Preservation

Oh to be a myriad of brush strokes,
A spectrum of color!
Oh to be the sparkle in her eye,
the blush upon her lips,
the corner of her smile.
I would be forever in love,
never hurt, always hugged by a golden frame,
surrounded by a cloudless sky,
with fresh grass blades tickling my feet.

But ah, never to be painted,
trapped with only a sight of my lover,
never any closer to him than the day he painted me,
never hugged by his arms,
never spoken to by his lips,
never kissed.

Gifts

Why do we give flowers to those we love?

When those flowers were once
lovers scorned, or lovers killed.

What are flowers but lives cut off,
dead things we call beautiful.

They have but one purpose:
to distract the eyes and the nose,
from a less beautiful, a less innocent
purpose.

Why say "I'm covering you in pollen"
When you can say "I love you"

The Time is Now

Today I'm fashioning you a straight jacket

and tossing you in a padded room.

I'm locking ten padlocks,

and melting down the keys.

I won't make those keys into necklaces, earrings, or bracelets,

I won't wear them to remember you by,

I'll make them into coins,

and spend them,

and spend them fast.

Entrance Cue

My muse is like a migraine.

Sometimes he comes with no warning,

pulling my head down like an anvil.

Other times he comes slowly,

until the story is pounding my mind,

waiting for a chance to burst out

like a supernova time bomb.

Defining a Man

Why must a man skip the shower,

and then scratch his butt, and belch?

Why must he smile as he kills the moment,

thrashing  it with his hairy hands?

Why must he want a body and not a heart?

Why must a man want a bruised cheek, a broken nose,

and widened eyes?

When he can have the hold that makes him

whole.

A Voter Defined

I am neither red nor blue;
I am varying shades of purple.

I am not a forgetful giant;
I am not an ass.

I don't regurgitate;
I choose.

Wants and Needs

You wouldn't want me to run for office.
You wouldn't want me to tint the world's colors.
In fact you wouldn't want me to change my bumper stickers,
because you'd have to buy new ones too.

You wouldn't want to leave behind your manufactured notions,
that you got for free in your junk mail folder.

You wouldn't want to know what factory your thoughts came from,
or how they might not feed the single mother out of work,
or put clothes on her growing kids.

No, you wouldn't want to know why your head is filled
with someone else's gray matter,
or what trashcan you tossed yours in years ago.

Coffee

Coffee is a lie
Coffee is a lie you tell to your body that you got a full night of sleep
Coffee is a way you fool your mind that you're fully awake
Coffee is the sugar coated white lie.

You know it's not really true, just like white mochas aren't really white,
but brown.

You know the low comes after the high,
that the high will bring you low.

Coffee is the sugar that makes your stomach ache,
and want for more.

Death of the Author

A team of investigators arrived at the scene, Polaroid cameras and airtight evidence baglets in hand. They split up, two men on the left and the woman on the right. One man snapped pictures, leaning closely over the body.

The coroner poked one cold arm. "She's in near-perfect condition."

"Like the court will care about that." The man with the camera rolled his eyes.

"Hey now, she's of some worth." The woman carefully gathered samples with gloves fitted tightly around her hands.

"Ha, they only care what they can get out of her. She's not really even evidence. It's the samples and pictures they want." The camera man leaned over the body's head, snapping close ups of the untouched face.

"What killed her?" The woman paused to glance at the coroner.

"Oh, well, it looks like she served her purpose. The publisher had no further use of her, so they must have poisoned her water supply. But that's just a preliminary guess."

"They do that?" The woman failed to resume, her jaw dropping an inch. "That's...a lot of dead authors."

"Oh, she'll wake up sooner or later. The jury will need a book out of her." The camera man stood up, finished with gathering pictures.

Burden of Truth

He carried his burden on his back.
She carried it over her body.
Every bruise begged for candy,
every word called for geese.
Each misplaced fold told a story,
the day her man lost his job.
Each wrinkle of hers whispered
of the times he'd been rejected.
"Sorry, hon' I've been havin' a hard time"
She ate his apologies for dessert.

Waiting

She waits for him,

wearing a gold dress that's long since faded to pale.

Someday, she hopes

he will abandon his lily pad

for his crown,

and his fur for his own skin.

That he'll trade his pumpkin

for a carriage,

and his ass for a horse.

But the spell hasn't broken,

and she's still left with straw

instead of gold.

Food for Thought

What do they keep in those back rooms downtown? Those rooms always seem bigger than necessary, and mostly empty. Perhaps the owners of the coffee shop live there, but they insist on hiding the furniture upstairs. Or maybe, at night, they drag in the comfy couches from the shop decor, and sleep on them (as well as the lamps.) That's why they serve coffee you know. It takes nearly all night for them to move the furniture; they hardly get any sleep.

I found a bike in one, with empty stalls. The stalls may or may not have had curtains. What does a coffee shop need dressing rooms for? If you whisper the password with your order, will they give you a costume to try on? Is it frappuchino? No place seems to serve them, and Starbucks doesn't have back rooms.

