Petrifiedwhen Igrow up,I want toeat theweak.'When I Grow up' by Megan KennedyStreamers ofbruises taintinggrape jelly, shovedrums paintingpounding skulls.Abrasions lye.School cullsthe chaff, dullsthe sky,when I...Formaldehyde turns;hand shakes;teacher spurns.Scalpel aches,leaving imprintsthat supon marrow flints,flakes slow hints.A child closeup,grow up...Fears fallingdown, the tasteof copper; crawlingants stick in paste.Cramped fingersline askewas lead lingerssmudging out stingers.Escape overdue,I want to...Recesses fillwith angerand anguish, killtime's dangerwith smokebreaks debriswhich chokeconcrete words croaka hoarse plea,eat the...Musty yellow leersgreeting the dawn,forced cheers.Low ceilings spawnlower expectationsof meekand mild ministrations.Holding back frustrations,life seethes bleak,weak.when Igrow up,I want toeat theweak.
10:18 to VictorySticky sour airUnmentionably closeFriday night metro
Summer MorningsThe sun fries greasy as clouds break the runny yolk. Crave those crispy sides.
MemoriesHolding hedonistic images in my mindOf electric touches to out flung fingertips entwined.While wrought with aching, hearts harbor lustful sighs,Tracing tips of unbound hair falling from upswept ties.Because soft sounds of silent glances grow,When lovers' hearts shelter shreds of faults filled just so.Beats of broken whispers fill fleeting thoughts enshrined.
Sunrise, SunsetI had a rose sunin a pocket full of trees.Glows like fingers stretched.
Palms PressedI had my hands inside your mouth.Static filling friction.Overly fond gazes pull southHolding benediction.Expectant breath on my wrist etched.Our gravity spins, arms outstretched.Expectant breath,Expectant breath,This nexus, kinesthesia sketched.I had my hands inside your mouthTo hide trembling thoughts.So consecrated heat falls south,Attaining prior plots.Sensations, sharp longing allayed,The glow of warm smolders pervade,Sensations sharp,Sensations sharp.Satisfying covenants made.I had my hands inside your mouth,Pressed palms against your walls.Lingering caresses drift southCompellingly; time stalls.Arching, wrenching, the world glides by,Purging weak, wet sways of your sigh,Arching, wrenching,Arching, wrenching.Limbs and bones haphazardly lie.
April ShowersAromatic trees,Spring stuck to my shoe today.Sopping wet petals.
Grimm PithsSeditious inclinations seethe submerged.Weeping meat is painted to look like flesh.What savageries lurk, longing to be purged?Fetid, rotten insides tear wounds afresh.Can such filth, dark as coal, produce these gemsthat fall from my lips like toads from their maws?We who fear the dark of night, light condemns.Wallow in what lies in masks filled with flaws.Subsume this foul pit; would your soul submit?
A LetterTo you:All of the words conceived rattleinside my head like grains of sand.They crunch and grind betweenteeth wearing them down to nubs.This sandpaper tongue raspsrepeated phrases which are pouringprofusely from my eyes, gathering intoseas on the hollow of my collarbone.If thoughts like lightningchance to strike, then stainedglass paintings can be pulledbudding from crevasses in my ears.Wet as newborn butterfly wings,pages unfurled, gossamer thin,picturing paintings intricate thatunravel the mysteries of you and I.From,MePS: Our lips can touch.
the beauty's in the leavingRead aloud here.sweetheart, let's head out. let'sdrink up the desert asphalt and that last bottleof johnny walker blue--one last toast to the copper sunsets,to the good earth. a pair oftailgate stargazers, you and i:roaming curves across the glove compartment map, untilevery foldline is worn flannel-softand it'd rather stay openthan closed.let's forget route sixty-six. let's forget the numbersand pick up terra cotta dust--breathe in the mojave. let's pretendthat the world's already endedand it's just us.let's leave the door unlockedand gowest.
