Heart to Heart

I’m watching your lips move

as you struggle to speak

and your voice is so quiet it hurts.

Your words melt like the sun

behind a vacillating horizon.

Face to face I settle

flush against you

and your embrace fits

so perfectly it hurts.

If only we could remain

long after the sun

penetrates our bones.

Our bodies are full

of heartbeats and scars

so deep they hurt.

The morning steals

but the nights

give and give.

Call me moonstruck.

Covet me asylum.

Kiss me so hard it hurts.




If I stood before you

mouth askance,

fingers folded

into the hem of my shirt,

gaze soft and itinerant

would you pay attention?

If I stood before you

with too much to say

would you wait for my words

to push their way past

my trembling heart?


I could stand here

all day drowning on air

thinking without thoughts,

feeling too many feelings,

alive but blank as paper.

I could stand here

all day with my silk wings

tied behind my back

and my hair rising and falling

on an intermittent breeze

looking more vulnerable

than I ever intended.


Would you let me tattoo

invisible poems on your skin

with my fingertips

in order to occupy the silence

between each breath?

I would break down

between your arms.

I would let you tuck

our smiles together

for safe-keeping.

I would gladly spend

all night rearranging

our bodies underneath

a bruised meniscus.

In the moon-heavy darkness

I would gladly undress for you.



If my words were transparent
would you look through them
and find my heart beating
behind them like a moth?
I have no feathers with which to gesture
only fingers singed with an excess
of atmosphere and expectancy.

If I knew how to cross from one
constellation to the next
would I find between us
a habitable moon
or would I find only the detritus
of my own intractable percussion?
I gather my hands, my lawless grin,
my extraneous attempts at conversation
and slide back into the ether.

When I dream you are always near.


I ease myself into his throat

decalescent and substantial

like a memory too exclusive

to divulge in conversation.

I clip his tongue, dance

in the groove of his soft palate,

slide sideways along pink gums

and imperfect teeth.

His first confession

and he’s all nerves

and no etiquette.

Not a word but a murmur,

a subcutaneous plea

extricated from a darkness

so vulnerable it bleeds.

I do not even hear her reply

but I can taste it and it’s as if

all the oceans submerged themselves.


Five fingers corseted

Around a heart that furrows

With transparent agitations

Like a water mark

But art as love cannot be

Withheld it must be shared

In order to flourish.

Sometimes the pain blankets

My attempts at being human.

Sometimes I am no one

But it is everyone else I fear.

Whatever else I might be

Yours is not the face

I was designed to wear.

Is it wrong to crave isolation?

To prefer the conversations

That happen first within

And then beneath the pressure

Of still shaking hands?

Some poems cannot

Be spoken out loud,

They are carried

In the junctures and edges

Of souls inverted and collapsed.

Vulnerability is the only

Strength imposed,

We’ve got to feel the ground

With our whole body

Before we can forge roots

And forget about the stars

If you don’t love with every ounce.

Wordle #66

Week 66

With each poultice my heart intenerates

A messiah, a fistful of nettles tender with heat.

I burrow through tendons and well-laid bones

Prodding the depths of your generous soul.

The peroxide in my hair reeks of desperation

My gagging cleavage, my limitless legs

Eager for the heady musk of convergence.

Eager for substance despite vacuous means.




Wordle #183


Brenda Warren

A kiss fully enunciated

Will empty the lungs

But it is the heart

For which there is never hope

Enough to spare.

The doom of a great love

Can never be spared.

Pain is not intolerable,

We suffer in the name

Of all our causes and none

Quite so much as the right to live.

Pleasure takes courage,

To open oneself up to laughter,

To bare both secret and martyr

To a stranger, a fellow prisoner

In the membrane of a shadowed childhood.

Love takes the seer, however, apt or amiss

To a state not unlike insanity.

I shine, therefore, I am crazy.

One can neither underestimate

The tendency of diamonds towards blood

Nor the frailty of steel beneath magma.

One can never underestimate anything

As there is always a time and a place

For the unsuspecting victim to fall.

keep your coat on

I debated fiercely with myself today. Should I write? Should I post?

