Paintings

i’ve stood in the eye of a hurricane

and held lighting rods to thunderstorms just waiting for that surge of confidence

I tend to seek out risk

but when i saw you painting mirrors like canvases

and trying to change the colors of your soul to match the outfits of those around you

i knew i had to chase the tornado of a lifestyle you like to create

put on my rain boots and poncho

it’s like sprinting headlong off a cliff, and trusting that there’s water beneath to catch you

even when you know the river dried up a long time ago.

you spoke of shame

and guilt

but pride in those emotions shows bright like fire in your eyes.

You like knowing that the world wants you to be in anguish

because it makes the freedom you feel instead that much more powerful

The beauty in your independence is like a banksy graffiti on a national monument

evoking pride and a bitter taste of the mistakes we have made to get here

I need you to hand me your paintbrush

See, you have been dyeing every part of your being from your past to your personal beliefs

each time following a paint by numbers until you fit perfectly in the lines of someone else’s manic pixie dream girl

i think its time you let someone paint you the way they see you

not the way they want you to be

Of course, trying to capture your essence is similar to attempting to drink the ocean in one gulp

so much work to do

and you know it’s nearly impossible

but that momentary belief is enough to try it anyways

so until i drown

Know this

I dont want you

I dont want to own you

i dont want to be you

i just want to understand you

like a Rubiks cube with a broken smile that you’ve been trying to line up again

it never looks the same after you take the packaging off

like somehow the fact that its been attempted before makes it scarier

Trusting never comes easy, but you can't let your past define you

And it's that much more fun at the thought of a challenge

so complicated at first sight

but once you’ve begun

it’s like a symphony

each movement working in harmony to make something enjoyable

the outcome is a masterpiece by all definitions

a masterpiece. a captivating creation of passion

its art

or so you told me

i guess i’ve lost sight

blind to the galleries of expression put on display each time you smile

like a free ticket to the louvre

but keeping your back turned to the mona lisa

i’ve begun painting mirrors too

because it is easier to plaster a smile on my face

than to jump headfirst into natural disasters

I’ve been leaping from volcanoes to fault lines

but it’s getting harder to find a toehold

I’m worried the coming tidal wave may crush me flat

and the waters are getting choppy

so my question is,

have you ever stood in the eye of a hurricane before?

Do you want to know what it’s like to feel electricity crackle on your skin with each lighting rod?

would you surf this tsunami with me?

because i’d like to stop painting mirrors

and start painting you instead

Morning After-Old and Beta

7 AM

when i woke up, i was supposed to want her gone,

but her absence only left pain hidden behind high fives from friends celebrating the recent conquest

Its supposed to feel good, right?

the absence of emotion

its not making love

its fucking

but what if i fucking loved her

or rather what she could have been

a possible relationship

with joy and happiness in all we did

but it was ruined by all we did

so i smile wide,

call her a piece of ass

and celebrate

celebrate a piece of me dying to fit in

celebrate a piece of me dying to get laid

celebrate a piece of me dying

to apologize and ask for a second chance

a formal introduction with a handshake and a kiss

nothing more

9 AM

Ive never been interrogated so thoroughly in my life.

i would have confessed to anything given the way they grilled me

“I don’t remember her name”

“did it really even matter? haha”

“its not like her name was gonna change anything”

these answers get caught in my throat like someone else has stolen my voice to unleash them on the world.

I want to be silent

and wait

wait for her to walk by so i can apologize for trying too hard to make an amazing night

into a locker room story

she was more than just a conquest

she was the girl every movie tells me about

every piece of writing describing love as the butterflies in your stomach

never got it so wrong.

I didnt feel butterflies, but rather rocks whenever i thought of her

like swallowing a boulder of regret

and letting it erode your soul

chipping away at each part of your personality

questioning if you can change to be better

But not because you have to, because you want to

like you would tweak and refine each detail of your persona, just to make her smile

See, I can’t remember the curve of her smile, but i can still feel the touch of her skin beneath me.

like a topographical map where G marked the spot

I went searching for the wrong treasure

Aunt Cathy

Dial tones sound like flatline prayers for a connection to this earth

Like an old rotary the numbers spun in circles around her

But always counted down

My aunt’s vocals came clear as day over the speaker my phone was linked to

They travelled like ghost wanderings from recorder to receiver

Her voice knew her future before her doctors did

Halfway out the door and 2 feet in the grave

My aunt is dying

But don’t mistake this fact for fear

She has never been scared

She never hesitated each time death left a voicemail promising a bright tomorrow for them

Ever since she was a kid, she used to prank call the future

Tied mr almighty’s shoes together

And put kick me signs on the reaper’s robes

My aunt has been jumping from flatlines to fault lines

Living in the eye of each storm and kicking up dust with mud slide renditions of chutes and ladders

My aunt is a natural born disaster

A born natural disaster.