Hearts Never Belong To TwoBrazen skin.Under the cracks I see silk;Rusted and darkened, breaking at the seams.The feeling is similar, but within the grooves,Running my fingers along a familiar plane, I become lost,Confused;Naked against the differences.But I submerge deeper, looking for discrepancies.Same eyes, same mouth, same voice:Old-age antiquities, invaluable to me.But the silver tongue doesn’t divert me.Soft spoken,Words pour into my ears.Persuasion is the greatest weapon, lies like poison.The bombardment insistent, the damage invisible.But secrets float to the surface.And hearts,Beating blood or bile,Never belong to two.
an arc is an infinite number of straight linessay i& you toolike madwe wanderedwhereverto god& asked it to appear& so it soul-sprouted out of earthor spilled all star-dusted from heavenor emerged from a gang of goliath worms& was so splendidly riddled with prismsor notwe saw god in marvelous feathersof flaking gold or seven robesof mica or divinely impoverishedwith a putrid buzzard’s beardor whateverwe were destinedto perceiveour phantoms of truth beso distinctly two of thesethat they must eventuallybecome onesee:down inside the kuk, kuk & skowcrackling out each green heron beakis a different sort of timeor now than isgrown within the roh-roh-roh & awkof every great blue onesodeep within a claw of bearblack & river-blessedexists a unique airof holy spacewhich is oh-so-neveralike that which issewn within a talon of owl-birdsilent & flying ready-spreadwith fiery night-sky eyessofar along the sweet flagpatch of summer swordswithered & seeds to setwea
spider song, purple ladyshe carrieda pair of scissorsin her purse so she couldcut the filter off her cigarettebefore she smoked it.she sucked in hercheeks and pursed herlips when she had to bepatient for anything.'how do youstay so thin?' i askedshe gathered her braceletsat her wrists and they clinkedlike wine glasses, like the twinkleof her smile, 'cigarettes and ritalin,'she said. 'a steady diet of cigarettes and ritalin.'she had smallhands that were notfeminine. her fingerswere short and her palmswere wide.everything abouther was purple. evenher eyes. they were brown.she didn't wearlipstick. only gloss.stinking, pink, and sticky.don't go too near, you'll endup with your lips stuck and thenshe'll eat you. you'll love it.i asked whyshe didn't justcut the filters offall at once, all at onceat home and she said, 'honeyit's wednesday, and i've barelymade it past monday yet.' snip,flick, fzzz. alright, i said, you knowyou're one hell of a girl and you'realright, i said.
Clayeffervescent acrosssummer sunsets,his bodyis the canvas wheremy handscreate landmarks.
TwelveThe orchids shiveredto the sound ofraw fingers onyour old guitar,smell of tarnish, metaland un-calloused skin -the only songs you knoware your father'slullabies and aChristian rock band'sgreatest hit,four cords strong.Played on hot weekendswith the windows open,twelve years old again,fat against the waistbandof Walmart jeansand straw hair stuckto your foreheadin humid summer air.I can't feel you here,in the apartment,know you're twelve years backin time,in a different town,with no stubble on your chin.
