Thursday, January 29, 2015

fuck

How do you write? When the words stop, at the edge of jagged fingertips, poised just so over the keyboard? To force it out is unfair, and would create an inauthentic account of the blistery emptiness that has resided inside for some time.

I’m unable to create something of nothing, and I imagine I’ve been filled with nothing over the last while. My words are always formed because of this inability to keep my emotions intact, to keep them inside. And they poured from me, in prose, and rhymes, and profanity. In lust and love. To keep everything inside would be unthinkable, and I’d drown, in the words. I can imagine them coating my throat, sticky on my teeth, falling over one another to escape.

And now the stark realization that I have nothing. I have nothing. My entire self worth has resided in the thoughts of others. And now I must create something solely from myself. It’s terrifying. What if I open my mouth, and nothing ever comes out again?



Wednesday, October 22, 2014

nothing to say (so much)

“why don’t you ever write about me?”

you wondered aloud,
one night, in july
eyes trained above my head
whisky-heavy breath
not quite reaching my face

i tried to, 
you see,
but my hand ached,
pencil gripped tightly
as i searched for something to write

that i knew
would stay-
something


(you wouldn’t erase)

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Moments

He stands in front of me, his hair dark and soggy with shower water, sloppily combed to the side,  sliding his delicate hands over the random shit on my nightstand, nonchalantly. He has no boundaries- what is mine is his, and that is all he has ever known. Absentmindedly, he fingers the edge of one of the books I haven't yet finished, rests on my camera, and pauses for a split second before he raises it to his face. He aims his probing little eye through the finder, focuses on something across the room, and then sets the camera back down, with a sigh. His eyes meet mine. He isn’t embarrassed that I'm watching him so closely; he isn’t that self-aware yet. He stretches up, up, reaching his scrawny arms above his head and yawns, loudly. 

I catch a whiff of something, soapy, clean.

"Are you wearing deodorant?"

"Yes,"  he answers, matter-of-factly. "It makes me feel like a man."

Then he turns and skips out of the room, his spiderman pajama shirt tucked into the back of his underwear.






Sunday, March 9, 2014

your urgent matters


only a few weeks into
it (whatever it was)
you came home

reeking of  
stained, soured hours
and stale smoke,
from the road

twisted in your sheets
as the door slammed
your hello

you pushed your tongue
feverishly inside me,
and my lips split red
against my teeth

didn’t even notice
the wet pillow, or
the damp on my cheeks
when finally,

you
were through

(how did you not see?) 
that night,
even the flowers were bleeding













Thursday, December 5, 2013

can we just rewind






if only
you'd been
a one-night stand,
drenched in wine,
sweat soaked sheets in a peach-dusted dawn

just a hazy recollection of some
lustful, wasted night
where the morning fog
found you gone





Wednesday, December 4, 2013

adios

Well. This was a bust. Fucking Mexico. I tried. Maybe not as hard as I could. I think I picked the wrong city, maybe. I don’t know.

Ohhhh where to next. Houston, eh gross, gag. Seattle. Port Angeles. Japan?

I think this experience completely burned me out on teaching.

For fucks sake, I didn’t even learn Spanish.

Whatever.

17 more days left. I don’t know if I should soak it in, or just sleep a lot so the time passes faster.

Sunday, November 10, 2013

the weight of you (me)


“It’s when someone else’s happiness depends on me- that’s when I find it hard to breathe.”



that’s what she said. that’s what she wrote. that’s what she sang, drenching every note with who gives a fucks and leave me alones.
in the mirror, smearing the fog away, it was hard to lie to herself. the fear of her happiness depending on someone else- that’s what really kept her at bay.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

but we found common ground, in our blood, in our sound


you whispered in the dark
about the things
    that break you

and all I could think
about
was how
those
are the things

    that

make me

Saturday, September 28, 2013

viva


burnt dust
seeps through the window,
slides against the curtain,
threadbare


moves
in la brisa
piano playing fingers
at the finish
de una canćion de amor

car siren wails,
incoherent spanish
drifts up

shadows still paint
the walls,
again

at 3 am

different room,
same thoughts

just mixed
with hindsight

and

tequila shots




for reference: let's talk about the weather

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

great expectations



when the glass was full,

i almost expected you
to flick it 
to the ground

and you did
with a twist 

of your wrist

i just didn't expect
     you 
to make 
     me

walk on the pieces
barefoot and 
bleed-ing

all because i don't need you to breathe

or be







Monday, September 23, 2013

timing (and maybe silver linings)


they flitted around,
like birds

sketching
his words

absorbed in
the dance of his hands,

i very nearly missed
the glance


(nearly)

Saturday, September 21, 2013

follow you where?


breathe you in

       c o u g h

you out


            need water
                               in a draught

not second-hand smoke


and fickle stories
of 
 heading


       s o u t h


keep your cancer
to yourself


and your lyrics

                         in a box


drown them in drink


            whatever you goddamned need


      
 i'm not  y o u r s 
                                 to share  a n y m o r e



(following you down was a joke to you and your pocketfuls of smoke; nothing to see, it's all so fucking hazy)

Thursday, September 19, 2013

lest you forget


I'm pregnant. I let the words roll around my mouth, my tongue. It's yours and I'm pregnant. It sounded foreign. Pregnant. I'm pregnant and it's yours. How do you tell an almost stranger that you're carrying their child? I sat in my car, the heater blowing stale air at my face, no tears. The trees were bare, the ground cold, hard. An empty bird's nest sat, half undone, in the crook of a branch. Just sitting. Waiting.

