Descent Theory

Stack the cups upside down,
so nothing can fall in them.

She pushes him away emotionally,
changing the subject
when conversations get hard.

She cries in the shower
not to be heard, so no
one can see.

Stack the cups right side up,
they dry better that way.

She tells him how it hurts
til the tears surge past lashes,
how the loneliness settles
in the early hours, how
the voices whisper
she is meant to be alone.

Stack the cups back to front,
its easier to see what you have.

She does not blush
as she takes off her clothes.
She lays unabashedly nude
in the light of day. She knows
how to tempt him with her nakedness.

Stack the cups front to back,
you don't have to reach as far.

She cannot walk away
from him, he is far too addicting.
He says the what she longs to hear,
You're beautiful, I want you, I love you.
Her sensative side romanced.

Or better yet --
Don't stack the cups at all.

Subjectivity of Hughes

I can see the way
the clouds move in your pictures,
artistic eye snapped still.

I see the light upon the ocean
highlighting facets, your sunset
illuminating the clouds.

You have stood looking out
at this print as it moved,
orchestrating the timing.

With a click you bring me there
long after the sun has set,
we sit watching the clouds move.

Paganus* Nocturnality

We were heathen children
dancing under the Ursa Major sky
salted with stars and flecked with fireflies.

Feet bare except the dust coating
as we left prints in the dirt road
disappearing where it met the asphalt.

Boys in jean cut-offs
white-blue strings frayed and knotted
hang down like denim tears.

Tight-fisted maypops closed
silent like the houses set back
off the street watch in disapproval.

We run wild in the night
laughing and screaming,
with luminescent firefly smears.


* Paganus, meaning "country dweller, rustic"

But Where Do They Hide the Ambitious Ones?

I can't sleep until you tell me it's OK to breathe, and I'll move through this moment like a blade put to the purpose when I feel I'm all on my own.

Life's a bitch backing out on me.

sui caedere

At ten she hated
herself to the point she planned her death -
a bubble in a syringe
straight into her bloodstream.

At thirteen she was raped
not violently but she still protested
losing her virginity to her cousin
death became a luxury

At sixteen she couldn’t see
past the pain, the lack of friends,
the invisibility emanating off her skin,
the though of death a solace

At twenty-one she lost
her fiancé and unborn child
in a car accident in which she was driving
even death did not want her

At twenty-seven she cried
herself to sleep every night alone
despite the fact she was married
death renewed its wooing

At thirty she learned
the way blood congeals and curls
to darkened cracks on the floor
death made a formal introduction.

But Do We Have the Same Diseases?

I'm in love with a ghost.

And I could drink myself blind just to see if it felt any different when we never touch. It's never quite so simple as simple words could say. It's never been complicated. Our lives are those of flies circling the flame. Moths desperately seeking landing zones at the end of a long frozen night. My greater purpose is the realization that I am no angel. I'm tired. I need something else.

I stand at the edge of the shore, peering through the stars, waiting for the change. Please, come take me away.