And a cayenne Cadillac settled in a nearby lot
Consuming the sassafras aromas
Wafting in from the fennel seed breeze

The timberwolf man smoked his clove
With an epazote assumption
His paprika rays would never fade

But the cinnamon flavor in the air
Soon became a chili powder
As the achiote seconds turned to hours.

And so the sky turned pepper grey
The wasabi zest had left the day
And somewhere a safflower wilted like the leaves.

Tonka bean night punctually arrived
With sesame seeds stars in the sky
Like garam masala, brought a tear to the eye.

The dukka vines strangle the trees
With peppercorn berries still ripening
But no nutmeg grows on trees in Brooklyn.

a lover's poem...Moondust

I planted a red rose on the moon
Gently ran my toes through the moondust
Cold and weightless; as soon
As I spelled your name it tickled

The stars shone frantically above
Ecstatically twinkling and blinking
Like spectators spectating love
Like bodies twisting; like lips kissing

The planets circled in honor
Dancing in vertiginous reverie
The honesty left them to ponder
How lonely their lives had been

Earth felt warm upon return
But it wreaked of indigence
The silent grasp of daylight
The clouds insistent covering

I watered the rose with tears
Ashamed at the intensity
I unclosed your eyes with fear
And found you listening…

To the sound of my naked toes
Recorded for your mind to see
The length I'd go; how it grows
When you smile heartaciously
^

shades

I bought new shoes today
but one shoe came without
a black lace.
I happened to have
extra laces stowed away…
but they were grey.

As I write about my pickle,
A tickle touches the back of my throat.
I cough.

How alike are those words, the word
Coughing
And coffin.

If you have it bad enough,
you realize their correlation and how
hellish it is to have a cough that
Will
Not
Go away.

I just need to release it.
I need a release.
I write to release
To find my…
No… too obvious.

Sometimes, when i write
I teeter on the line of
deep thoughts to impress
and
so superficially simple,
the reader’s thoughts
would write the rest.

It’s this line,
This grey line.
It lines all my thoughts
It is literally literary Purgatory.
Hell is not fiery red
Hell is Not hot orange
Not saffron yellow.
Hell is insipid gray.

Even the word gray
Cannot be definite.
Grey,
Gray.

Creation takes decisions.
Creators make revisions
because they lack conviction in their visions.

Now even tying my shoes will
remind me
I am a dull poet.

I'm sorry, Try this...

Your suggestion was lovely, & thoughtful, I guess
if that’s all you can say after
months- you regress
& attempt to untangle
the knots in my dress,
these textiles are not yours to touch
or to tempt
no matter how hard you try,
I’m exempt.
And your lyrics & efforts
bite me cold with contempt-
they are silly & foolish
and furthermore show
that the silence- your ignorance
has yet to bestow
a lesson, any reason in your
decision to go.
In this footrace, our chase
I’ve left you, leapt ahead
So, no. I don’t want it
Apology not accepted.

Soap in the gills

Sober wasn’t the state…
and this statement comes
much too late…
but I’d like to confess
I took Orangepeel out of his tank
and put him in our sink
while we waited for the tub
to fill up.
And then he bathed with me;
I felt he needed a scrub.

Needless to say, he died today
and I am pretty sure I’m to blame.

Hi-C

A snail’s slithering trail
Clandestinely climbed the incline
Of the crushed juicebox,
A scenario one doesn’t often
Stop to watch.
And as he reached the crescendo
A look of disappointment camouflaged
his face.
It was a bizarre ruse
In his eyes.
The snail expected the juicebox
To be his Pangaea
But after he finagled his way
Up the colored cardboard
He stumbled upon the truth:
His effort was superfluous
He was just an asterisk
In an anthology.

I lost my favorite notebook.

It is as if
my thoughts are stunted
words silenced
as if they do not want
to speak
to anyone else
beside the little
brown leather
one
I lost across
The country.


(moment of silence for my notebook that has decided to join all my other stuff in the black hole)

Is this a-living?

Peacock eyelashes begin to flicker
as my dream is torn at the seams
by morning sun shooting through
the broken blinds
and it’s calling out Scout’s Honor
of a day less dangerous.

Catch a drop of coffee as it enters
the crevice of my morning breath mouth,
adds a skip to my step and the
incentive to descend nimbly down the
flighted steps as a dress-

Pull sleeves over bicep toward wrist to fingertip,
Nine flights and a half counting
last four steps at the lobby and
my coffee is still steaming with intentions
of me drinking it…

Toss it to trash as I pass Boss who
hands me my gear for day’s task:
It’s thirteen, unlucky; and four more
than mine but not higher than I’ve been
before.

So in ropes I tangle in hopes
to dangle hundreds of feet from
trusty ground and the
sound of creaking kills my calmness
that I pretended to have early on.

