The Analog Kid

Oh honey bee

easily swayed by the flexibility of a wrist

oppression exists

wrapped around the handles inside everyone’s fists

knees buckle as it twists

Always the insomniac

striving to provide an outlet to cul-de-sacs

you’re putting the knife in your own back

shriveling shoulder blades, asking for an attack

And in your spine rests a thousand reasons

to follow the example of current seasons

coil when cold

stand tall when old

reach arms high for rain

fall in vain

The blade in your scapula breaks through the border

the concave order

feel the smirk at your neck sway you

wipe your tears with the cancellous tissue

is lack of trust, or too much the issue?

I want to be wrapped in your sweet folded ligaments

as I gaze into your eye pigments

that close as easily as your soul

I just want to fill every hole

carve my love into your bone

promise I’ll never leave you alone

protect you from the smiles that wish to shatter

everything that matters

My angel

fallen

far away

why don’t we bend the day

run from the voices in our head

and the ones who want us dead.

-See you in June/Kerri

(Source: hate)

Standing with feet crossed, rose behind my back

her favorite color, pale pink

I lean slightly, resting fevers on the wall

press my ear to the door and strain

listen to her sing

Paul McCartney would never perform a more beautiful duet

because she feels 40 years of his voice

only good memories are of music

pale pinks

And we bond through these moments

we are the most united when roaming

sunroof surrendered

not a window left closed

on the way to Goodwill with the radio filling us with feeling

We sing to pale pink roses and thorn laden scabs

But now she’s alone, regretting

and I’m alone on the other side of her voice

waiting to fill her with all we love

Embraces in pink and song

I’ll lay beside her and sing along

to all we love

on her day

-See you in June/Kerri.

I am so inspired by the Earth lately…

Dreaming in or of gardens, either way I wake with the stretching shadows

Pressing flowers into my palms, exuding magenta and rose nectar from my pores,

every shade of dust, ghost white transparent skin afraid of sun, a vine for pale pink knuckles.

Roses grow off the side of blue veins on the top of my hand,

I pick them, knuckles like filo sheets, flaky with petals of last year’s bouquet trying to be remembered,

I’ll still sweep up the remains and keep them in jars along the garage, I’ll never forget such effort.

Fingers outstretched to the pavement, taking the suggestion like a pill,

I nestle my head in the weeds, wrapped in dead brush, drowning in floods of blood and nests.

I carry a garden in my fist, it’s wrapped tight around like a gauntlet

and I bury my hands in the damp, in the noun itself

and pull up the other side of the world

I am always surprised by the lightness of good intention

one half of the universe on a string puts no strain on your heart when it is in love and fluidity.

I gather ghosts of the block, the ones with minty thumbs and the unwillingness to forget

asking them to lend a best wish for the harvest

as long as Winter’s effect on mood and 9 months of hard work,

yet as short as what can be measured on an arm,

and if all creatures beating or limp or crystalline live in peace

by babbling brooks along my limb, what more could I need?

How culture feels, the victory in raking second chances up to your chest,

it is as simple as soil,

as wondrous and honoring as a flower placed behind your ear by a treasured child,

where the flower turns gold, the (feeling) learns of its roots,

the child is also a root cradled by a hand bigger than all things believable,

God’s hand uncoils when our contentedness beams from our eyes,

with the peace of birdsong and prick from faith injected into us,

we roam free in the light of early afternoon,

we roam in the thrushes along the garden in his palm.

Hand in hand, the giver and the ones reaching for rain,

hand in hand with the hand of hands in the garden of all gardens,

faith strong, when we ask for too much I think to substitute tears for rain,

the tears I’ve cried are enough,

the tears for the death of beauty

the process of instilling love in lingering spirits,

and as a substitute for sun which I run from,

when I lay with feverish headaches may that be enough to please,

to make the faith & stems grow tall up to the Heavens.

-See you in June/Kerri

I like to think of poems as a first aid kit for a problem

The scattered truths gathered under warm water,

pen marks stitches for the raw, open wound

The further thought given to their placement like an antibiotic

softly glazed over and sunk by a finger.

It is then ready to be bandaged,

The solitary man’s gauze,

the page turning, the book closing

held to your heart.

The only time it has a chance to heal.

Cradle it and breathe, the only cure is time,

patience will arrive as a person,

should you peel back your spine’s outstretched arms

and share your fears through a page of heavy verse

soothed by attentive eyes

may we all be humbled by the revelation long searched for and cursed after.

