Scrape the Sky

Paint by Numbers

2011-09-22T16:31:00.000-07:00

I'll paint you a cottage
along fields of paper windmills,
if you help me with my shoes.

Show Me

2011-09-22T15:49:00.001-07:00

I point,

he stares.

He says the sky reminds him

of flying saucers,

like the ones at ice cream socials.

Says he worries about being adopted.

He means abducted

But I understand.

I point,

he stares.

He says the water tower

must be where giants bathe.

Says they’re the reason we have floods.

I point,

he stares.

He says the woods are where bad kids go.

Says they must have forgotten to

wash up before supper.

He’s young.

I point,

he stares.

He says the fireworks look

like mothers’ flower dress.

Says she’s dancing in the sky.

He wishes he could join,

but understands.

The Sidewalk

2011-09-22T15:44:00.002-07:00

Sidewalks are meant for walking,

or so I thought bagged leaves were for opening

treasures fit for kings

hidden beneath cement roads

where voices never carry out through

stones skipped by boys with bruised shins running passed

lemonade stands when life was worth a quarter, where

men had once been pebbled by the good of a glass while

watching ships take flight on streets in London,

shuttering over infiltrated castles,

speaking to whales waving goodbye

to suits that were a little too snug around

the waist, wondering how the stampede approached so quickly,

when all we had to do was lay down our ears

and listen to the sidewalk speak.

Oak

2011-09-22T15:44:00.000-07:00

In time I will entrust the babble of birds

as my tea stained mug mimics

trees aligned along the crest of lake water

in the late of October. Within this dumpy cabin

barricaded by firewood, my sleeve captures

condensation from a weaken sun, as I fiddle

with a string, tethered at the seams of a long

lost button, wooden with a pickled oak-like finish.

Littered across this kitchen floor is the apple tart

paint that stuck to our bare feet, scattered like the squirrel,

threatened during his feast.

This evening my breath howls as the last surge of

bluebonnet and all purpose flour

escapes from cushions toned by legs crossed,

then uncrossed. I raise my hands to curse the wind,

allowing the blue rimmed crown to wilt

as these birds join in song, offering me one night to sleep

among their choir.

Telescope

2010-11-21T18:36:00.000-08:00

He asks to join in the nudging of knuckles beneath palms,

not in prayer but in questioning the loyalties of a man. She

shares her regret, a lingering motion behind eyelids,

not crying but holding answers to reasons why she’s ever

devoted to the road. She pulls at his shirt collar,

pressing the warmth of her breathe against the steel of his neck,

“this is what I’ve needed.” He notices her wrists, scented

as the purity of dew along wooded trails, is unfamiliar and cold.

He beckons for a blanket, dismissing her pawed gestures to scrape

his inabilities to separate his morals from fantasies. She recalls her hands

upon his chest, brushing them now across her brow

wondering how ones company can lead to such tastelessness.

He runs a finger along a telescope , corroded and peering,

millions of miles away from his duty amongst men,

searching for ways to please her through the obscurity of space.

A Little More (Cont.)

2010-10-17T10:06:00.000-07:00

Lying in your garden
with sun kissed toes,
we ignore your fathers
knuckle-to-glass talk
that neighbors can see us
tucked behind orange snapdragons
in a splashed white barrel mounted
to hide fingers that flutter
from time to time,
enjoying the grass pressed
against our skin,
not knowing we’d scratch
till the sun decided
we were ready for more.
We shall grow
a fortress of sequoias and eliminate
walls in which chemicals speak,
spending time with the metallic sheen of wings
yet clipped, refusing to move
our feet till the snow melts beneath them.
Escaping through fields of yellow rye,

grains part at the sight of our tempered

stagger, reciting hymns to grasshopper eggs

resting on stems once coated in pollen,

waiting to find if this harvest

is stable enough,

to be considered a home.

Industrial Relationships

2010-10-17T10:04:00.000-07:00

She speaks through screen doors,
heart set on men sold at garage sales
attentive to pull possessions away from
fiberglass conversations of inflated
divorce rates that leave her mouth dry
against the lips of a machine.

Small talk, no talk
waffle tongue placed between eyelids
resting on telephone wires with a jukebox
selection of sexual correlations beside
copper letters engulfed in mass market imperfections,
unprocessed by taste buds diluted amid
black flies caramelized by
fluorescent lights.

Papier-mâché opinions parade
critical accusations of irregular
involvements between the canary and crow,
in attempts to breed mixtures of sorrow
upon illicit hips ruffling shirt collars,
engaged in hands-on education.

