request

my elbows are burnt and waiting

gingerly, i ask of you more than you are willing

i know that the most power is in the words

i can’t help but hunger at your eyes

but my elbows are burnt and waiting

and i have little to say to a face, it begs me not to speak

i am confident in what you have for me

it is enough to live on

and i eat less than i should of your words

but your eyes i will lick clean

Dream

I have this great dream: I’m sitting in my own shop, the shreds of a thrifted t-shirt in my calloused hands. A well-worn sewing machine waits for me on my worktable. A customer comes in to pick up her bridesmaid’s dress. She smiles at the white light and walls covered with the work of local artists. As she pays, she thanks me for making the dress stylistically wearable. The bell dings as she exits and my business partner and good friend emerges from the back room.
“Matt Costa or The Fratellis?” I grin. “I’d go for some Matt.” The clock ticks along with the now whirring sewing machine as I shove the loose fabric under the needle and music fills the room.
I recall: the handmade skirts I fashioned on a whim during weekends in high school. I remember seeing the possibility of every article of clothing I ran my fingers though at my local thrift store. Spending days after school devouring the drama department’s costume closet, I found priceless pieces for each of our shows. Birthday presents became no-brainers. I was, elementally, a creator. The satisfaction that craft gave me drove me to explore and learn more than ever. While not the most organized artist, I had all the basics covered. My scissor corner, the pile of scrap fabric, and the needles embedded in my mattress worked to create the portfolio I wore daily.
The thread snags. I bend over the machine, untangling the line and brushing off accumulated pins. I finish the hem by hand. Rising, I move to the next room. My co-owner is hunched over a silkscreen frame, inking a design celebrating local food onto a soft shirt.
“I’m heading off.”
“Okay, I can lock up.” I barely get a response from my engrossed friend, the shape of the shirt glowing in the dimly lit room. I gather my workbag and shove a pair of nicked scissors and the half finished stuffed pig I started that morning. The patchwork pig settles on the bottom of the bag. I click the door shut and start walking.
I can’t wait to live this dream.

lost

my voice gets lost in your ear
and
sweet words arrive at my doorstep
my hands are waiting for you
they’ve been patient for days
joining at one head taller
and
my voice gets lost in your chest

fill

you make me want to write
you make me was to shut up and just write
you make me want to stop fucking around and
write what i can’t say with my
tired, used up voice.

you make me want to write
a stanza for the cotton you stuffed into my mouth.
a stanza for the tongue that sits, useless in my mouth.
a stanza for all the time i wasted using my mouth.
a stanza for the silence this brings.
you make me write.

one poem,
mute.

an artist

the soft clay bends gently below their fingers, the sound of soul pumping into the piece fills the room. the rush of satisfaction, of pure emotion, that embodies the person who controls those hands. those hands stroking and kneading, pounding and smoothing.
all the pressures of living; anxiety, pain, frustration and anger: they all melt away, dripping softly to the floor and forming puddles of unanswered questions and nerves.
the evocation of new, different, beautiful thoughts is worth all the broken fingernails, stained clothing, and painful critiques.

a finished form rests on the table, a perfectly organic and complete reflection of the person that sits in satisfaction, their being wallowing in creation.

notes on life (me and you)

i want to be picked first.
bodybuilders? we've reached the twilight zone.
all-aboard!- this is the last stop till you-know-where.

twist me around your finger, sleep in on warm days, hold your breath for longer, see it all in a green light, dance extra hard, i'm into you.
forget i ever said that.

believe that skin is hard to overcome.
because most are held back by that gentle blanket of nerves.
i want to be willing and free of it.
and able. (add that in.)

just bring me closer.
so i can see that your chin quivers on the offbeat and
holes in pants make for a better pant.

overall, i would say avocados enhance the day.
take a vacation from being rad.
be mine, for once. just ask for the keys.
they support this advancement.

i make a bad choice as each new baby is born.
that’s 245 every minute.
the good ones are harder to tally.

and a welcome, well it ain't cheap, girl.
gimme a hand.
and all the nights.

they want you.

sister

the way we are connected inspires a line on the sand
begin with an “l”, then with wide, deliberate shapes,
complete the word.
reach across the dunes and the fire underneath it all,
breath with me and drop into my arms-
careful, don’t get attached.

i dream of your death and
i wake up, worried that we are too dependent.

my sister, we are the most genuine
you make my eyes glitter and my feet warm
you make my clothes fit better and my art more beautiful
you make the best out of the least
you make me cry when we hug

i’m too afraid of you leaving me too soon,
it’s distracting.