She had dark clouds under her eyes, but electricity crackled in her smile each time she laughed

Let a select few watch raindrop tears streak lash lined windshields

She’s been carrying mass weight with her these last 4 years

Each step moved masses

And each step made masses

Until masses eventually made her

Cathy who is so far from cancerous her own friends and family would have undergone chemo to keep her from it

A long line of former classmates and coworkers who would sooner cannonball into her waterless grave than let her sleep there

Put her on such a pedestal that the casket will have to be 4 feet higher than others

A shallow grave for the deepest person I’ve ever known

The irony soaks into the soil turning raindrops metallic like full metal jacket music notes

Playing percussion on the memories I still have until the music is so loud they sound like thunder beats on drum skin.

My mother

Has spoken sermons to the sunshine filled yesterdays of her peace corps service

Has sworn the only thing she misses more than my sister and I when we leave were the local markets and the rains back in africa

But I bet she would happily trade lifetimes of cliched song lyrics for 5 more minutes of her

Donate decades off her own timeline for more erickson’s ice cream trips and cheerleader concussions

Cathy

Youre still sitting in mausoleums writing epitaphs on medical charts until your history is etched in stone cold steel hospital beds

Wringing your hands until your knuckles are as tough as your irish catholic upbringing

Clasp them tight as you remember sunday school prayers and recite them during each infusion

Utter hail mary’s as they try to cleanse your organs of the mutated sins you never volunteered for

Spend your sunday hours surrounded by god’s soon to be house guests

I never believed in him

But i always believed in you

So I’ll keep praying until they resonate like your future flatline

Like I’m trying to listen in on heaven

Rather than admit I’m losing it

Updated Blacksmith Poem

When she first met him

She thought he was a blacksmith

Shining armor to match a polished smile

He wore gunmetal like cologne and had welded sentences with silver tongued precision

A hard worker whose hands were as rough as his demeanor

A tough exterior like diamond shelled defenses

She saw the metal in his mind

Watched his gears grind backwards and forwards around each problem and possible solution like a broken clock trying to tell you something

She saw him stuck in time

The hands on his watch had been frozen in arctic tundra memories of trauma he cant move past

So he keeps working

Building and binding harder and denser metals to his exterior until his armor and his face are so far apart, his smile takes years to show

So she saw a broken blacksmith

Whose own canvas had begun to tear from patchwork poisoning

His spine was stone cold steel the first time she approached him and tried to lockpick past his gates

He began working for her

Each attempt at seeing the smile brought new jewelry and gems

On the first day she cried, he crafted a pair of earrings whose silver shone so brightly,  the sparkle was visible in her eye

She began to stop hearing the negative and hurtful reminders of her past

When she first fell and struggled to get up,

He built her a locket big enough to hold all the strength she would lose sometimes

So when her heart stopped beating voluntarily, she had a backup

When she first got lost

And convinced herself no one would try to find her

He created a ring to remind her of the hands that wanted to hold her

A secure promise that her future and finger were never lost, just wandering

When times got tough

And his fire seemed to never wane as she broke down more each day

Constantly churning out new jewelry and armor patches for the girl who wouldn’t stop trying to overcome his overdone defenses

He never forgot the day he made her a necklace so that her neck couldn’t break from how low she would hang it

She wore it like a promise to the most beautiful noose

A diamond crusted keepsake of when she wore bruises like body glitter

For a girl so determined to overcome barriers

She had gotten very good at building them

Walled her past off behind platinum chained prisons

Begged her blacksmith to build a fortress so she never had to hurt again

A silver and gold covered knight who had inherited an oversized clunky set of armor and sense of depression

When it was all over, she saw the man behind the masks.

Her blacksmith had stripped his own armor to melt down

He built her a monument. A statue to the woman who first approached his suit of armor and asked to be let in

Who volunteered to carry his problems in each step she took

Until she walked with the weight of his old habits as her own

Doctors will tell you

That armor is contagious.

If you live in a house with a blacksmith, you’re more likely to develop it

If you spend time trying to talk to blacksmiths through their stone cold steel

You are at a higher risk of breaking out in a metallic skin condition.

If blacksmiths run in your family, you’re predisposed to your own suit of armor at birth

Walk each corner of the earth being told to shed some chain mail

As if it was as easy as outfit changes

Only the people close enough to climb the defenses can see the built in protection

Skin turned kevlar until feeling was lost and safety was put in its place

Bulletproof from birth due to a genetic defect

This blacksmith had passed on his affliction and welded masterpiece to the woman who used to walk like the light she represented

He locked the girl who set him free in the very place he’d left behind

Stuck in a suit that can’t smile

For years at a time.