Yesterday I had a therapy session. So far we’ve only worked on relaxation techniques. I find relaxation unsettling, particularly in the company of other humanoids. Lowering my guard leaves me damn right paranoid and so even before the sessions begin I am worked up (it’s the expectation of exposure). We started out playing instruments, my therapist specializes in musical therapy and trauma. I have no musical sensibilities whatsoever, no sense of rhythm but I do like music just the same. I chose the Marimba. I felt a mix of emotions seething insecurity and childish wonder/joy were the top two. I found that I lost focus quite a bit and whenever I did I could tell because the notes became muddied and I lost whatever tune I had concocted. The therapist accompanied me using an African drum and whenever I listened to her playing I instantly forgot what I was doing and my hands became utterly alien to me.

After the music session I had to write a time line. We started with the first five years of my life. The first five years were very difficult and even though I was told not to give too much detail about the events it is impossible to speak of those years without mentioning trauma. Many of my early childhood memories are negative, so negative that even the positive memories make me queasy.

The therapist asked me if there were any positive figures who were predominant in my life. I found that a difficult question to answer. I do have relatives that are sane and kind but I spent very little time with them. I was able to think of one person though, a younger cousin. Growing up she was my closest friend, a kind of surrogate sister if you will. I’ll call her S for sister. S was born with a birth defect, a dangerous black growth on the back of her head. She had surgery after surgery after surgery growing up. She was horrifyingly thin, like the children on charity commercials, just bones with a canvas of thin delicate flesh, almost like a spider’s silk. She got sick often. She had chronic headaches. She was bullied mercilessly for her partially bald misshapen head. She stood up for herself and made friends. She was a very happy, affectionate child. She was innocence personified. She is my hero. Because of her condition she will always be at a high risk for tumors and has in her adult life dealt with her share of cancer scares and chemotherapy. She is tough and I don’t mean hard, I mean she is strong and resilient. She is a very devoted mother. She is also outgoing and confident which means we are completely different.

When I was talking about her the therapist said that I am also strong but I have never found myself so. How does one define weakness? What about strength? Am I strong because I didn’t die? Because I didn’t turn to addiction? Because I am not continuing the cycle, the path my genetics and wiring would have me repeat? If that is strong I guess I am reasonably but I would not call myself a “success story” either. I have a lot of fears and while I am courageous in some respects in many others I am a total coward. I knew I shouldn’t have taken off my coat when I came into the appointment. I have been wearing my coat each time but yesterday I wore a thicker wool coat and removed it, I think it gave a false impression.

Anyways yesterday was a tough session and I am feeling fragile and hostile. I can’t even exercise because I am so nauseous from the stress. One thing I am not good at, is letting go and switching gears. Once I start to open up, I mount an attack against myself in retaliation. I get locked into some morbid obsessional loop that I can’t seem to break free of unless I perchance to have a good night’s sleep. I did not have a good night’s sleep. After the session Sam came to pick me up for lunch and my mind was all over the place. When he left I did a little shopping but I lost so much time wondering around that I was nearly late to greet my daughter from school. I called my MIL just encase I didn’t make it in time and I only barely did.

That is why I am not posting any poetry today I am feeling too vulnerable and emotional. If I do write anything today I will need to sit with it a little longer than I usually do.

(Sam is sick he’s had a high fever all night so I am going to make him stay home today.  I thought my stomach problems were stress related but since he is also having stomach problems I think we might have gotten some bug.)


4291869372_0fe05617e1_o1Art By: Patrick Tang

I lick the underside of your rage

Those wounds which are still

Soluble in saliva, those wounds

Which still scar the breath

If only I could circumvent

All retaliatory pain

But your circumcised nerves

Provide no protection


We are always ready to resume

The ecstasy of war, it is our intent

To coexist despite exposure

Generosity is a consequence of love

And I am willing despite hunger


Maybe it’s just my imagination about this poem. Anyhow I really struggled with writing today lots of distracting pain