Breadcrumbs

2010-01-28T09:50:00.000-08:00

Tapping pens against pebbled chests irritates the belief of hide and seek. Set aflame by porch-lit stories of cornfields and backlogged love, letters addressed to past chapter books fuel misinterpretations of words like “passion” now replaced with sexual obsessions. Fingers flood locks of mahogany coated curls, feathering through lollipop promises of roses sustaining some form of meaning in the days to follow. Covered in breadcrumb trails, romance now displaced by revolving notions of perfection as imaginary friends dance across books of foreplay, when all we crave is to be held.

Cupped to graze thimble kisses, skies tickle sweaty palms infused with broken stems of disappointment as fable gestures fade along with a whisper of sighs. Pages turned by tongues still licking a masquerade of dreams in finding romance beyond callused hands fumbling sticks together. Bare boned fantasies of corner store crushes where sleeves embrace runny noses, now seeded beneath soil pliable as concrete.

Ships cast pale shadows along streets pummeled by coffee shops lacking the relationship between land and sea. Gazed upon fingers twisting beside blank pages, finding joy in pick pocketing letters from war and the weight postcards carry. Captains toss pennies overboard like swallows in strong winds, searching for the illusion of home.

Shoes tired of breathing chemical romances now filtered through exhaust pipes and misleading parking lots. Markets filled with delicate sweets and restrained hand motions cause narrative lips to quiver amongst the sensation of touch. Submerged in words unscathed by rabid mouths, lungs expand to a celebration of fools absorbing poetic revolutions and red tipped markings.

Garden flat, body pinned like steam rollers along snapdragons bent away from gravity. Raindrops pierce through cotton while eyes continue to roam through fine print neutron bombs. A literary compression along continental drifts stimulates television flicker and popcorn conversations of arcade chivalry and lip-locked confrontation. Hands loop like film reels with directors backtracking through previous successors, never simplifying shoe stoned infatuation. Sunspots trickle through shades drawn out, caressing a pool of belly button sweat amongst sheets crumpled to revision.

Kings taunt clowns with new expressions, tossing peanut casings to elephants that tire from routine. Children learn to read ceiling fans instead of lullabies with creased spines and crude folds, teasing mice with lemon seeds just to feel the bite. A suitcase life compiled of unwritten motions, retracts the anticipation of hiding, in hopes of regaining two breaths warmed by what once was known as passion.

arum lily

2009-12-08T11:20:00.000-08:00

My mermaid prefers wet rice
over sex and toiletries,
political debates and short
sleeves.

Her pickled fin
glistens stories of love and
loss with harpoon eyes
detached from
hair spun in snares of
butterballs and arum lilies.

She lay awake dreaming of
endless seas with pearls
that dangle between the
webbing of her silk
incrusted sheets.

Her ears open to the
lapping laughter of
communication
between land and sea,
calling to her one last time
to jump is to be set free.

setting sail

2009-12-08T10:29:00.000-08:00

In apple gardens my imaginary friends
toss pebbles at squint eyes, busy sizing the moon
as clouds graze the crescent of my thumb. Kissed by paint
brush strokes across cheeks battered by tales of fishermen
setting sail a belly laugh, their hands whisper lips goodnight
in a push and pull lullaby,
while my friends seek nothing more than
the meaning of the word "exist".

a whisper

2009-10-25T11:37:00.000-07:00

Belly up sun lines
traced in fields of purple rays
picked for flight instead of practice
sky writing messages through flicked
wrists, mouths, earlobes
curled daises between cement clouds
tapping tin roof minds,
trees chasing dogs
for pleasure, tired of staying put
when the right to move
is still a progressed commotion

bottle at sea

2009-10-20T11:45:00.000-07:00

amongst the whale in the sky
carpets stay neutral along the stairwell of stars
overthrown by bodies washed up shore
kissing sand between cracked lips and a dime store
crush kicking stones to pass time when
counting sheep can’t lick
the southern whisper of warmth behind a bottle
floating in the middle of the sea with
no one but the blue to touch

Ribbon Sky

2009-10-15T10:06:00.000-07:00

Blue ribbons hang amongst willows
that speak with gentle tongues and thimble
kisses across cheeks splashed with clouds that
tickle toes, sending us from seed to seed
beneath the shade of wonder
where queens bow and offer drinks to lilies
as light breaks through dangling arms
that long to hold the sky who
won’t stand still, but hopes
the ribbons stay vibrant through the fall

ease my hand

2009-09-03T17:41:00.000-07:00

a porch-lit kind of love
aligns beds of crumpled
revisions atop revisions,
masking the tickle of tongues
forcing words further down a rabid hand
which holds an empty pen

simple misfortune

2009-09-03T17:18:00.001-07:00

if we lost our direction
would birds still fly,
would we even notice?

