you came to me on a cloud

before the sun took its place in the sky

your hair wisoy, I like my fingers to twirl 

just feelin the feel the way I do

look at the blue from above

so much love inside me to share

no offense inside just pouring out love like a stream of consciousness

inside me stop talking and 

—

the piano plays its blues painting the walls as guests come and mosey in smear their faces till they’re all blue 

guitar taps the calloused fingers 

—

country girl pure, a good person 

—

a blank slate

stable as the winding winds

just plain, untouched, frail

the paints, aching to get on your skin

intertwined between white threads

old tide tattered blue 

rolling across the sand up

the clouds, wispy hair moving so slow

winds push you, listen. move the way you want

constancy 

—

why do people go places alone?

—

I woke up from a long sleep 

but I’ve been awake

breathing in the coal smog

—

Vegas tequila sunrise

—

Drunken truth

—

Altered states left you leave me

as I lay on the linoleum curled like a dolls hair

rocking toxic body back and forth, to and fro

I reach my hand to you and you snap-slap me away

disapproving while I 

saw horses in the rain stomping water stills

left me to dissolve into little ants fingered

smushed on the bottom of a fingerprint, killed sunrise to scream

the want to wake from this reality dream 

but left the alter of friendship

telling me. you really aren’t a friend at all. 

Don’t trust. Stories and tales I told

Fear have leaked them and clogged the faucet lies.

Why, why with me

when clearly  we were never her in the first.

— 

the blender churns and aches my head

as the light shines and burns my dark brown eyes

—

art inspires the mind to make connections that it has never made before 

—

beat with flecks of gold in her eyes

her smile the color of angels wings

—

I have lost my voice but feel so loud

roaring with my fingers hunting for ideas worth shouting about

in this jungle of cars and concrete

green glass stroking my feet 

a massage to the insides

I choked on the smog from the factory where

grandmother sews and earns arthritus

—

I could never be with a man like you

all dressed in your dark jeans washed on perfect settings

fingers manicured and taute, the beds cleaner than mine

I could never be with a man like you

looking in the mirror and smile at your reflection

holding shoulders high tall trees

I could never be with a man like you

—

I am the moder day blogger

behind this screen

typing these types of

stories from life happening to me

do I happen to it? I don’t know

tapping my life into a hard

to drive forward with obstacles

inbox full

trash

porn- how to make my penis 5 inches longer

supplements

sales

make your skin pale

massaging keys to get my key in the hole

to figure what hasn’t been fought and conquered

my gold center to shoot out 

my collection of thought and beliefs that are

just the thoughts and theories of the prophets before me

calling them my own this time

on the to do list

to be original

when it’s like moving a boulder to free jesus with

my pinky toe

impossible to be me

what is this callous thing they call identity

when in the end I am just a product of

what I live with

my community 

the conversations spoken to me

I can’t be my own cell when there are a 

community

of cells around me

that are an organ of the future

trying to grow something new

a optic limp to touch visuals that cannot be seen. I am not me, I am a  product,

I am us. 

community, communism.

Us. Us. US. 

—

I like to play with fire. 

I like to play with the waves. 

I like to play with danger. 

I like to play with jaws.

I am the butterfly who floats close to the net. 

I like to lean back and forward before the chair tips all the way back and I crack my head. 

I like to suck on the cigarrete and barely inhale. 

—

I sipped the peach

you sipped the coffee

out laptops yin and yanged

—

70s chest hair on his legs

—

Your poetry is good enough to wipe my ass so I keep it in my bathroom.

—

I do worse things to paper.

as the day simmers from it’s boil

the cold breeze pours on my hair

it slithers down the bricks called spine

til the little mountains grow for a short moment then flatten

The beach is the main character. 

The set is the main character. 

Hawaii is the main character.

How the fuck do I do this so fucking complicated.

The kama’aina, native inhabitants of Hawaii, have one thing in common, aloha’aina which translates to the love of the land. 

Every aspect of the culture whether that be hula (dance) or mele (song or poetry) somehow ends up talking about the aloha’aina. 

The people of the land recognize and continue to recognize the privileges the aina (land/ earth) has given to us. The aina has supplied food, shelter, and clothing since the earliest days. 

Many movies are made where the aina is not appreciated and how we must take care of her so that we can continue to have the privilege of living. 

I am an empty sardin tin, you are the whole.

We used to be filled with salt, our bodies too much for the world

but now the time has passed and the inches of my mind swim away from us

You are moist for me, but I am dry.