Chiseled jaw line, hooded eyes. He was quiet, secretive. I'd met him at work. Our first date was at a nondescript college bar, one gray, grainy afternoon, only one month prior. Two nights later, we apparently hit the jackpot. Fuck. How did I do this to myself.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, eyes flitting to the rearview mirror. Waiting. His truck pulled into the lot, circled and parked. I was out of my car in an instant, walking across the spaces, dead leaves crunching under my step. He got out and looked up, confused for a second and then his face lit up, a smile spread across, his white, perfect teeth shone.

He crossed the remaining space between us and walked to me, looking at me with an expectant grin. Then he saw my face. And his changed.

What's wrong?

I just looked at him, the words I'd practiced frozen in my throat, not even making it to my tongue. I looked down at the bottle he was carrying. Jack Daniel's. It dawned on me that it was New Year's Eve. I looked up, the air icy against my hot cheeks, chafing, burning.

You're pregnant.

It wasn't a question. It just was. There. It was out. I let my breath out.


I looked at him, stared through him. Nodded.

The crack of his knees on the ground was like a gunshot. That sound told me everything. I turned towards my car, as he kneeled, dumbfounded, in the middle of the parking lot.






Tuesday, August 20, 2013

checking in

Just checking in with the land of blog. I've been out of the loop, lately, but I just wanted you who subscribe and read to know that I'm not dead. Lots of overwhelming changes in my life, recently, and I've been slightly uninspired. Just bogged down.

swing of things....get it? get it? i'm funny.
I resigned from my first teaching job and accepted a job in Mexico, sold my house and just about every item in it, save my coffee maker, some mugs, and my clothes. Ok, and some books. I've been a bum, and currently, child and I are camping at my parent's house in Houston, waiting on our visas to come through, so we can get over to Durango. The school year actually started Monday, there, so I will be coming in late, which is daunting. Hopefully, we will be there within the next two weeks.

Hope you all are well. I will try to get back into the swing of things, soon.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013

on being five

perched on the stoop,
in his ketchup-stained
batman suit
she shooed him out,
when that man pulled up
in his rusted-red toyoto
pick-up truck

counted ants, and
gingerly placed ritz cracker
crumbs in their path

wiped his nose
with the back of his hand,
lodged tiny missiles
at the cigarette-stuffed
dr. pepper can

stared hard
into the blood-stained sun,
and when it started to fade,
he closed his eyes

to the sounds
those sounds

from inside.

she was supposed to teach him how to tie his shoes today.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

seeing you

fingertips,
wearied, worn
smoke-thick nights
vaguely familiar chords
 
like memories,
your whisky-laced memoir
rips through me
like you aren't
the stranger
you are
 
but when,
the gritty strains
of dawn
coax
the ashen shadows
from the wall,
 
i can almost see you then,
 
i can almost see it all

Monday, June 3, 2013

it reminds me

the color yellow,
it reminds me
of the mustard stain
on that old ranger’s shirt
(it eventually became mine)
that time
you caught a foul ball,
cheeks rosy and chaffed
from the wind
 
we snuck out,
giggling, like teenagers
on a first date
while Bibby was pitching,
to that drafty old ford
that was always out of gas
made it back inside
for the last inning
pretended not to notice
that couple who stared
(a few buttons were missing) 

when it’s almost raining,
but not quite
just a slow trickle,
gaining momentum,
it reminds me
of early mornings,
and your broken coffee pot,
how it would sputter
the grounds would float,
dark, like ants,
when you added cream
and i would turn up my nose,
and drink it black

i would sit in front of your stove
because the heater was broken
and read
while you worked intently
at your math

caught you staring
through the doorway,
once

i remember how you laughed
and laughed

(and laughed)

Sunday, June 2, 2013

silence is golden



porch whispers
at three in the morning
citronella candle smoke
burns sweetly in my nose
humid nights
and the sound of silence in the air
the reason i can't find the words
isn't because they aren't there
it's just they sometimes get frozen
by the intensity of your stare

the air around you is familiar now

Thursday, May 23, 2013

hot july moon, summer of 99

twisted the warm water
out of my tangled hair
threw my head back,
and giggled at Carrie
as we danced in the spinklers
those sultry, texas nights

our tiny bikinis covered
everything,
and nothing

my insides hiccupped
but, still
I pretended he wasn’t cruising by,
cold beer in the back,
one-pump gas-station town
Friday nights

he idled at the corner
and we skipped back inside

he’d be back tomorrow

maybe then,
I’d go for a drive

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

your words, they wreck me





 
 
 
she opens her mouth,
and diamonds fall out
 
early mornings at
the waffle house

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

brand new information

I've created another blog. Not because I'm deserting this one; the other one is for family and friends, and even former students, to follow Caden and me on our new adventures next year. We are moving to Mexico in August. Just accepted the position last night.  So I created a travel blog to document the whole process. I'm not connecting the two as this one is for more personal stuff, and I can cuss here. Only a few select people who know me in real life read this blog. I'm going to keep other one g-rated. Or try, at least.