PetalsThe grass tickled between her toes as her father toiled away with the roses by the letterbox. She watched his fingers weave between the thorns to pat the soil around each bush, humming to some John Lennon song she couldn't put a name to. Despite the sun just tipping the horizon, she saw sweat prickling his brow and his eyes squinting against the light. The fine lines on his face were suddenly accentuated by shadow, and for a moment, she swelled with wonder.'Maria, come here,' he said, waving her over. 'You're not going to learn anything sitting all the way over there.'Excitement sparked her limbs into motion, and she crawled over to sit next to him, careful to tuck her skirt beneath her thighs to avoid the dirt.He picked up a pair of clippers from beside him. 'Now, you need to snipe back these diseased parts here and there from the base of the plant. It helps it grow better.'Snipping off two pieces of wood with ease, he deposited them in Maria's outstretched hand. Their rough textu
never mindI guess it’s kind of funny, if you think about it. You always see in the movies – in the TV shows – people running and screaming and praying and stuff. That’s what Hollywood always thought it would be like. Some sort of ‘death cloud’ or something – or like an asteroid or something like that – that just happened: that just totally hit everybody by surprise.People have known about it for months. It’s not like in the movies. The word ‘inevitability’ comes to mind: and hey, guess what? Nobody cares to run from the inevitable. It’s pretty stupid – isn’t it, if you think about it – how people, in the movies, try to run from inevitable death. Everybody has decided what they were gonna do today weeks ago, maybe even months ago. Say goodbye to family, spend time with girlfriend, et cetera et cetera. As with the Kubler-Ross effect – or whatever it's called – p
Sonnet to Breathabout the rib. it makes sense. at Out-back my father picks it up, gets it stuck inhis teeth, and like a brutish harpist plucks it out,lets it settle. smoking preference? menthol. in-door seat? the closest waterfall. they knife outflower from vegetable. “the game” drags students incollectively, like how a yawn moves-- uncoils out--humanity starts rippling. how much of school was ina herd like this? how much was ringworm? outhere is lonelier; my romance is silent. intime I think of him and am bothered by it. outthe window steeps a sunrise. it’s five inthe morning. can he sleep? my laptop’s outand holy Book! he’s up, but then— that rib again.
ClippingsYou press down on the lever, straining for the sound you adore.Clip, clip.Sharp metal blades clamp down, and a strip of white breaks free. One more snip to go, you've been waiting for this. You slide the clipper a touch right; you squint as you adjust the blade's position; too far and you unearth new fleshy depths, too near and you’ll waste a snip. You take a deep breath and tuck your elbows closer to your ribs. Pull your head lower, closer. Your chest stops rising, the soft whooshing of air from your nostrils stop. Control is vital!You press.Clip.A little white sliver does a dainty somersault flip before falling into darkness. You see its little curlicue flip, but you must move on. You are on a mission, and the goal approaches. Victory will be yours, must be yours. None must survive this purge.But the sounds you loathe are always loud and clear."Are you cutting your skin again? How long have you been at it?! It's all over the floor! Oh my god, your finger
the ringyou brought me to some hippie storeand told me you wantedto buy me a ring.i was content to sip my juiceand go home, buti followed close behind youinto a world of incense,tea, and jewelery.i asked you why,why a ring?you told me plainlythat you didn't buy me enough stuff,and that rings were cool.(i thought your ring was ugly,but you didn't need to know that.)so you dragged me over to the counterand told me to pick one i wanted.(i thought you were flirting with cashier,playing the 'look at me,buying gifts for my cute little sis' card,but then i realizedthat it's just how you talk to people.)i chose a little silver ringwith a wave on it.you asked why i picked that one,and i told you it just looked pretty,what did you expect?you shrugged and bought it for me,and let me get a notebook, too(and it still smells like that day-potently sweet and intoxicating)while you picked out some incenseand got offered some free tea.i walked outwith the guiltiest look on my
letters from the seai.sometimes when i wake upbefore the sun rises, when i’m all aloneand it feels like i might be the only person in the worldi notice that my face is wetand i wonder if it’s becausei’ve been swimming with you in my dreamsii.i remember youin the summer nights under the corsican starsand the warmth of your skin in the cold seawateri rememberhow the phosphorescence coated our bodiesas we swam together, the salty tang of the ocean and your fingers up my spineand us glowing like soft stars in the nighti remember how i wished it could last foreveriii.now i wonder if the tides and my tearswere so different after all
a phenomenonYou are a trajectory from which I have fallen, Moon-boundEarth-boy. With height and speed your molecules shifted;I dropped away by degrees — further, then further.There must be all the sky between us now,but I taste your dust with my fingertips,follow afterglows.
