Worth

who would the girl
be
if she was only a little less
and a lot more
who
would the girl be
if she was only a little more
and a lot
less

meek

words
are a contract
I have signed
my soul
to

words
are a lover
who cannot commit

who leaves
scented promises
wherever their memory
remains

who vows
upon the world
yet
only
proves
the diamond

stones on the floor of my tongue

there is a torrent of words I long to unleash

from behind the ivory bars of my teeth

and the prison guard of my tongue

my body is a vessel

a capsule

a container

my body is a mess of symbolism

and imperfect perfection that trembles on the edge of resplendence

I could not name

my pulsing organs

or introduce you to my nerves and capillaries

but

I can show you

the way they sing

in the depths of my being

knit tight and held close by blood and bone and gristle

string my blood vessels along

and tie my hands tight with their ends

drain my fragile wrists dry

and drink deep from the well of my eyes

where are my pearly bones hiding

that you must search so avidly for them

how can I hide my tendons

after you have asked so nicely for them

how did I manage to lose

the only lungs I ever owned

and why did they elope

with my silk walled kidneys

my heart has lost her head

and weeps into the skirts of my bladder

while her lover

my ears

long for what's inside her

a chill

reminiscent

and fond

whispers sweet nothings to my stubborn spine

while whatever else inside me

                   shivers

deep

           and dying

help is a cry for the desolate

there is a word
trapped in the bars of my throat
sinking slow
to the depths of my belly
heavy
heavy
heavy
in the doorway of my lungs

someone
pry it
from my sandpaper tongue
from my paper paste saliva

someone
set
me
free

Sleep Soft and Desperate

fatigue
swims
in the pools of my iris

sporadic
energy
curling in my fingers

why
should
I exist

when
existence
weighs upon my heart

delicate
sad
lost to the ravages of time

and
my
blood cries for fear

of
what
lurks in my breast

Rhythmic Repetition is Really Rather Revealing

repetition scares me
it scares me
scares
me
repetition scares me

when I repeat my letters
I worry
worry
that some will find me simple
simple

when I say what I mean
too many times
when I say
when I say
when I say
my words too many times
an abyss opens up
opens up
and it screams
it screams my words back at me

What do I do
with my repeating letters
where do I put
the overused
overexposed
syllables on my tongue
how do I console
my depreciating
punctuation
how
how do I stop the declining value of my soul

There is a word market
smelling
of paper and paste
ringing
ringing ringing ringing
with pages turning and covers singing
a stall of phrases
and a vendor for articulation

I stand on the corner
pen in hand
heart
in
my
ears
and I write
with curling lines
words that mean things
in another's eyes
I write
and I write
and I write
until these ink and paper letters
have a twin sibling each
until
each line
is identical to another
until one is the same as the other and another is a brother to a word that could be his mother and they are all being smothered by a repeat performance of one more

"words!" I cry, "words for sale!"
and in a basket at my feet, there are a dozen price tags each to words that are all the same
dollars for some and cents for most
and some
many
all
do not have a price
because I cradled them gently
and whispered their worth
where only they could hear

"words words words words words words to good homes!
words for you to sing
and words for you to love
and words
words
words
for evenings spent alone
and dinners eaten in silence
and moments eternities instances when your thoughts are too loud!"

I pitch my sales
and shout my deals
and the words in the basket
at my feet
smile sweetly
and know
that they already have a home
and that it is with me

because
I love my repeating words
that I handled with care
when I placed them there
in the basket that shows no prejudice to the spares
they are my words
I love them
and they
love
me

The Man in the Well- Opening Scene

Thunder rolls overhead, bellowing obscenities as it goes. Brash and bold and presenting its demands with steadfast resolve. The pounding of the relentless rain calling cheekily as it fades away, arrogant and mischievous.

The wind buffets the walls of the little house and the roof over her head rattles. The shadows of trees dancing wildly before her. A flash of lightning illuminates the sky, announcing its master before he arrives, disgruntled and laden with more demands. More complaints. Doing his level best to cuss them out before his strength wanes and he has to retire. Exhausted from the vigor with which he has used to shout his displeasure. 

She listens to it, though she does not speak its language. Hears their calls, strains to catch their words. She knows she'd have to be lucky or insane to catch what they're saying, but it doesn't stop her from trying. I wonder why he is so angry. She thinks to herself, wrapping herself still more firmly around the small form of her son beside her. You would think he would have less resentment, he is only thunder after all. What could possibly have wronged him? 

He shouts again, closer this time. An earthshaking roar of frustration. Her little son whimpers in his sleep, and she strokes soft locks off of his forehead. Hushing the fear that fights to rise. "I'm sorry." She whispers crossly, once he has settled and she is sure he will not wake. "I was just wondering. It's not any of my business anyway. You have a right to all the anger in the world if you want."

The distant echoing grows fainter still, gathering itself for one more, half-hearted shout, before trundling off somewhere over the mountains to voice its disapproval elsewhere, the rain dying down as it goes. Calmer and quieter with no one left to impress. In the moments after, and the one just before her eyes slide shut, she wonders if maybe she's not a little insane after all.