Poetry-wise, I have several things to post, but they all need editing, and I haven't had time lately. I will try to post them soon. Miss all you lover-faces.

http://quesoadventures.blogspot.com/  < ~~ new blog




I wonder if I'll finally be able to tan in Mexico?

Friday, April 26, 2013

the bay


contemplate my toes,
nails painted moonbeam black (are beams black?)
and the tops of my feet,
sunburned, smeared
with aloe grease,
and bits of sand,
grainy against raw skin.
laughter floats up,
answering voice is low,
somber, in drink

soured reek of seaweed,  
cloying in this heat
languishes in the twilight
and my damp,
salt soaked hair
sticks to the side
of my flushed cheeks
 
idly, i sip  
from a plastic
dixie cup
and
swish sweet white wine
through my teeth 

air conditioner,
rusted red, time- worn
blows, stale and chilly
hum muffled
by a clouded,
sliding glass door

weak strains
from the clock radio
escape
Otis Redding sighs
in my ear
 
        I’ve been……. loooving you,
            for soo looong now
 
shamelessly bleeds
into the lull of the surf,
briny against the craggy,
jagged shore
 
muted mourning
of the sea gulls
wrenches me
from the inside out
devastatingly beautiful
in its gritty allure

 
 
                                                                                   -LS-
 
 
 
In the summer, I take Caden to the gulf. Galveston Bay. Usually, it’s just the two of us. It’s one of my favorite places to go. I do realize it’s the redheaded stepchild of the beaches, but there’s something so enchanting , so alluring about its grit. The mess of seaweed, twisted, bunched on the beach. The ramshackle, salted wooden houses, wasting away- their ratty, threadbare curtains, a placid, slight movement in the dark windows. There are so many stories to be found, it seems, down each crumbling, broken road,  and each will eventually lead you down to the coarse, rocky beach. We stay at the Commodore. It’s old. Cheap. Brick walls. Faintly stained curtains. Sliding glass doors that don’t latch all the way, so a layer of salt coats the mirrors. I adore that hotel, because every room faces the ocean, and every room has a story.  At night, after little dude falls asleep, buried, underneath sheer sheets, sweaty hands clutched around his worn, cotton stuffed tiger, I step out on the balcony, plant my ass down in the plastic lawn chair, and just breathe.  And think.





 

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

lets talk about the weather


The weather is bipolar, quite like me, as of late. I’ll drift off, in shorts and a wisp of a tank top, my book, cast aside, sometimes dropping onto my chest, sometimes onto the worn, wooden floor,  the ceiling fan lazily rousing  the humid air, clammy against my warm skin, hair still damp from the shower.  Yet, I’ll wake with goose bumps on my pale, freckled legs, tangled in the sheets, as I apparently tried to pull them tightly around in sleep, against the chill of the early hours.
I wake up at about 3,  every morning. I don’t know why. It’s automatic. My house is old and timeworn; I live in the Texas flatlands, where the winds constantly offend. The sinewy bushes against my windows scrape, back and forth, nails on a chalkboard.  My wind chimes, outside, which sound so charming in the milky light of day, are haunting. I can hear my german shepherd, Sadie Mae, moving around the house, restless. My little one, snoring softy, next to me, sometimes incoherent words, sighs, escaping his dream world, slipping through his sweet lips.

I’ll lay there, in the dark, with my thoughts. Sometimes, I’ll scroll through instagram, though most of my ig friends are on my time, and usually asleep.  But mostly, I just think. I don’t even realize I’ve fallen back asleep until my alarm pulls me back into the world of the living, muted pink hues spreading up the walls, a blush, pushing the shadows away.
In a few months, I’ll be falling asleep in a different bed, in a different city, with different lights casting different shadows around my room. I wonder if I’ll still wake at 3 am.

 

I’ve some new stuff to put on here, but I have to take some pictures to go with, first. Stay tuned.

Friday, April 5, 2013

watching her melt


-for haley-
 
he settles in beside her
tucks a wisp of her hair
behind her torn ear
shredded by his prose
splintered letters, words,  pieces
coalesce with wax and blood 
 
d
r
i
p 
 
down sallow, freckled cheeks 

he turns her upside down
and holds her, until her face is aflame
observes the wax and blood gather
into a delicate,
heart-shaped mold 

hands, stuffed in his pocket,
he strokes his interminable
supply of matches,
lights the wick
and lets it burn down 

to the quick
again

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

keep your feet dry

your car is cold
blinking lights blur, bleed
tongue slippery
in drink

my chapped lips betray
fettered words,
released

sliding, slipping out
collecting, like a puddle
at your feet

_____

the watery light seeps
though the blinds
at dawn

finds them knotted,
twisted
tethered back inside,
where they belong


(you stepped over the puddle, anyway)