We are our own healers,

and the answers are almost never as complex as we’d like to believe.

-See you in June/Kerri

First movements, first steps,

first whips of March’s sweetness grab onto my neck from the window behind

Slamming the doors and sending curtains and hair into a speechless tirade

I rub the puddles in my eyes, shallow, black remnants of midnight storms

Bags of irony and fresh soil for the surrogate pots

Set on sills to ready the buds and introduce them to the earth,

learning how to sway and bloom.

It feels so great to have Spring coiled around the curve of my spine

ivy footholds and shy roses

The dew soaked grass seeping into my bones like tea on a bitter night

But we are free, not set to stone by cold

I am free to lie and hold my arms out to the afternoon.

I will feel the hot air on my bare thighs, let them be lifted gently, silently,

Willing the heat’s grasp to solidify and tug at my ankles,

pulling me off into the season’s new exhalation

feeling my muscles twitch in sync with the chirping birds

Sun’s blessing burning my regrets, turning my scars to ashes that catch every molecule.

We can see the air.

I am released, the only proof of my existence are the drops of breath on the grass

I grin to the young herbs flowing alongside them on the lawn.

Time will be meaningless, simply a word, like I,

no measure of the daylight

On your wrist will be an empty face and the only hands you’ll see will be your own

Wherever the arrow goes I will trail behind, so full of a sense of emptiness

Paying no mind to my fate, my fate to end up like any other object in view

soon to be rejected by man’s dream and sucked into gravity’s playground

I will end up like a napkin or unwanted magazines, empty cans fitted into the side of a curb.

Pay no mind.

Cry only for the leaves that will die next Fall,

protect the fallen cocoons from the children’s hands

let me live out my days entranced by a frozen degree

Free. Free. Free.

I let the heat take me, my body flowing like ribbon across the sky.

-See you in June/Kerri.

There have been quite a few interesting events happening the past couple of months. Funny, I met the subject of the events two days into the new year, so it’s a fresh cut, a new wonder of the/my world to analyze to death. You’ve all met this person. In another shape or form. Someone you have to see all the time. Also someone who’s just a little too friendly or attentive to you. And you spend all your time wondering if you’re being paranoid or if there’s really something off here. I digress. Or maybe I don’t. If it’s all relevant or irrelevant the questions still stand, “How friendly is too friendly? Should you be acting this way towards a child?” It’s church. He just shows up with tales of children and grandchildren. No wife? Hm…??? I can’t ask. I can’t be the supposedly inappropriate one here. He asks me questions no one has ever asked, I’ve never told someone so much about myself in so little time, but there’s a wave of discernment kicking into high tide whenever I think back. You ever get that? When you feel a certain way about someone and you don’t know why, but you just fucking do, and despite the efforts to convince yourself you’re being paranoid, you’re still sure you’re right about that person. That’s the case.

“How friendly is too friendly?”

I’m getting real tempted to ask someone. Just because I’m getting a little worried now. I can see myself asking someone in the future. “What would you do when the line between friendliness and inappropriateness starts to blur?” The person would look at me bewildered, “What the fuck do you mean?” I’d roll my eyes and flail my hands around, trying to draw it in the air, “When the other person represented in this hypothetical question starts poking their toe over the line into inappropriate behavior, and you’re standing back at the wall of hopscotch conversion unable to tell if they’ll proceed or tip back in good conscience.” They would get all serious eyed, but they’d tell the truth behind their almost smirk, “You think someone wishes to do you harm? A quiet, intense, ugly, depressed little shit like you? You’re full of it,” anyone would think. I’ll bet. But they’d be kind about it, tell me to watch out. Hell, I can’t decide whether to ask or let things get to a point where there’s a more serious and easily distinguishable reason to bring up my concern. I’m curious. Perhaps I should poke at the line myself a bit, play a little footsy, see if he grabs me and pulls us both over the edge of “Too friendly,” a brick wall would engulf the line. No more wondering. Just truth. Perhaps….