In washing the building’s eyes to the world
I am earning every cent
but from this elevated perspective
I can’t help but feel
that I am spent.

ideal orange peel

He likes my hair wrinkly,
not curly, not slick-
just a mop of hair like doodles
on a burgundy canvas of pillow.

I like his face unshaven
not prickly not bearded-
just a felt sweater to
curl my cheek up with.

Lain out like an oriental rug
night moves over, blankets hover-
entwined, we align and create comfort
for our scared souls.

The rhythm in the backdrop
is like the old man at the coffee shop-
a silent reassurance
of a world beyond our own.

Once over sushi, green eyes
asked why yawns are so contagious-
why the white sticks to one side
of an oreo.

I stared blankly with no reply
and he caught the plummeting
tear from my eye.
Still, I watch with no reply.

Evil Deviation

An alarm resonates, my ears awake
David Grey hums neatly over the airwaves
and my thoughts digress to you

The sun collides with the ocean tides
sand beneath my feet, it sinks
I swear I can see the toes of Italy
but I’m wrong about distance frequently

Silly willows whisper fall’s approach
seeping, a feeling of personal reproach.
Our late walks at the lake, and our discussions of how
you have an affinity for purple, I miss it but now

I’m alone in the park, with the grass and the dark
and my thoughts digress to you
My paper, it stares at me blankly,
lonely with tranquility

“How to Disappear Completely”
pervades my mind so indiscreetly
and without further adieu, I think of you

The subway jolts; the pole feels cold
I stare holes in the tiles, bottle rolls down the aisle
and my thoughts digress to you

In my mind I’m dancing with the devil
under moonlight of our late-night
beneath the rain that forever stains
our love…
and I digress
back to you

Siren Isle

Late in the moonlit linens
a call arouses my ears
restarts my heart and in
His song: a harp
that thrusts me into his stormy sea
I’m losing myself to deceitful chimes
that strangle me like jungle vines

While enduring the Siren’s luring cries
memories invade from the fallen sky
cascade on me like chimney bricks
…The press of his hips as he kisses my lips
his salient eyes enticing mine
strewn out on the ground next to flicker fire
following with fingertips each contour
every line, all the shadows on his body…
Sky eyes stare to lure, I’m crashing under

Yesterday’s twist
makes time seem so elastic.
Please, Aeolus, sail me elsewhere!
Best to care less for this ambivalence

In binding myself unto this mast, I
deny a desired breath from the past.

Touching Thunder

Scattered leaves caress their every surrounding
Benches grasp the earth to hold their ground
A set of eyes question what the clouds bring
Listen to the wind: silent sweeping sound

Her eyes exist in lonesomeness today
Examining every inch of wonder
She closes her lids and begins to sway
Shuddering from the arrival of thunder

Soon, soaking raindrops drip between her toes
So exposed, she knows she is not alone
Revealed, she feels as a delicate rose
With twelve blood-red petals, a crimson tone

Noticed by nature, in culmination
She’s finally feeling a sense of elation

Ode to Star

The stars, my Darling, behave like fools
caught in a staring contest
and none of them lose

For what do they exist
beside the aesthetic pleasure of our sight?
Do they serve any other purpose
other than lighting up the night?

Our dark and infinite cloak of sky
is sprinkled with shining fairies:
each has lost its wings to fly

Slowly burning each sweet death
with weight upon their shoulders
and I’m sure movement might be nice
to dodge the flaming cosmic boulders

Dance with the moon sweet star!
Break free from conformity,
reach beyond your furthest far!

I cry for these stars, my Darling
for each one has its fixed place
and the sun will surely come soon
and, from our eyes, the stars erased.

Obituary

Her skin bled of Halogen on the
Gallitzin days of mediocrity
and suspended in controversial light
of betrayal to the Aristocracy.
Her sense of daily gloss upon the raspberries
in her over-used oak limb
seemed to edify another’s palette with
the shine of an arcade token.
The silhouette she carried went beyond
her galoshes and sunshine raincoat
for in the midst of plenty skid-marks
she never placed a scapegoat.
The rouge of her cheeks linked her tears
like captured pellets of blue rain
in a mangled-mixed forum of
pomegranate pain…
The hyperbole of her facial expressions
defined her creviced forehead
and the chiseled follicles of each hair
were so kind and overly extorted.
Within her origami smile folds,
she had this chronic disbelief
that her sporadic thoughts could ever cause
another kindred soul relief.
Each tribal thought was spun from
a torched flame inside her mind,
its persistence was uncompromising-
made her blink ‘til she went blind.
An afterthought, the loss of sight, for
her vision was window clear,
but the ephemeral splendor of conscious
thought was awkward to not fear.
So slowly the wind extinguished her cough
under the shady cypress tree,
curled tightly with the jasper snow
of unbridled finality.
The amber limbs traced a roof
for Adella’s passing head,
and in consummation, she laid to rest
in her eternal cellar-bed.

