Don't Worry.

And then we ran,
Ran like snow drifts,
Tumbling and stumbling
Laughing at the moon!

But that’s not how the story goes.
It looks like this:

You smile, and leave.
I say nothing.
I leave, too,
Left with no choice
But to come back tomorrow
And do it again.

It’s not like smoke, or a dream, or anything.

It’s just that sometimes. Sometimes,

I want to say I love you.
But I won’t. Don’t worry.




CLR

Horseshoemeatonastick.

For that matter, I don't understand you more than
horseshoemeatonastick.
I don't understand why you expose and hide.
Why you kill and revive.
Why you cry and laugh,
and why you whisper and scream.

You dance everyday only to fall,
and cut your roots away.
You tug on flowers until the wilt and then
come back when they are alive again
I don't understand you more than horseshoemeatonastick.

SITB

YoYo

We go up and down like waterfalls and salmon.
bears ripping through us.
and no one cares if you make it or not.
seriously, no one cares.

Outrages.

So outrageous
that you cry outrage
I cry stupid
and now your the only one in your cage.
I cannot deal with shit anymore
you scream whatever, and call everyone a whore.
But I'm not the one selling my emotions for a price,
I'm not the one who strips when the clock strikes thrice.
I am a solid stone who knows where she stands.
And in her life she needs a real friend, a real man.

SITB

Trigger

Its contagious and stupid
and yet I fall for it every time.
So intoxicating and putrid,
you make me want you to be mine.
But at the end of the day,
I cannot match your price
and so I go and listen to his words,
sipping on wine made of rice.

SITB

We Will

Thrown from the ocean,
stones and grit in our teeth,
scraped stomachs,
and sand in our suits,
we will hurl ourselves
into the combative waves once more,
until we,
too,
become thoughtless,
fearless,
water droplets,
identical and indistinguishable
from the entire ocean.

Sadness

I can draw happiness.
I know how passion manifests for me.
Hope has a specific color.
Anger is a forte in my work.
Lust is ever present in my brush and pencil.

But I don’t know how to paint sadness.
I try and try and try, but there is no image
For such a devastating feeling.
I brainstorm form and color for raw humanity
But nothing looks like that being.
How do you draw, paint, sculpt, print, color, etch, photograph sadness?

I’d really like to know.
If I could create sadness, it would become something outside of me,
Not twisting and clawing to out,
But asking for acceptance and recognition from the anonymous.
Sadness would not be mine, but ours, there in the world,
Not just my perceptions.
And I could say, so THAT’S what it looks like,
Feeling somehow complete by my ability to define this creature.

Suddenly, when I feel its looming blindness setting in,
I can remind myself of its physique, its smile, its posture,
And it will be like visiting an old friend.
We will converse, and part ways,
And I will not be haunted by name of him,
Just on the tip of my tongue,
Always out of reach.



CLR

Who's my mama?

Who’s my mama?

Who’s your mama!

My mama wears all black.

My mama walks with her kind
In a straight line.

My mama has a small office.

My mama gossips about the people she works with.

Who’s your mama?

‘Cuz my mama reads for fun.

And my mama teaches kids like me,
To teach kids like you.

My mama writes curricula in her small office.

And my mama? My mama wears a powder blue hood and three stripes on her black robe.

My mama’s a professor, educator, teacher, helper, savior, Giver of knowledge.

Who’s your mama?



CLR

La Suerte (Luck)

Dreams sway amongst the fold of cloth around her waist.
Her shoes clack, beating a shiver down every watcher’s breast.
As jazz breathes life into her straining calves,
Her smile aches of a tale still burdened to silence.
A dragonfly hairclip struts one missing sapphire,
On hair that fears surrender to passion and fuddlement.
Whiskey-fumed kerchiefs are empty promises to her dry tears,
As she humors the manner her mascara has run from sweat,
Chuckling with the boys that fancy her a hoot,
And remind her of virginity.
They serve distraction from the liquefaction of her nerves,
And the disappointment rooted in her forceful, self-moralizing heels.


CLR

Misconceptions

Not all monsters are terrifying.
Some lay low, cowering in corners, waiting for the shadows to disappear.
Some just sleep, too discontented to reason their way out of solitude.
Others are mean, manipulative, but love their sisters.
Many gossip, sharing rumors of balding and tooth decay.
Each wanders, untrusting, to her own scene of fright,
Remembering Grandmother tales of monsters as romantics,
Wondering what made them emigrate in the first place.



CLR