Lit

Strike, strike, strike

the match,

strike it hard,

light a blaze,

a supernova,

watch it shine,

glimmer and kill,

and watch it create

stars.

Table Talk

In the end, she wasn't sure if her feet left the rooftop, or if she slipped. Rachel thought she might have flashbacks or see her life flash before her eyes, but she only thought about how quickly the pavement flew into her face. In the second before she lost consciousness, Rachel felt her legs buckle and shatter beneath the weight of her fall. She thought she felt her face hit the pavement.

Next thing she knew, Rachel was standing up and walking. She swallowed, wondering  why she didn't feel any pain, in fact, she didn't feel anything at all. Rachel had to look down to see that her feet touched the marble floor as they walked. Her heart would have skipped a beat, except she had noticed that it had stopped beating.

The hall yawned before her eyes, deep, with every surface covered in gray marble. It had no windows, no lamps, no fires, and no sunlight, but she could see down it just fine. At the end of the hall sat black iron doors, and the moment Rachel would have reached to push them open, they opened themselves. Beyond the doors a cavernous room loomed before her, making Rachel stop so abruptly, she rocked back on her heels.

A table stood in the center of the room, gray marble like everything else.  One black iron chair stood on each side, one empty, and one occupied. Rachel recognized that occupant immediately, and her skin covered itself with goosebumps. He beckoned her with a wave of his long black sleeve to the empty chair. Glancing back at the iron doors, she saw them close with a hollow echo. The chair seemed to be her only option. She sat down, looking at the table instead of trying to meet his eyes.

In the middle of the small table sat a game of chess, with each piece in its starting position. One half had carved marble, sleek and simple. The other half had iron, intricate and rich.  Underneath them, rested the chessboard, made of shimmering glass.

"Care for a game?" He whispered, his voice hoarse, but clear.

"I guess." Rachel answered, not really seeing any other option. She moved the pawn closest to her right.

He slid a knight to face her pawn. "Who are you?"

"Rachel Stevens." She studied the board, already having a bad feeling about her odds. How did it go? Win the game and get a second chance at life? Or would she only have a chance at a better afterlife? Who the heck knew all this stuff and bothered to tell the living? Rachel focused on the opposite side of her board, deciding to move one of her knights closer to the center. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Yes. Did you want to be?" He moved the same knight closer to hers.

She swallowed, moving her pawn again. "Yes."

He moved the knight away, and Rachel caught a glance of the bones beneath the sleeve. They matched the marble well. "Why?"

Rachel wondered how many times he'd heard this before. "I couldn't face my life anymore." She slid her rook right behind her pawn. It thudded lightly against the glass, hissing as she let go.

"Why did that make you kill yourself?" He slid a pawn right behind his knight.

She wished she had an idea of what he planned next. He seemed the type that could plan an infinite amount of moves ahead of time. After all, he seemed to have all the time in the world. "I was afraid." Rachel answered softly, moving her knight next to his.

His queen knocked out her pawn. "What a waste."

"You don't understand." She swallowed, moving her knight and taking out one of his pawns. "Check."

The room seemed to get warmer. He sat silently for a long time. "I wish you understood. Suicide is one of the most selfish and cruel acts one can commit, Rachel." He moved his king out of harm's way.

"I had to. I had no choice." She moved her knight again, taking out his rook.

"You always had a choice." He slid his bishop until it stood a square away from his knight. "You always did. Until now."

None of her options now seemed good.  Rachel swallowed, moving her pawn forward. "Then why did you offer me a game?"

He moved his queen back.  "I have my reasons."

"That's not answering my question." She slid another pawn forward, trying to free up her more powerful pieces.

"I don't have to answer your questions." He slid a pawn as well.

Rachel saw her chance, taking out his knight. "What if I win?"

"What if you do?" He mused, sliding a pawn behind his queen.

"I want answers." She moved her knight back, taking out another pawn. So far, she had more pieces than he did. Rachel wondering how long that would last.

Apparently not long. He immediately took out her knight with another pawn."That's all?"

"How much can I ask for?" She slid out a bishop, suddenly finding the need to end this quick.

"Indeed." He also moved a bishop.

"What are my options?" She moved her bishop again, as far as she could. "Check."

"You should have researched that before you killed yourself." He moved his king out of her path.

"Well, I'm asking now." She moved her bishop again, chasing him.

"I don't have to tell you." His king took out her bishop.

They were even, with four pieces each. Rachel moved her queen. "What if I asked nicely?"

He moved his. "Probably not."

She moved her remaining knight. "Have you ever told anyone?"

"Most of them already seem to know by this point." He moved his king away.

"I don't." She took out his queen, breathing a sigh of relief.

He moved a pawn, and the shadows beneath his hood seemed to darken. "That's unfortunate. To not know your stakes."

Rachel took out another pawn with her knight. "I guess. I can't change that now."

He moved one two spaces forward. "I suppose." Death sounded bored.

She took out a rook. "You don't know?"