A Scarlet Letter

The lines in the letters
were sent & seen…
but it seems it’s not me
to intervene

Began real innocent
but now you have
no where to vent

too much to
not tell

Secrets
kept to keep
the shame hidden
give in to things forbidden

Sex on Sunday while
the janitor lingers
while the wife waits
while your body shakes
while you steal his fingers…

Out in the city
the night never-ending
becoming “friendly”
keeping quiet
where you stayed
where your body
rest & laid
and what you wore
so I don’t see you as a whore.

Invisible A
streaks your chest
secret smile is a
test for me

Can I see
what it really means?
I pretend ignorance
to your deceit
but really
it keeps eating me.

Keep your secrets,
keep that life
but keep in mind
you’re not his wife.

Gutta Cavat Lapidem

“The drop excavates
the stone, not by its falling,
but by often times falling.”


- - - - - - - - - - - - - -


There’s a new kind of
balance
beating the streets
pulsating concrete
through the Union Square heat

juvenile child in torn jeans
with a mocha
with a dream
an idyllic portrait of the world
simple but significant.

Within this ambition
he soaked in energy
from the sapphire skyline
that was hidden.

Without a lucid sight
he marched on into night
with a purpose an intention:
no matter the battle
how hard or how bleak
he’d keep up the fight.

Dripping hollows
out a rock.
It’s persistence:
The shoes will march on.

random comment.

possums seem like light-hearted creatures.

haiku's count...

trademark

A caterpillar
Winding, scrawls slime on the rind
Redwood sequoia

meghannisms

meghannisms

Sometimes, I find it fun to assess my assets,
but the things which I am blessed with
are also things people
might consider I am vexed with…

I've got a straggler on my chest, perfectly placed and about a pinky-nail's length long.
She's brown against my lambent complexion, strutting her tenacity.
and at this moment, I've found an affection
for her subtle ferocity,
so I surrender to her stubbornness.
Besides, I've grown used to her
growing on me.

As I stare down my body's length,
A faint supine line dashes perpendicular and opposite my spine...
I've always wondered why it's there, sometimes sucked in a bit to hide it.
But now I abide by it: my carefully placed crochet.
I survey the way my hips jut out,
little cliffs my fingertips leap off into my omphalos…
I lift my hand up to my lips:
Me thinks they're going to go to waste for way too long a time;
they tremble at the thought, my recently celibate brinks.


Next, I inspect the starring roles of my dearest sense…
first, my index, then left to pinky. My eyes stroll back to my preferred phalange:
my thumb; yeah, he's the thinnest one.
Overall, we're way too chubs to ever be worthy of
a pretty ring,
which is why I stick to bangle bracelets that sing.


Onto my next tiny quirk:
my voice (I've heard) sounds quite absurd when my intentions are set on
the likes of a lousy impression. I hear I squeal
my silly pants off…
I assume it's as beguiling as my convection
when I go to get my dance on.

Let's add one long appendage to this list which
indexes my behavioral lisps:
my handwriting isn't fancy
a goldfish has a better memory than me
I burn too easily...
a dainty, pink little lady.
I pick the blebs on my chin
my toes have undeniably-rough skin
I'll pick dry boogies and flick them
Without malice, I slam car doors
my room is far from a palace
I lose things,
a lot.
a goldfish has a better memory than me.

some sickness comes up when I drink sometimes
I think too much
I say too much
and i've got this hunch,
that will never adjust...

I sing without consent.
My shins are filled with dents.
I tend not to make sense,
especially when I'm crying, I can't control
my voice, my tone, let alone my assessment
of the given situation…

The reason for reeling off all of my faults?
Unlocking this large vault of quirks and blurbs
about my world?

“what is life, but reckoning?”

spindle-shank

For eight
decades
he has been lying
in
state
on
public display, a cadaver
in a
succession
of
dark suits, encased
in a
glass box
beside a
walkway
in the
basement
of his
granite mausoleum.

here Or gone?

The fog was slight gray,
a haze with a hint
of almost-purple.
And though it was thick
and sensibly there
the further we entered
the more it was air.
So we assumed it
‘phantom hues’
and continued to
peruse the beach,
for an object
to fit our amusement:
Felicia found a large
viridescent kelp.

She couldn’t help but
pick it up and
swirl
around
with the thick sea-thing
she found.
We pranced about
in a circular form
steering clear of the long stalk,
keeping it
from catching our shins,
for surely it would tear into
the seams of our skin;
and the Trace on our ankles
wouldn’t be the
only one to be sore.

More so than a game
did it appear as a dance:
A ritual happening
by chance taking place
on this foreign coast
which most of us
have yet
to tag as our land.

Before our departure
we made our mark
with a swift scrawl of the hand…
I corrosively wrote
L I U
in the sand.

...but one of my inspirations

- - -ee cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
--the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis