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Between lips

A language waits



Crouched on the tip

Of acid stripped tongues

That dissolve into the taste buds



Tipped back

into the glass

and fizzled out.



The buzzing, the sizzle of words surging

Urging you to utter them

at least as quiet breath

Between the pulls of narrow halls to the fire exit break through

Sprinklers and cocktail fizz,

the drizzle of thick liquid fire

Exhale, exhale and blow flames again--



Blow flames again into the air.

Let it fall and smother against the streets that

We step down without our shoes—

Let them be born in the smoke,

gunshot over the teeth

until it sticks to the roof

of their mouths.

Stale and raw.

A devils advocate that none

can interpret without

the eyes.

You're a cool rush of

sea side wind over my temple.

When we speak I can hear the shore

lapping up over my legs.

Feel the sun dry me out

like raggy clothes line garments

and leave my body stiff with

the salt.

Purify my senses and melt away when

my mind loses itself in

your words.

The tips of our ciggaretts

made love while

the gas pedal squeaked beneath

your high tops--

Gunning ninety down a stretch of trees

that eased by us with

jealous

creaks--

Your jeans were ripped in spartic

splotches

and the smoke from my nostrils

curled up on the dash board.

Foggy with a chance

of rain

that mixed in with the summer heat.

Too cool to turn on

the AC--

The hills met our tires and

we

chased the feilds of I65 traffic.

We only stopped when our bellys

growl agaisnt your cheap

leather seat lining.

Some say that what makes you

is your soul.

That it isn't a vapor taken and shoved down

your throat and soaked

into your bones--

You are not a vessel

that houses who you are

and life is not there trapped

and ticking inside of your heart.

They say,

you are of dust--

Particles of a uniform being

and a surplus of stardust

that returns to the soil when

your breath falls short and

does not return--

When your lids close

and your lungs give in

to a slumber,

you lose the touch of the sun

that burns your skin,

the feeling of comfort.

Some say that in being

you are a soul.

In its entirety you make it up,

it does not make you.

When the tides

met the rocks

and the shore remained untouched;

Nestled there between,

was

his body.

Bones made of drift wood

and eyes that glowed

like lighthouse

ghosts...

He let the water eat away his

skin.

Temptations--

Smoke signal visage

that plumes up like a bomb

let off in the distance.

The casluties

a varied number that breaks along the

taste buds--

Trouble on the rocks,

with a shot of

espresso and mocha.

COMMENTS

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captainglobehead
02:36 Jun 14 2012

Love the last lines.

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POST COMMENT

I haven't the willpower to bring

my legs up to my forehead

and cry.

To let tear ducts leak onto

my pillows

and soil the fibers

that give me burns on my cheeks.

when my heart is score

and

my knees are bloody.

I take the salt and

rub it in--

Press and leave scars on my bottom lip

and

write about how the pain twisted like

lead ties in my belly.

When all is for not,

and you think you've gotten me.

I pull my chin up

and write a poem about how

much you piss me off.

Memorizing.

The tips of your fingers would crush

tobacco down your throat

while you

drew

with your fingertips--

Watercolor.

stain glass paper

still life's

of what is

jostled around in your skull.

Collective conodrums

shook up so they spewed out of

your mouth

to canvas.

I wondered what it all meant.

It's almost three

and my fingers can

hardly tell my brain where

to punch the proper keys--

This time

I can't blame it on the

wine.

I loved the way you broke your chopsticks

between your fingers.

They fumbled

and I could see your cheeks redden--

scarlet

Like the

Nagiri tuna roll.

It'd fall apart and land in your lap

and I'd mumble something

in Japanese.

You looked around

scope up the remains

and pop them between you teeth

like raw pills--

Out belly's would swell with Citron Olong

while my story's of Osaka would fill

the air.

when didn't stop eating until

only the Wasabi

remained.

I am still awake because my stomach

is giving me signs of stubble hunger-

I'd ask you to make me

a sand which.

But

you were never a good cook

anyway.

COMMENTS

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ApatheticMii
05:55 Jun 05 2012

I would make you one

But, I lack the ability to

Make anything more

Than a miracle

Happen to a total

Stranger.

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captainglobehead
13:45 Jun 05 2012

Oh, nice answer.

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POST COMMENT

She was told you were going to be a dumb man when you grew up- The priest said your brain was damaged, that perhaps she'd like to rid of you before you could open your Cole eyes into light that you'd never seen before.

Your mama wasn't a very nice women , but she saved you, said: " I'll love him even if he can't comprehend it."



You told me when I was much older that you talked with your fists because you couldn't read or write. Your eyes looked sad, but I was too ignorant to understand your pain.

