I stand, alone.

Waiting, watching

Consumed, by the fog.

As the voices, whisper

"Come, come, over here.

We won't hurt you.

We promise, dear."

Taunts, of the imaginary,

Living, in my mind.

As time, steals memories,

One second, at a time.

we live life in

black and white

yet we cry for the

lack of gold

we are

Times New Roman

and size 12 font

no italics and no bold

we may walk along

the dotted lines

if we fit

inside the frame

of society's portrait

of a beautiful life;

filtered black and white

titled 'The Living Game'.

perspective,

child,

he says.

it's all in perspective.

that's why the birds

hold the keys to the world.

you are not god

and you are not satan.

you are something somewhere between,

just like the rest of us-

more than water,

less than the stars.

see these sparks i'm flicking

off my cigarette?

it's exactly what you could be,

but aren't.

fire.

ash.

you're smoke-

halfway between

fading and swelling.

your place is not with

the soil

or the sky,

but with the trees,

standing tall

above your roots,

but still bowing

before the sun.

being is hard,

i know,

my child,

but you are not alone.

you will make many acquaintances

throughout your days,

but you will find

most of your true friends

to be dead.

talk to hemingway.

speak to frost.

learn the trick to living

is breathing

and it is okay to live like a poet.

and god?

i ask.

bullshit,

he spits.

i believe in verse.

not yourself?

one day,

child,

one day

when pride cannot be our downfall.

one day we will quit

worshipping bukowski

like he is our religion

and we will instead choose to

quietly honor ourselves.

but for now,

we wait

with eyes towards the sky

and feet kicking

to see if there's

anything at all.

Growing up

My mom always said

That she would accept me

No matter what

Even if I ended up

Liking boys

Or

If I would be happier to be a girl

She always said

It didn't matter

Because her love was

Unconditional

But now we're here

And I've told her

That I'm not one-hundred percent

About this boy that I am

But instead

Of open arms

And love

I get

What she likes to call

"Pointers"

Things like

"You wouldn't be pretty as a girl"

And

"You're body is too straight to be feminine enough"

"You wouldn't have big enough breasts to be a woman, you know."

The worst thing is

She doesn't even realize

That what she's saying

Hurts

I have an aunt now

That used to be an uncle

On my moms ex-lovers side

(She used to love girls)

She refers to her

As her previous name

"Ernie"

Not as who she is now, "Giselle"

I try and tell her

To use she and not he

All she does is yell in reply

That I'm always on her case

I wonder if she realizes

That she's part of the reason

I want to take a blade to my wrist

Or down all my pills at once

I try and think positive

That I don't have it so bad

That others have been kicked to the streets

After telling their parents

But this isn't easy either

Some people can't just

Roll out of bed

And love themselves

For others it's a long process

Of telling yourself you're worth it

And that

You're strong enough

To make it through this

Life is different when you’re poor,

no “seconds” or even any “more,”

mending your own hand-me downs,

making your own musical sounds,

using what someone else threw out,

sleeping on the floor without a pout,

rationing potatoes and making bread

-sometimes out of pancake or cake mix,

saving water when you’re cooking with it

-for the next meal, it’s all that’s afforded;

eating ants with your cereal -free protein,

plus, eventually it becomes like routine,

even the going to sleep a little early

to ignore how much you’re still hungry,

dreams become your playground,

nature is your friend all-around

-offering shade on hot days,

and wind which blows many ways;

washing clothes in a bathtub, one at a time

-then, hanging them to dry, out on a line,

one pair of shoes, probably with holes

-layers of duct-tape “saving” the soles;

during the day, lights are forbidden,

A/C is a freezer breeze and light linen

-if you’re lucky.

That’s not even stepping into public:

social-standards like hitting a road-block,

somehow a burden or disgust to even see;

as if, by sight, others can be tainted by poverty.

Or worse, as if being poor makes you subhuman,

stupid, and too ignorant to have a valid opinion;

not even given a chance or the time to speak,

-someone would have to do more than leave,

throwing up metaphysical, projected walls,

“not me, I want nothing to do with your pitfalls!”

So, maybe I make more of an effort to look clean,

to seem more wealthy than I am, knowing me;

well, then I’m a fraud who must be taking advantage,

of someone or some system -as if that has any wisdom!?

Don’t you realize those who steal to get more,

aren’t really lacking, and not really poor?

Some of us work for it, have family and friends,

we’re all still people, even when poverty stricken;

with thoughts, emotions, and (maybe forgotten) goals

-inside whatever makes us poor, we all still have souls.

-M.E.

I was a girl

hiding beneath fir trees,

imagining my breath was enough

to satisfy

the greed of time,

giving me a cocoon where I could live

in pressed bliss forever.

But this man,

breaking my soul

with his cerulean eyes,

lay next to me,

so beautiful,

so deft,

I wondered,

How can god imagine something

so impeccable,

all other creation

becomes unworthy.

Even encapsulated in

winter afternoons,

wound up in warmth

curling through words

dancing on fingertips,

time and space became

inadequate,

crunching dimensions

together

until we writhed like serpents,

spent

beneath the covers,

knowing this was all there'd ever be,

the rushing fall from suspended grace

into panting humility...

as i lock myself in my room

once again

and i shove

my old earbuds in,

i try to drown out the world.

i can't mask

the wicked sounds

of my mother yelling

at my sister

because once again

she

isn't

thinking.

that isn't the whole truth,

i suppose.

she is thinking

but her thoughts

never stray far

from herself.

she doesn't understand

that our mother doesn't

have the thirty dollars

to spare

so she can go and mess around

at Adventure Landing

with her friends...

she doesn't understand

that our mother doesn't

have the time

to spare

to drive her to

her friend's house...

she doesn't understand

that our mother

is putting us through

private school

with no help

and that she has to pay

over a thousand dollars

a month for us to

go to school.

she doesn't understand that

the tuition itself

is going to take about

a ninth of my mom's

total

annual

salary.

her thoughts

have never left

herself.

i can hear

my mother's

heart breaking

as she screams

about how she

doesn't know

where she'll

get the money from

and how

we're not going to be

ok financially

once we start

high school.

and during all of this,

i am sitting in my room

and writing this down,

feeling like a coward

for not getting involved,

but knowing

that i will only be told

to

shut

up

if

i

try...

In a place where stardust dreams,

stoke fires too hot for the touch starved;

come melted wings of pixie dust,

in the heights where our stars

are carved.

In a million illumined wishes from earth, like fireflies eluding capture;

they're a gossamer flight,

on the tail of a kite,

swept up in a blazoned rapture.

Arisen against a curtain of black,

and strewn with surprising twist,

constellations once pressed of diamond ore, bleed in a scarlet mist.

Ember flecks and stippled burn,

are the remnants of fear we allay;

by seeing in rust, the color of trust,

out from the ash of decay.

Tender things and renderings,

our falling stars display,

knowing that with the fire, it brings,

a sun who governs the day.

In stardust light of paper white

there rubs a revelatory burn;

in perfect space between

still and flight,

is a place where dreams return.

*Credit photo: D.M. Yope

Butterfly installation/ATX

Here today, yesterday is no more

Time will always even the score

By consuming fire, the past is burned

Never again to return

In ash the future holds, the fertile soil

Of those who’ve survived the toil

To be burned down

Reduced to ashes

A silver lining

As the past passes

Pain passes

Also reduced to ashes

Here today, tomorrow is no more

Future evens the score

By consuming fire, the future formed

Until burned once more

When fertile soil, depleted once again

Brings about future’s end