And stuck building blacksmith experience until it's all someone sees, when they glance her armor shining

I'm beginning to realize I'm bad at FINISHING poems

1, 2, 3, 4,

1, 2, 3, 4, 

Left, Right, And, Repeat

Left, Right, And, Repeat

Hearts beat to war drums measures

Tick Tock Tick Tock

Ding Ding Ding Ding

Clocks synchronize to cardiovascular symphonies

Almost like mr almighty composed a pattern so perfect, that nature falls to its rhythm like dominoes with a purpose

Education dances to the similar tune of 4 quarters in a year,

4 years to diploma filled folders

4 years to cap and gown cascades with degrees wrapped so tightly in hands, you can see the whites of the knuckles clutching to a finish line that keeps marching 4 steps ahead

4 years to a future without parental control

4 years to a future of gainful employment in something you love 

4 years until the president can be plucked from office

4 years to fix the country

Rose Street

The florist doesn't grow flowers

He cuts them

He makes them look pretty and perfect for the final moments of their lives, and sells them for a quick memory that fades with each petal drop

I always saw you as a gardener

Someone who sewed the seeds of his life in the soil he stood on

Watching blooms and wilts like pendulum swings

Using the seasons as a metronome

You heard the music in the mud and earth

And saw symphony in the springtime

Now I see the flower you truly lived as

When you were young

You were planted in a crowded garden

With three flowers climbing high enough above you that you learned to stop seeking sunlight

And share what little was given when you could

You may not have known this, but your roots began to grow tighter around each sibling that stood above and below you

When my father was born

He was planted in your shadow, and never felt more comfort

He clung to you like ivy vines wrapping buildings in perfect silhouette

And you let him leech sunlight and life lessons from the overly chlorophylled leaves you passed on like hand me downs

They always fit him just right

Eventually, each flower began to bloom

And as they moved to new gardens and skyscraper windowsills

You stayed behind in the home you’d known and kept the beds warm and welcoming for if they ever need come back

You kicked my father out, and told him his roots belonged somewhere he could let them grow endlessly

You taught him to find connections in the soil you share with those planted around you

And he carries that with him to this day

His roots have turned tree trunks and they travel from country to country like a road map tattooed on the earth he’s walked

But he never left you alone

Always kept a pot next to your garden for when you would have him

And stood taller when sharing your old planter boxes than anywhere else

You taught him to make a garden

And plant himself with someone who saw his petals when he only saw leaves

To sew seeds in the sun so he could pass on the lessons you’d taught him

And that he’d learned through the grapevine

When he first introduced you to us

You opened your home and dusted off the nursery to let our two roots grow

And we learned to bloom in the shadows you created, like our father before us

You never realized nobody was looking at the sun above you

Just the beauty in your petals

I had never met someone who lived on a street named after them

14 Rose

The only one I’ve ever known who trimmed his own thorns to share more space in his garden

You thrived when the planters were full at holidays and special occasions

My entire life, has been shaped by the way you learned to bloom and thrive 

And the impact your gardening had on my family’s existence

In July of my 21st season

Of my sister’s 24th season

Of my father’s 62nd season

I stared at the rose sitting on the small wooden box you were encased in

I watched more people than I knew existed in your small town full of empty gardens 

Circle around a monument of ash with a floral signature that had no roots

I felt the cold rain you had sheltered us from when we first began to flower

And knew the pain you endured to protect us from it

Roses have this beautiful color in their petals

But it fades faster than any other the moment it gets cut

Your last wish was to be scattered with the soil we continued in

So you could always support our lives

My uncle was a unique rose

Tall enough to provide shade for anyone who wanted

And short enough to share the spotlight and earth he lived in

He was friends with everyone and greeted even the florist with a smile on the day he came calling

He died as he lived

Connected to us all even at the very end

And loved like a gardener who treats his flowers as family

He never told us the florist was coming by

We just saw the rose on his box

With no thorns 

And no roots left

Just color as it faded

Uncle Santa Claus

Once a year

From a very young age

I used to wait up hoping to meet a magical being

A man with a laugh as low and bellowing as earthquake rhapsodies

But as warm and inviting as hearth fires 

Come Christmas time, 

Boyhood wonder presided over logic and rationale 

And I’d sit in silence

In portable pews with 4 airbags and and a seat heater

While my home travelled 80 miles an hour 

But my destination held a bellowing laugh and warm faces

So I spent road trip sermons waiting to meet a red faced mr almighty

With a sack full of memories and lessons codified by lectures

And a smile as bright as the future he would say he saw in you

Every Christmas I drove hours to meet my own Santa clause clad father figure

His arms were so open you could fit your whole life’s story between the palms of his embrace

And felt the acceptance and understanding radiate from fingertips to soothe the flaws you saw in the reflection of his holiday cheer filled eyes

His gifts came in conversation as frequently as frills and ribbons

“If you always talk, you may not get to listen to the important things”

“It’s always crucial to know what you want from what you need”

“Never tell someone anything is forever, you never know when you won’t be able to take it back”

The last one is never truer than in this coming Christmas 

This Christmas my childhood won’t board the car

The road trip will be measured in miles passed instead of time until reunion

This Christmas

My Santa Claus has retired his robe

Put his pina colada elixir in the photo books rather than red solo cups

And the blu Ray player won’t spin like pendulum swings counting down hours until night becomes morning again

We all have to grow up sometime

And see the people behind the legends

I believed in Santa Claus until Christmas died in mid July 2018

At 21 years of age I was forced to confront the man behind the myths

I never saw him nursing each egg nog

Didn’t smell the spirits in his smile or liquor in his laughter

I was too drunk on childhood Christmas memories to see the flaws in his costume

My uncle was imperfect

He was broken and bound to late night bottles

But never stopped to ask for help

We never saw him slip from treading to drowning in the drinks he ordered

My uncle was Santa Claus