Missing GirlsMissing GirlsThese snippets of girls, broadsheets, ballads,a one paragraph whisper in a smudged newspaperbeneath an ad for a pizza, two for one.But they are singular despite their raveled tangled names.They are still awake, a litany of how young girls die.Delia is gone, 14 years old, cinched and muzzled with rope,two bullets. He was pardoned. She sleeps somewhere unknown.Her bones whisper to the unknowns. At least Delia has a song.Johnny Cash sang about her, the Man in Black.Did they bury her in black, a thrift store school dresswith sweat stained underarms?They tell Delia of truck stop stores gaudy with harsh beaten light,racks of DVDs of Country’s greatest hits. A bus stop smelling of aged urine.He promised he would leave his wife, girlfriend, so many words.In a church bathroom. He had a kind face.Grainy posters stapled to telephone poles, taped to smudged windows,small store billboards cramped with fading pleasamidst ads for babysitting, massage and guitar le
IceWhen the glacier slides, I'm the one. . . lost. Wondering where the right path is, with doubt biting. Frozen memories, icy distances. When the world grows colder, I'm the one. . . cracked. Standing on my own, with the past craving for me. Stolen, missing. When the snow falls, I'm the one. . . drifting. Trying my best, to make sense of it all. Wandering, wondering.When the hail storms, I'm the one. . . walking. Holding my guard, locking my heart. Smiling, pretending.
Dreams of realityA pair of eyes;Open and stare through the lights,Into the darkness of doom.And yet they smile,Yet they smile.A drop of tear;Seeps through the garden of death;Falls to the mortal soil.Dreams and desires will blend again,To render the roses alive.I am floating through a vision.Like ripples, floating through the pond of life.Can reality be so real?Let me drown again,Into the silence of familiar noise.As I wander through the lanes of reason and passion.The flame of hope burns bright,Drenched in the colors of freedom.So let my dreams unravel my soul,As darkness fades away;And let mortality draw me closer to destiny.As these pair of eyes,Open to stare through the lights again.Is this reality?Can reality be so real?Time passes by, as the eyes keep staring;Staring at the distant lights;Staring beyond the distant skies.What do they see?What do they long?What do they desire?Then the skies will break down;White lightning striking the dreamy clouds.Moments will tur
DivorceBefore that day,Sunday mornings had never occurred to me.I must have slept through their every summons:I never knew the time sensitive ritual of finding matching socks,forcing “nice” shoes over misshapen toes,the silent pact we would share with the warm cushions of the divanwaiting for Mother to ready us, memories that settle in the gutslike a madstone, which I could then pull out of my old cadaverto save myself in the next life.There were a few moments. Like that time, in the garage,basking in Father’s sunrise sorcery as he fired his magic timing lightinto the fluttering lungs of an engine, or when he let me aimthe water at his bucket, poorly, while he carved somethingotherworldly into stubborn dirt.I held nothing near of Sundays, nothing sacred, nothing dreaded,save for the occasional shameful confusionI would coax from my belly with dogged chimesof christmas bells haranguing the church congregationwith their infernal sequence, hanging like nervou
A Modern AndromedaShe walks this underpassembalmed with the graffitiof the broken, the glassbottles blue and brokeon cigarette dirt -where she disintersglints of rusting rails,steel line parallelsof a western yesterdayand gold melded dust.Nonplussed bythis tunnel's twilight eye,this lying catacomb echoof a locomotive ghost,she must get out, escape,breathe Georgia magnolias,and leave her solastalgia acheto a zephyr wind,to elysian fields.But it's all she feels,this millstone of lonelinesschained to the selfsame shamethat came with breakingher mother's sidewalk spine,the crab leg line of bonebeneath her very own skin.So she tarries in herewith this cemetery sicknesssearching for the solaceof a nomadic balladthat only the broken hear.
Routinesdrivingmy left armtanned darker than my right armmirrortwo facethe habits of daily lifeleave imprintson skin