They locked you in a classroom that was wood, stuck you with boys with drool slipping onto their desks like melted rubber. Your pride was hurt, but they thought you to be a dumb boy.



You told me one day when the police decided It'd be best to stay with you, that I should make you proud-- When I first told you I fell in love with books, your eyes looked up into the clouds and you choked on your words like you always do; you told me you were proud, but I didn't pay much mind to what you were really trying to say.



The day you fount out I had won a young Authors award for my writing, you cried. I remember then, how I thought about the time you sat at the dinning table, sipping on your coke one afternoon-- You said you held me up when I was born, and I opened my eyes and looked straight at you. You said then, I stayed silent, taking you in without a sound escaping me. They told you I was going to be a smart women.



When you looked at me, fragile in your hands your eyes said that I could do all the things your brain wouldn't let you. But, Daddy, I should've told you long ago that you are a smart man.



You grew up with my same deep, dark eyes and calm stare- Worked hard with your blindness twords the written word. You learn to melt steal with your fingertips and dirty your face with ashes and sweat. Instead of writeing about your emotions you let them show on your face, contort and shine red whenever I make you angry, or happy.



You get mad when your lips fumble over words, but it makes me smile-

The stares we get from people in public when I read something to you taught me how to be brave and use my words.



Daddy, you may not be able to read and write- Your mind may waver and forget the past.

May not teach me of letters and how the form senenteces.



But you did teach me how to be strong and wear my oipions on my seelves and in my pockets.

Taught me about how I can take the world in with just a flip of a page and scribble of my pen.

People may not think so, but Daddy, you've always been a smart man.

Counterclockwise.

Your wrist watch mimics

a jester court fool-

Plays its glass against the

rays of sun.

Assuats my eyes as i turn at

ten and two.

Rubber spins

and I shout

into my airbag.

I eat plastic and old shoe smell

like my cheeks

are getting carpet burn.



I hope you

hit the windshield.

COMMENTS

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captainglobehead
13:09 Jun 04 2012

Amazing. Such an incredible image. You touch on all of the senses very poetically.

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POST COMMENT

Combustion.

I crushed up your ribs;

Powder fine--

Place the ashes in jars on my shelf.

I put your skin out to dry,

so I could stretch it tight over my bones.

Vapor.

Thin as it billows from your lips.

Slip out

like a crooked finger.

Willing me forward with lax momentum.

You atomty

was always

so unconventionally

Beautiful.

Your blood was salty

Like Iron.

You gave me concrete feet and I felt

so heavy under your gaze.



I told myself those dusty book shelves

and dirty glasses

that caught runoff rain water were

so beautiful.



But when your hands cracked,

those smiles hung off your cheekbones

and your eyes

crashed into my own without words.



Your ribs would show through your v-necks

and your messy blond hair

stayed caked.

Your bottled breath would fog your glasses...



I'd give you some type of morphine,

but you'd never take my advice.

She wore cheap make-up and painted her nails black with my sharpie she'd barrow. Her hair fell on her shoulders, and I remember she would always move it to one side.

I never understood why she bit her lip when she looked at me. But I'd smile and write about how adorable it was anyway.

When we would drink, I think that's when she'd say " I love you" Call me sweet words that only escaped her lips when rum was plenty.



It would never settle well in my belly, but her kisses could calm any storm that waged its own on my insides- Even when she'd wake up and never ask where I got my scratches. I still wrote about her.

You can call me Harper

and hand me a cup of coffee.

I'll tell you about my life-



The time I smoked a pack of Camels in front

of a mother with sores between her toes

and crook of her elbows.

She cackled,

her gay roommate Charles thought it funny too.

I puffed until my lungs choked on themselves,

but I kept pushing because I was cool-



I was 7 when I put a candy bar under my shirt,

it tasted stale but I felt good because it was free.

I puked afterward because I knew I had done something wrong.

Tears always felt warm after I got sick.



Being 8 was a breeze.

My nose was already used to the cat piss

smell of my trailer.

I didn't mind it much because mom would keep me safe.

She'd grow plants in my closet-

I always thought that's how real mothers paid rent.



When someones locked away,

you find out that it took two people to make you.

He was tall like me,

and his eyes always looked sad...

They'd spark whenever I would cry for her.



I wrote my first poem about her in 4 grade.

Dad cried and my teacher gave me a gold star.

I thought I was a genius,

and it made me smile when

my pain became words on a wide ruled page.





I grew up.

I've fucked.

I've drank, and I've inhaled the

shit my mom use to cull between her lips.





The taste of being unworthy made me sick.

So I quit.