The Past and Pending

April 21, 2012 at 1:48am

The Whole Kingdom

I want to think about all the castles I built

with all the promises I passed from my lips to your earlobes.

With each word

a heavy, grey stone placed

to form walls

until chambers and courts became

the homes of an insect kingdom.


I want to think about all the castles I burned.

The way your face looked, lit up in the glow of your cell-phone,

when you read those six words I sent you.

Each little drop of blood pumping slower and slower in your heart

was each big stone I stole from the foundation,

like a game of Jenga,

until everything crumbled

and was dust.

Until everything died -

every larva in their crib of cabbage

every rollie-pollie suckling on the blades’ dew

every fly swaddled in the silk of a spider,

looking up at the moon

and knowing

it was its last sight

and knowing

the last moment will seem

to last forever.

The fly will think about the moon.

How it’s so much brighter than it ever has been before.

How it’s so much bigger than it ever has been before.

It’s light swallowing the fly whole,

a perfect paper circle

so white

in the black

so beautiful

in the black

that it hurts to see.

And the fly will stare as his blood is drained,

as he thinks about the moon,

thinks about death -

until everything dies

the whole kingdom.

December 18, 2011 at 12:50am

Were, are, will always…

I don’t want you to need me. I don’t want to ruin your independence - the very attribute that drew me to you the most; that makes you who you are.
I don’t want to tell you so many things.

Things I think you could be pleased to hear; that would make you purr; make you happy; content.

 But I don’t want to poison you.
And so I won’t tell you that you are beautiful; I don’t want you to feel like you need my words in order to know something that’s factual.


…But if you want me…


If there’s something, anything, inside of you that keeps you awake most nights thinking, thinking… Thinking of an infinite you and of an infinite me.

If there is that something – tell me.


Because I want to tell you that you’re beautiful.


I want the breeze to swipe over your smiling face as your warm, soft hair swipes over mine. I want to hold you under the stars-hung by the fishing line- from the off-white, popcorn ceiling-dangling so real that we make believe we own a galaxy-that is your seven-hundred-dollars-a-month-apartment. I want to bite the soft flesh of your pink fingertips and feel your blood flush between my teeth; I want to leave little white dents and marvel at my power and marvel at your willingness to be at the mercy of my power.

 But, mostly, mostly – I just want to tell you that you are beautiful.