Amor Vincit Omnia

stormhouse

i have been in enough storms—
i know full and well what rain tastes like after it has run down my cheek,
or how my spine shivers in the wind, knocking my vertebre loose
like bricks in a house, to which everything but the chimney falls. 
the value of my being, each brick with each dab of mortar
is rendered useless with each storm it bears,
holes form, and walls that once stood tall
are engulfed by the earth and slowly festering.
while the inhabitants were able to find refuge,
these walls only found the earth, sinking deeper in clay,
with only a doormat to signify that a house had once stood here.

a no

little bits and pieces rolling off my tongue,

visceral and supple as they may be

there’s only static between me and the clouds,

crashing between my ears.

winds dominate my thoughts,

blowing the tips of waves into oblivion;

far away into a mist that if inhaled

may be fatal and may not cause your life to flash.

so just open your eyes and never close your heart— just listen;

soothe your mind and calm your nerves,

and enjoy the silence with quiet verve.

Splintr (sic)

unwanted just as much as a splinter in one’s hand.
i sting and itch, i suppose,
with infection as my main recourse.

it can disappear like a small gem
in a sea of sand,
i could keep myself shut,
like suture to a wound.
any metaphor you want i can make,
and i can imitate it the best i can.

like a tattered flag
i hear the walls around me flutter,
breathing out the dust that has settled in.
but whenever there’s a solace,
a break in the chaos,
i hold onto the reservation that
splinters are what a termite may enjoy.

Lucidity

I woke up.

This sentence haunts me to this very utterance.
Irony is something that holds very true,
And if this is divine intervention then it’s the cruelest thing in the world.
I have no reason to fight but for some reason I do,
It’s possibly because of the thought of you.
I’ve seen you at the tops of mountains with me, sitting on a sofa perched on a peak
Where we planned our conquest— veni, vidi, vici.
Empty theaters where we propped our feet on the corner of the stage,
Watching Lincoln get shot, and your hand wrap around mine like a fine thread of silk,
Tightened like a knot,
As pretty as a bow,
With our contrasting skin mixing like concrete and water.

If

when i die, what will happen to all my emotions?
the insurmountable feeling of love,
the harrowing feeling of despair,
the sweet glint of hope.
when i die, will all the things that i loved
become just that, things?
i hold the truth that no one will care about me
like i care about them.
because i know that even blood can leave another.
i will give you the shirt off of my back because when i die
i want the panic to be short,
my last breath to be strong
and my last thought to wonder where i am going,
or if i’ll need that shirt.

AA

I imagine in times of great despair,
How when you run your fingers through my hair,
Your fingertips are as gentle to me as if I were your own child,
With each fingernail gently grazing my scalp
I can feel you reach into me.
I can see the honesty in your face,
Screaming down at me with every droplet of mucus making the scream raspy and coarse,
It says it all, written out as of graffiti on a wall,
Or written in someones lawn, set fire with homemade napalm,
That I am a part of you, as if my hand was a puzzle piece that fits in yours,
I can hear it in your laugh, as well as in our discourse,
And I am sure that when I see you, whether it be tomorrow or some day,
That I will always be a part of you,
Sitting cross-legged, wanting to be here to stay.

the smoke duet

we both take turns at pulling embers to our face,
and smile as we use all our strength
to keep it in, and to feel it pervade,
i feel my being go into cascade,
plates move beneath us
with power greater than a thousand horses
filled with dilapidated landscapes and ancient animal corpses,
it churns and creates,
it condenses and evaporates.
but with all this occurring we stare with only molecules between us,
floating and unburdened
by the responsibility of visibility,
and although our eyes our fixated—
our whole bodies start to speak,
a sigh from the lungs and a gurgle from our kidneys,
and we buckle at our knees,
but it’s completely alright.
it’s just our shells now, introducing themselves 
but i know for fact that our innerselves 
have met and are interconnected
from the night i met you, lives ago. 

literary embodiment

flannery o’connor once said,

everything that rises must converge

before she put it on paper it was true

and even now it holds anew

and i thought it wouldn’t apply to me,

the wisdom of others passed down

from ovid to new

of which i still don’t listen to

to my regret, i rest assured

i don’t know exactly how i can write

i guess i do what ernest hemingway does,

and just sit down and bleed

all over the keys—

of a typewriter or a piano

or whatever my body seems to choose

trust your heart if the seas catch fire,

live by love though the stars walk backward,

ee cummings once said,

and if it’s wisdom i am going to be fed

it’ll be this one morsel

and i am consuming it for you,

to show you that i will always be

amorous with you.  