"You're full of questions. No sob story?" He moved a knight in front of his king.

"You've probably already heard it." She moved her queen forward. If Rachel was lucky, she might have a chance now.

"Perhaps not." He moved his remaining bishop.

Rachel moved her queen to his end of the board. "I lost my job."

He moved his bishop directly in front of her king. "That sounds like a poor reason for suicide."

She took it out. "It was a really nice job. I had no savings."

He moved another pawn. "Nothing else?"

"I had no boyfriend. My family were already struggling to pay their own bills." She moved her queen. "Check."

He took out her queen. "So you made them pay for your funeral?"

"I had life insurance." She moved her rook. "Check."

He moved his king forward, bringing her rook within range. "How much?"

Rachel took out his knight. "Not enough." She sighed.

His bishop took out her knight. "Unfortunate."

"Yeah." She moved a pawn forward, running out of options fast. Rachel only had five pieces left.

He moved a pawn in line with his king. "So you're costing them a funeral and a loved one."

"What else was I supposed to do?" She moved her knight.

He moved a pawn, and gained back his queen. "See a therapist. Seek faith. Seek love."

"None of those seemed appetizing." She moved her knight again. "Check."

He took out her night with his bishop. "Better than death."

"Yeah." She sighed, moving a bishop. He was going to win.

"Always." He moved his queen in line with her king. "Check."

She moved her king out of the way. "You think so?"

"Always." He moved his queen with ease. "Check."

She moved her king back. "What if a person's life was hell?"

He pursued. "You know nothing of hell."

"You know nothing of living." She moved her king back.

"Don't I? I end lives every day." He took out one of two remaining pawns. Not that Rachel could have moved them anyway.

She moved her king closer to his. It was the only piece she could still move. "And what do they tell you?"

His followed. "They beg, usually."

She moved her king. "Creative."

"They're desperate." He took out her last pawn.

"They're dying." She moved her king back.

"They don't want to. " His king followed. "Check."

"I do." She moved her king back.

"Unfortunate." His bishop moved in line with her king. "Check."

Rachel moved it forward. "So what? Just another soul right?"

"Every soul has value." He moved his queen in front of hers. "Check mate."

I suck at building bridges, but I'm oh so good at burning them

Years ago we could walk across the planks together.

Now rotten wood threatens to send me falling below.

Perhaps I lost you first,

several steps back,

and it's your voice I hear

calling me from below.

I'd reach out,

reach down,

reach up, even,

if I knew how.

It's nothing personal.

At Clockworks

I wondered where home was for them.

Did the tattoos come off when the sun came up?

Did they draw them on with body markers,

and wash them off with soap?

Did they live at home with mother,

or under the bridges like trolls?

Like the rest of us

they slipped and fell on their words,

and picked themselves back up again.

I could see the quaking in their eyes

that shone through

the fishnets,

the torn clothes,

the tattoos,

and the piercings.

I recognized the cry

in their voices as my own.

Stage Fright

I step onto the platform,

and the nerves hit me

like a bucket of water.

The room once smaller than a classroom

now looms over me like a cavernous cathedral.

I don't recognize the voice that

spills back at me through the monitor

and the words I'm reading off the page

look more Greek than English.

I say thank yous more

than I ever have in my life.

When I finish I vibrate

like a cellphone,

but my body shakes not

when the message arrives,

but when my message has sent.

Child in a Blender

Rebecca and Heidi

each  like their hair long,

one ginger, the other cinnamon.

Both like sports fields

and shopping malls.

__________

Diana likes her hair short,

but she likes her hours long,

spent in a cubicle or an office.

She also likes a distance of 26.6 miles.

________

Jim learns to like his hair gray, then white.

He finds his home behind the microphone,

on a church stage,

or in a box at a basketball game.

_________

Dad likes his hair clipped twice a month

and he loves a couch in front of a tv.

Mom liked her hair the way we liked it,

and she loved places to put her feet up.

_________

I like my hair red and long

as the sun is warm,

as I follow its rays across the sky.

I hate making phone calls

Every ring resounds like a drum roll,

as the receiver rubs against my cheek like a noose.

When the drum roll stops,

I hope to hear, not a present voice,

but a past voice, one that's been recorded

between 5 and 20 seconds,

with  a brief message with an even briefer excuse,

asking for my name and phone number.

I hope you don't actually answer with a hello,

with suppressed surprise.

In fact I hope this number has been mysteriously disconnected,

saving me from a potential conversation.

In Memoriam

There's the two guys whose fists collided over a girl,

and there's those students who squabbled for a week on

end over a story.

I don't think my professor quite realized

the ramifications of signing me up for this class,

let alone taking me on this field trip.

I wish I could be remembered for a Trojan war

even if it left the cities in my hair in ruins.

I wish I could live on as the essay the professor

shows off every year.

Instead, I am the girl

who will be immortalized in laughing stories,

as the one who dropped the gum out of her mouth,

down on the pristine floor of a Willamette chapel,

during a poetry reading.