i always overcompensate
its my weakness
for when i see a hole
i build a moat around the
wall and a high mortar
red brick ceiling
instead of
simply filling up
the caveat
with plaster

i don't have to cross examine
your commas with your periods
because you will give

(maybe this is what it begins to feel like
when it is different.
when it is not so one-sided
that it spins me
in circles)

 I understand

   now why

they say teenagers

are fickle

and do crazy

rash stupid

things.

because

our

minds are 

all bent out

of shape

like 

rubber

bands and

will snap

at the 

slightest

shift

catch me
catch me
catch me
catch me

please
please
please
don't let me fall
through your fingertips

i may have closed my eyes
as if i don't care
(but this is only the pretense
taught to us since birth, that investing
emotion is dangerous
and scarring)
my stomach rejoices
every time i see i have not
given away too much
and i try to keep my face from
opening that extra inch
when i laugh
but i cannot
as my mind already whirs with
all the gears turning and worrying
(this is another lie we have been taught,
that fear can make things better)
i know it will hurt
if you let me go
so i try to trap myself inside
my head
using my hair as curtains
and my bones
as chains
(as if barricading my body, saves
a nation from war)

through your fingertips
don't let me fall
please
please
please

catch me
catch me
catch me
catch me

the air prints
 patterns
on the sound of the waving
trees
and the black grates that line
each of their spindling feet
like chipping metal lace

the floor jumps out
from under me
every time one word is
not right
and it makes me realize
how much we
are tiptoe teetering
on the boundary
of like and confused
and how far your
stomach drops
when you feel
you've given too much
a misrepresentation
to lead someone on
to hide beneath the surface
sticking your fingers through
to light so that the air and
water switch
how frightening it will all become
without balance

twist my woes
shut
with a breath
emanating from
your parted lips
chapped
chipping
with all
the sharp empty
words you whisper
to all others
but me

formulaic
and yet i realize
i am not
a cookie cutter
print out
of step by step instructions
and you are not the bleary
eyed reader turning the paper
around and around and
around
as if just two points could
confound you
and knock you out for
days

sometimes i wonder
what goes on inside your head
before i realize that
i don't want to know

i fear the truth
like you fear fire
and flicker the match in
front of your tongue
breathe in
puff out

your fingers are freezing
as if the blood has been
sucked out of each of them
down a twisty straw
that spirals and spirals
and spirals
its purple plastic dense against
the canvas of the world

when you talk
the words you say
inch, careful
not to break the ice
and measured as if
each letter is a code
that i have not
yet learnt
(i once learnt morse code
in eighth grade
when the drone of the charlie brown
wawawawawa became too loud
for my mind near freedom
to take)

my past does not help me
when i am with you
as if the clock
has stopped
and not ceased to exist
but never existed
and my blood starts pulsing
as if it was the new time
as if things
were measured in the space
between beats.

when my fingers start to quiver
i wonder if i can't tap them on the desk
to keep the rhythm
to communicate
to see if you'll shatter
(slightly, barely)

give them a name
ground them in the
world

agenda book mumble-5

it is better
to dejar
to drop
to let
fall to let go of
to let go of to let
go of to let go of
to let go
of
rabia y rencor pueden matarme

agenda book mumble-4

unpractically
our words swim in our mouths
yearning for freedom and sound
in the cycling dryer tone
circling eyes
as if the syllables could
slip out with each
pupil's spin

agenda book mumble-3

stained glass
windows will
only let pure light
shine through
filtering out the non-
believing dust motes
with holy fingers
making the shaft-
beams warm
to the touch

agenda book mumble-2

i don't feel i'm qualified
to write on the
history of others
because i am aware
that i do not understand
though i try and
i know that i am
not trying to be
pretentious but
that is how i
feel

agenda book mumble-1

i first liked poetry
  i think
  because it had no
  p.unct
ua
         tion
and you could
ju
st
  l  a  y    out
      your thoughts
splay
them
                        out
and no one could
        even
q u e s t i o n
you because
   you were
in    control.

i wish you a reflection
so i could conjure you to life
and shape your outline
with my fingers as you
spun and spun around
and around
like the clay on a
rotating sun
or more fitting perhaps
i would chisel
speak my anger with
sharp shards that shook my
hand with each blow
and reverberated
i'd twizzle the knobs
and change the aperture
manipulate size, crop
out what i did not like
copy in
the parts i deemed necessary
adjust the focus so that
you would be just
blurry
enough
to seem real

are dreams subconscious reflections
of a true self we hide within?
of the inside of the outside
slashing through the miens of bystanders
violently, and revealing their beating
capillaries that twist and tighten
and try to distract from the fragility
the exposition
so that we will fill our minds with notions that these
truth hoods are falsities
and fabricated under the soft
stretch of our eyelids
they will be smooth to the touch
and open with ready
with knowledge belief

i wish you were as in my dreams