Fashion and W 44th

When I am alone I think of you,
Our legs tangled like thread under a sea of blankets
The gleam of each smile you give like a flashing camera:
Freezing the emotion I had at that very moment and saving it for reminiscing,
On a cold winter day, one day.
It’s hard to believe as my fingers scurry across this keyboard
That just two weeks ago exactly our legs were speeding through
Fashion Avenue and West Forty-Fourth,
Brimming with hunger, a hunger for you.
With each element of my gait I look towards you,
And in the sea of chaos Manhattan provides that is around us, 
All I ever have wanted to see is here holding my hand,
Showing the left, how affection truly is made.

!!!

I am merely human.
With nothing to aid my conquest of moving mountains and
changing currents of rivers,
Not even a vestige of doing so exists.
I can claim to revolutionize the world to some
but who am I remodeling it for?
Who am I trying to please?
I can swear day and night that’s what I feel,
Or why I think,
Or how come a blanket of fear and loneliness comes
whenever I stumble upon an old thought or even a select word.
Because of this I can create any emotion you want to see and show it to you,
Whatever you ask, whenever you please.
The beauty of knowing such detachment and rejection
is knowing that the opposite exists, and that I am searching for it.
If I were a god, I would know where to find the answers I were looking for.
Buried under bedrock, or at the bottom of Mariana’s trench,
Bring them to the surface where they can breathe in their first breath of fresh air
And tell me what I am looking for is what I found.

Staten Island Ferry

Ideas and metaphors come and go,
But you do not my dear,
You are the rarest of earth’s treasures,
While providing me with more mystery and curiosity than the world’s seven wonders.
Somehow I am connected to you,
It’s as if an umbilical cord connects both of our minds,
Nourishing each other with our thoughts of love for each other and otherwise.

IV

An IV has been attached to my arm
And leading to the tip of my pen,
I bleed words, literally.
When I write for you I spill blood on your soil,
The planes of paper, white and unending,
Streaked with red, to give the impression of a fire,
With only words as kindle and my blood as flame.
I am glad to have spilt myself upon you,
As you have with me,
And I promise you that you are the most beautiful thing that I will ever see.

my everything

the last moments i shared with you, we were engulfed by slumber.
i breathe in the scent you leave on my pillows and destroy myself slowly,
with each and every inhale i hurt more, letting your scent bury me
six feet under and take me to new heights. 
i let my mind wander at 3:52 am and only wish that i was still with you,
with you in my arms, with no cares in the world.
i feel my soul crushing like a can under the stress of being without your presence,
and i only wish that i can hold you for just a moment longer even now. 
even now, with a half an hour behind me from when i last saw you i still can’t keep myself together.
if my body was a poem, it would be dedicated to you. every bleeding detail. 

lovers alone wear sunlight

lovers alone wear sunlight.
with nothing to trifle the contracting muscles,
feeling nerves, and seeing eyes.
each time our pulses murmur
it brings our blood— full of memories to our minds.
the way you sway is more elegant than a pendulum,
spreading sand into the most gorgeous of designs.
and i feel that somehow,
somewhere out there in the celestial significance of this,
an entity, swung the arms of your hanging weight,
and made your image more beautiful and lovely
that no human mind could ever conjure, only admire. 
although i have been told to never vanguard these thoughts,
to keep them disheveled and hidden from our tactful world,
i will not, and i will carve them into my skin with the rustiest of nails,
this nail is my pumice, the scratching is my catharsis.