I want to drink from you again and be lost in the sea

but I walk on dry land with the hot sun taking me away from you

We would sweat under the cold stars and wrap around like starfish 

your grip is tight, but mine is loosening like a washed knot

My eyes used to see new color when you’d appear

now your colors have faded with the beating of trends

leaving you outdated. Too vintage for my tongue. 

My eyes bored and wanting to see the colors of pure sun.

We have burned and charred scars on each other. 

I fear that I have left you too many red lines across your untouched skin.

It was only touched by my fingers, us so soft. Silk from chinese caterpillars pulled to their death.

I pulled and pulled and pulled till I wanted no more of you

when is it me who has not pulled on my own fibers of newness

and only dip you in fire making you burn

just at the tip of my fingers instead of

turning my hand around and pointing my finger at my own

We all have a voice, some are just easier to be heard than others. My voice is poetry. I write my feelings, it helps me put my fingers on my inner-voice. I write my poetry and read it to my boyfriend and he smiles and said he likes the way it sounds. I guest I could suffice with this because it’s like listening to a good song, liking the beat, but not understanding the words.

I can talk with my mouth, but it never turns out right. I stumble, choke, and lose my words which loses my meaning.  I like to write, it comes out a lot smoother. It just flows. When I write I feel on top of the world. 

I woke up at 7 am and prepared for one of the longest days of my life. It was my first professional staff interview. I feel like I did okay and probably won’t get the job. I do feel accomplished in doing such a large important intense over-exhausting and stressing thing though. It was definitely a fun learning experience for myself to go through. I loved all of it even though I felt like I was being eaten alive and interrogated by sdults nd students. In the end, no matter what happens I’m glad I did it because I learned a whole lot on how to interview and I had 4 consecutive interviews to practice in. 

Love it!

I hated him, but everyone gave him the benefit of the doubt. Being in the military, he apparently valued the American dream and ways. He was honest, had no fear, and was perfect. Everyone loved him. They saw what they wanted to see, a veteran from our small town. They didn’t see me, they didn’t see the bruises on my arms. He always told me to wear sweaters and cover my legs. He didn’t like me being seen. When I was seen, people did not hear me. Did not hear my stories of dodging house appliances when I came home a minute late. Did not hear hear my scream when I spoke with an inflected tone because I was sick. He hated my attitude, he hated me. No one saw through his camoflage uniform,  only me. I felt the bullets too.

Denny sat in the Ihop twirling yellow sugar packets in her hands. They were both cold things. The waiter stopped by and asked Denny if she would like to order yet. Denny said no thank you and continued to feel the grains between her fingers through the  paper packet. 

“Denny! Denny!” Denny looked up and smiled. Her eyes landed upon Rochelle then the baby on her hip. She winced. “Denny, oh my gosh! You look so damn good. You look like a sexilicious Beyonce Booty bouncer. 

“Ha, no.” said Denny embarrassed as she shook her head. 

They hugged and it was awkward with the baby on Rochelle’s hip. As soon as they released, Rochelle held her baby towards Denny to hold.

“I don’t like babies, remember?”

“I know this dummy, I have to pee like a racehorse though.” Rochelle threw the baby at Denny and power walked to the bathroom. 

Denny observed the baby. He had a blue onesie that contrasted his dirty blonde hair. The baby stared at Denny and smiled. Just like her mother, always smiling to strangers, Denny thought to herself. 

Rochelle came back and tilted her head at the sight she saw. Denny was still holding her baby at arms length like he had some infectious disease like mono. Rochelle laughed as she re-approached the table. 

“You haven’t changed at all Den Den.”

“Neither have you.”

“Can you believe it has been ten years since we graduated? I have so much to tell you!” Rochelle motioned the waiter for a booster seat to prop the baby on. 

“Go ahead.”

“You always were a good listener. Hmm where should I start?”

Rochelle talked about her marriage, the baby, her absence at work and how some “bitch” was trying to steal her position as head of human resources at google. 

“Den, it feels like yesterday when we were roommates in that small cube they called a dorm. Oh the times we had, you saving me, me exposing you to the wild side of the world. It’s so crazy because I’m the first one with a baby.”

“Yeah, I remember thinking to myself I would never want you to babysit my kids after that escapade at that one themed party you took me to.”

“Oh, the one where my costume broke and I was practically naked?”

“No, your costume didn’t break. That’s just how your outfit was.”

“Oh, that’s right. I told Jack that my costume broke when he found those pictures on my old college profile.”

“The ones with you on top of the table?”

“Nope, deleted all records of those on the internet. The perks of working at google.” Rochelle smiled with her head resting on her hand.