Getting There

Love is carved into the street
but people step over it
they don't know what it means

More fragments.

Open Mic at BJs

Nevada pours over his notebook
twirling his pen as
another name on the list
is crossed of. Ink over ink.
Pen top over ball point.
Ink over ink.

A cycle of BJ's Good Grub
Eat.

-

'Eros'

Like the stiches that make my pocket
you hold me together and
my keys (to keep others out)
the broken cell phone, I can't see the screen
but I know I can put it to my mouth
and dial --- 8233 and you'll answer,
asking if you can find me.

Find a self-proclaimed poetess
at 4 AM throwing plates at
the wall because it's blank -

like your smooth white skin
I mouth punctuation on your spine
the question marks drip off my lips
and turn into exclamation points dotted
with your freckles.

We speak in smoke colored sentences
punctuated by sin but the only pause
is an ellipsis ... for good taste.

Dashing and dotting eyes, spillings Ts
our relationship is gibberish that no one
but us can read.

But, y9ou always strike me classically.

Your lips a bow, tipped with
an arrow of nose.

struck

I whisper your true name,
Eros
into my pillow.

----

Monday doesn't like school
the other days of the week tease her
so she applies herself extra
diligently to her studies, turning
her books and pens into
surrogate buddies.

At night, she looks at the moon
and wonders what about her has caused
other to focus on its dark side.

Mondays remembers the days before
classes began, when she and the other kids
played together.

Friday used to braid her hair,
before Saturday and Sunday came between them.

----

A Poem for Alarm Clocks

Destroyer of Dawn
you mutilator of morn!
I hate myself for turning you on
that fucking beep I scorn!

Everyday at 7 AM, you take me away
from my lover
leaving me longing for PM,
when I can crawl back under the covers.

--------

Spring 2008 snippets

"With this on one hand
and that on another
I could never find the words
to get across the boxes
I only knew the letters going down
and in the space between
each note, the silence between
the sounds my heart follows
the beats of the songs and poems
never read, meeting a dull ache"

-

A tornado is formed by two things:
cold and heat
the frosty cold front blows from the
North and dances with the warm dust gusts
from the South waltzing in a circle
the hiss of steam on the
cold lips of the Canadian front
as they kiss releases a vortex
of rain and wind, a whirling dervish
loose across the prairie,
chased by vans and satellites

-

The worms weave themselves
over the magnolia leaves
glistening like ribbons from the ground

moon light hits the sodden boughs
creating fireworks around the dying
flowers perking up for one last kiss
from the rain.

But you don't see any of this.
You're asleep, away, alone.
And I am awake, aware, alone.

Watching the worms weave over
the magnolia leaves, pulling the
petals into the ground.

-


Like a dug up miscarriage
you're nothing like you could have been
concieved in shame and born in sin
your half formed bones peeking out
fomr your skin, half human
half reptilian.

Yet as I stand above your little mound
hands colored with the grime and ground
my curiousity is sated.

You're not the beautiful baby I've been mourning;
You're the monstrosity I hated.

Half torn, half born
rotting in the ground
half formed, half born
you'll never be found.

struck

your lips a bow tipped
with an arrow of nose

I whisper your true name
Eros
into my pillow

Today - revisited

The corners of my vision
Crusted with the night
I met the day with dark words.

A flame extinguished
With his own breath
Fall to the floor, drop the phone
Bereft (a small heap of flesh)

A tone.
And then you were back.

How does one rise from the dead
With such ease
Not knowing how close they were?

I existed without you for half an hour.
Now I won’t again.

Fodder For Poetry

A fruit stand, oranges under water
breakfast with an old demon,
stumbling drunks on shop street
the way the wind plays with leaves
bonfires. sunsets. the Burren.
Lake Michigan. Lake Titus. Adirondacks.
Croagh Patrick. Le Blanc Potat.
(Although those in the know call it Pee-Vans).

Heartbreak. My foot falling alseep
the way he keeps texting me song lyrics
as I sneak glances at the bar man's delicious
backside the grace in your
slumber. half boiled eggs. Full Irish.
McDonagh's fish and chips
sitting in the Spanish Arch while she
rambles about summer jobs
odd shaped bagatelles in the quays
Nights at Bk's. The noise you made
when I grabbed you in the empty living room
(our bodies fit together perfectly)

finding out that everyone is exactly like me
like they've been hiding all this time

the way Indiana and I sat for hours
in the lobby of the Europa
without needing to speak
how my driver's license is well travelled
seeing old faces in new ones I meet
having someone curse at me
learning that I still have the ability
to make friends. Liddy. Ailise. Both.

the way you spoke when you said
"Do you reckon we'll see each other again?"

Deciding whether to stay or go
to kiss. to say, I'm here.
For you. For now. For always.
laying on my back with Katch
and learning each other through sleep deprivation
Chasing boys, chasing girls, chasing words
trying to say what it all means
to me.

Tigh Coili, the boys. Sitting in an empty pub
but knowing it's full. The rafters moving with our vibes.
Feeling alive.

With all of this, can I not be inspired?

You're all fodder for poetry.
You all live inside me.
Breaking the silence,
making me dance.
Thank you for the chance,
to be with you.

It means the world to me.

Last Words - again

these are the last words I have for you
no longer will you haunt my sentences
hiding between the letters or sneaking
into the dots of my Is

If these confessions, this truth
can't satisfy you, then you can't understand

but is understanding necessary?
A spider being will be,
regardless of the affectations.

My only regret is that your songs
will remain secrets.

Dierde's Past Life

anxiously folding a blanket
as eyes scan the horizon

Where is he? What's happened?
fighting for freedom, fighting for freight
the dead potato crop's weight

my children are hungry, what can I do?
my children are dying... and I am too.

A boat. A ship. A voyage. A chance.
my grandchildren will Irish dance
because blood is thick, but memory is thicker

and the Irish never forget.

Shit Happens When You're Black Out Drunk

Painting my face and wearing the colors
that are supposed to accentuate my being
I find myself surrounded by lush-es-ious females
each in their own oblivion

And I know as I follow their tangential footsteps
that even if I am the sober one
the quiet one
I've been better for knowing them
and although my mouth is full of words
I'll never say
at least we've had tonight - today
and I could look after each
as they each wandered astray

The Galway Girls

To three there are only two
things that make each day
worth living - friendship and craic
while the fourth sits back
and absorbs it all with pen to paper
somewhere watching each event
and acknowledging the random proximity
which allows the depth of me
to shine through each of you.

text premonition

waxing romantic on the opposite
side of the atlantic
I have turned a fiend into a friend
and just because your name
comes up 'fate' in my t9
doesn't mean that this is divine
and you're not my destiny
but I'm glad that you know me