Taking The Slave
Burn her eyes, without hope of understanding them.
Kiss her mouth, that you may fathom its strange tongue.
Indulge in her brown skin because it reminds you of mother.
Rape her mind, because it is not your own,
but so sweet, so familiar.
Like coming home to a native land
your pale and inbred hands can only faintly fathom.
 

Criticism
The savages are upon me
and I feel my flesh
Burn
beneath the teeth
of their indifference
 

FAITH POEM (a poem about faith)
I don't know how to do anything
I am trying to move mountains with words
But I am an ant
I scribble
I drool
I move like a worm
whose world
(words)
encompassed a mile
How do I rise above?
Where will this worm
find wings?
I look in the mirror
and I see filth
Who is that?
Where did The Angel go?
Why is there dirt
staring back at me?
Why is the soil of
incompetence beneath my nails?
Why does doubt paint
blue rings
beneath my eyes and
stain my skin?
Why does my spine assume failure
Why do my lips
flirt with the sky;
why do I try to lasso
Beauty with such a
pitiful rope?
Where is the hair of Rapunzel
or Samson?
Where is my sling
Where is my stone,
My gun?
Where is the weapon with which
I may fight this apathy
that feels like sleep
in my limbs
that loosens my brother's smile
that kills my neighbor's daughter
This pen is scrawny and hardly
seems able to ink out
or erase this plague that
infests my
Generation
This Giant, This Ogre
This beast,This Death
that assumes a million faces,
that borrows my own.
 

ME
I
I have blonde hair
I pluck my eyebrows
I have my father's nose,
my mother's hands
I have crooked teeth
and green eyes
I play guitar
I used to get sick alot
I like the color of wine
I've cheated on boyfriends
I've owned fake ID
But my hair is still blonde
and my teeth are still crooked
and I probably won't always like
the color of wine

II
I have firm breasts
I have lips that always smile
I have veins that bleed
I laugh when I'm nervous
I feel the pain of others
but cry for no reason
I like open flame
I've been selfish since a child
I'm from Alaska
but hate the cold
I've cheated on diets
I've faked applications
But I still bleed
and my lips still smile
and my breasts won't
always be firm

III
I have strong shoulders
I have olive skin
I have a Swiss face I
borrowed from my grandmother
I have long nails on my right hand
which break regularly
My little toe is strange
I write
I used to make wreaths from dandelions
I brush my hair before bed
I cheated on tests
I faked flirtatious fake accents
But I still have gold skin
and my nails still break
and I probably won't always have
strong shoulders
and I may not always write
But maybe I'll start
making wreaths
from dandelions again
 

What I Wanted
I guess what I wanted was to hear
you'd stay with me always.
I guess what I wanted was to see
those hands vowing never to leave my own.
I guess what I wanted to know was
I am not loving in vain.
 

As A Child
As a child I walked with noisy fingers
along the hemline of so many meadows of back home.
Green fabric stretched out, shy earth, shock of sky.
I'd sit on logs like pulpets,
listen to the sermon of sparrows
and find god in simplicity
there amongst the dandelion and thorn.
Now I frequent hotel lobbies,
like a chain smoker having a bad day.
A nasty habit that breathes itself.
Delivering each day to the needy next.
Each with the promise of glitter and glory.
But how my tiny heart aches to return.
Like a daisy rooted in rot and rubbish
asked to grow in strange rooms.
Fed neon and cold pizza.
I fear I may wither with forgetfulness.
So I pull these pages close about my ears
Tiny, leafy limbs pale with impression.
My pen a single flame to keep me warm
like a beacon holding memory.
Until I am able to go back to my lovely mountains,
or until I am strong enough to bring their essence
to the rest of these hungry people
who long to remember the simplicity
which lies beyond the cities inbred streets
and the godliness which resides in us all.
 

Lost
Lost is a puzzle of stars
that breathes like water
and chews like stone.
Alone is a reminder
of how far your acceptance is
from your understanding.
Fear is a bird that believes itself
into extinction.
Desperation: the honest recognition
of a false truth.
Hope: seeing who you really are
at your highest
is who you will become.
Grace: the refinement of a soul through time.
 

Infatuation
Infatuation is a strange thing.
A bony creature thin with feeding on itself.
It is addicted not to its subject, but to its own vain hunger
And needs but a pretty face to fuel its rampant imagination.
It's humid couch and sweaty palms.
It's fleshy carpets ablaze with conquest.
But when conquering is complete,
the blood leaves its limbs and it becomes disenchanted.
Disappointed even to the point of disgust
with its subject, who sits then, like a hollow trunk,
emptied of its precious cargo
and left to fade like defeated naval ships.
A seed relieved of its transparent husk,
to dissolve finally on a rough and impatient tongue.