Her ferret woke me up

I breathed my first conscious breath of the day

listening to Stinker scratch at his water bottle

there’s rattling up above

I watch the fan move the ceiling in increments

The pair of hot pink shoelaces attached to the cord

that controls the light hangs like a noose

inches from my nose

Hypnotizing,

meshing the sharpied names of bands

chicken scratched on printer paper together

My dead grandmother dangles by a string

As captured and tamed as the animals around

Preferential cages

Tan, sandy walls told me the time and date

how much time I have left

My cousin sleeps soundly

Curly raven hair wrapped around her face

a sleep mask substitute

a suffocation of awareness

She can’t see the death threats in every corner

She can’t see the edges or the rounded knives

She can’t see me struggle to breathe

everything is thick

the air, the plaster, the quilt

and the dates on the calender

Running off the squares to the hallway

But even I can’t open the door

I am a hostage of the suicide room.

I need to understand the similarities between

memory and wishes

I need to find a way to untie the captor

without moving.

-See you in June/Kerri.

Anonymous asked: She's a damn lesbian auuuwghhrff;;

Dude that sucks! xD

I’m really sorry! <3

So there was this cashier at the store a while ago, and she has this endearing smile, I kind of just wanted to stand there and think of something funny to say so she would smile again, but I couldn’t think. She’s tiny with a bright blue cord-like vein running down her left arm, shocking against her pale skin. This charming air… funny because she was like super fucking nervous and awkward (probably new, I’ve never seen her before) but like I said, charming in some odd way. As my mother asked about a package of napkins she might have left there the other day, I snuck a dozen more glances at her face, plain by all means but beautiful to me. “Jessika” said her name tag. Jessika didn’t know where they were. But she sighed, leaned back a bit looking real concerned and wished us luck. “I reeeeally hope you find the napkins.” She smiled again. That’s all I needed.

I’ll be spending the night torturing myself trying to think of a better way to explain that smile.

I’m really starting to notice how we never seem to be satisfied with the people we know in our real lives. We see them all the time, once a week even. You know where they’ll be, how they’ll act. Neighbors, employees at your local stores, friends, acquaintances, even those faces you recognize but don’t know the names to. They’re here. They’re right here. Not anywhere else, but here. Somehow you all ended up here, this city, this state, this neighborhood, this building. You take for granted the reality of it, they’re real, they’re breathing right in front of your eyes, you can feel their presence, they’re not pictures or words. Not at that moment. Still I selfishly expect more. What I’m trying to say is, everyone’s ideal friend seems to be somewhere else. You find each other through word of mouth, on the internet, reading about their lives, what they ache for. You wish with every fiber of your being that you could know them in real life, someone so interesting and like you, you become jealous of all the people who see them every day, once a week even. The ones who know where they’ll be, how they’ll act. Their neighbors, employees at their local stores, friends, acquaintances. Wanting to smack them all because they don’t realize how lucky they are to know that person. Because you cry for being in the wrong place, with all the wrong people.

No one is awake tonight,

It’s only the air and me,

Running through time in the cold on sore ankles,

Limber and free

Strong legs pounding on softness

across neighbors’ yards,

Distracting you from your concentration

and rushing back to the pavement

before time runs out.

Hopping from each lone crack in the ground,

all in a line,

jumping like a child

over the edge of an invisible cliff

to a song that gives people that actor’s feeling.

I am alone tonight theoretically,

with only crickets for company.

It feels like afternoon

Because the moon is full,

but midnight boasted its mystery,

and I know I wouldn’t have the

guts to run in the sun,

Like a happy child that never could be.

I wouldn’t be able to stand

with all of those watchful eyes on me,

to see a tall shadow crossing boundaries

that should have been forgotten by now would terrify them,

And I would be showing a frowned upon weakness,

Vulnerability.

So only the trees

and Summer’s pathetic “would be” breeze

and the Angels in the stars can see me at my best,

When I’m finally allowed to run through years

with time by my side

on broken legs,

and smile at the sleeping city.

The only place and time

where my mind is considered

Ordinary.

-See you in June/Kerri

This was day 1 of the 30 Day Poetry Challenge… acrostics.

1.

Kites can’t fly without a willing hand or string

Envelope diamonds shred in the rain but the children still beg for a takeoff

Run, string of hands, run

Relapse, tie the steering arm down

Invite the crash, the bloody stamps

2.

Karma is at the door

Each time you wish to get the paper or

Relive the monotony of every other day

Remember it’s all the same, good and bad

Insanity insists he have a friend over every morning for coffee

3.

Kitchen towels drip suds from dinner dishes

Every drop that slams into the hardwood

Reminds you that you have other rooms to clean

Red pools and cloudy-blue circular corridors

Instead you take time off for yourself, crawl to the towels and bathe

-See you in June/Kerri