sweet mix

2009-09-02T19:49:00.001-07:00

shes at work.
you sleep
dreaming up sock thieves,
arranging marriages with
nothing more then a pillow
on which we scream truths
too proud to speak and lies
too good to breathe,
a taste so raw, she'll make you forget
theres more mouths to feed
another sun dying to fall
another love scratching
just to feel the burn

up on the ground

2009-08-30T12:30:00.000-07:00

I sign into heaven
crushing hands as I step across
rows of children, plucking clouds to taste
the sweet mist of morning shower
against my tongue, sand stoned and
tea burnt she'll leave, tempered by
wet floors and towels woven by air,
steaming behind closed curtains
I wrap myself in the idea of arms
still clinging to the ground.

Lazy

2009-08-21T16:16:00.000-07:00

loss is the figure of a woman
strolling through high arch ways
where trees sigh and babies sleep
amongst the whisper of pollen,
where men fall, uprooting seeds beneath
bricks faded like a flask at sea
learning one can only dig so far before reaching
cold clay and the realization it had a better chance
at the surface

my drink

2009-08-09T18:03:00.000-07:00

I pull up to a sea horse
tucked in the corner bar,
sweeping dollars for drinks glancing at cubes,
warming over time and never understanding why the body needs
too much of good thing,
and not enough of the bad that fills our glass

Penny (not finished)

2009-07-19T18:26:00.000-07:00

she hates the heat but bathes in cornfields, arms outstretched embracing dissappointments from past chapter books that never reached the fire.she consoles the fly upon the windowsill,leaving her pearls to dangle amongst the warmth of her neck and the impression left from her palm.she forms jet streams into worlds of fantasy where willows speak as she hits the ground to listen.

untitled (at the moment)

2009-04-17T10:44:00.000-07:00

sidewalks are meant for walking, or so I thought
bagged leaves were for opening treasures fit for
kings hidden beneath cement roads where voices
never carry out through stones
skipped by boys with bruised shins and
lemonade stands, life was worth a quarter
when ships took flight on streets in London
where men had once been pebbled
by sidewalks meant for walking.

the sum of her

2009-03-25T10:57:00.000-07:00

a poet should be allowed a
one night stand with a cigarette lit
woman who starts every sentence with a period
and legs that come with a down payment,
legs that collaborate with asthma attacks induced
by words still sexy despite the cliched mouth they
brew in, praying there's nothing wrong with the interior
of her mind.

sandbox children are lousy tippers

2009-03-18T11:35:00.001-07:00

half price snow cones come with
double shifts, spinal arthritis
and 125 pennies that leave
fingers copper stained like pomegranates on
white undershirts already soaked
in oven sweat, salty and stale
unlike the smile attached to
125 pennies in filthy hands
and empty pockets

sleight of knowing

2009-03-14T17:27:00.000-07:00

radio towers tied down like giants
take place of naked trees
in winters pastel mountains
bulldozed by magic tricks less magic
than trick. sewing skies with power lines,
handing ribbons to fools
who point at geese,
never following the flock
south of the styrofoam cup collecting
pennies for a loaf or the optical illusion
of a home

no talk

2009-02-24T17:55:00.000-08:00

I've named the three folds in your index finger
Lidia, Lee and Fig
pretending they speak fluent french,
while I pretend
to understand.
I've seen circus skies with elephants
toppling on men who fear mice
with big shadows.
I've painted willows with thorn apples
spun in a webbed dance, where no one leads
and no one slows.
I've swept sparklers off long flower dresses
twisting arms like clef notes
pressed close to mute speakers
kissing the treble of silence.
I've miscalculated the light in clam shells
piled on top of plates garnished with greens
that steal sounds of dark.
I've hid whales under carpets in
living rooms that act more like funerals
for lost words and
a captain who refuses
to change course.

The Girl in the Woods

2009-02-18T13:23:00.000-08:00

Its late
but she stays
consulting unspoken rules with nature,
the vibrato of trails
unscathed by rubber soles,
the whisper of branches
fingering through soil
loose and dry
never asking for a favorable
frost, the morning chatter between
the squirrel and the acorn
or the warmth
of a friend just outside
her woods.

2009-02-17T15:19:00.000-08:00

even giants rest

A Little More

2009-02-16T18:10:00.000-08:00

Lying in your garden
with sun kissed toes,
we ignore your fathers
knuckle-to-glass talk
that neighbors could see us
tucked behind orange snapdragons
in a splashed white barrel mounted
to hide fingers that flutter
from time to time,
enjoying the grass pressed
against our skin,
not knowing we'd scratch
till the sun decided
we were ready for more

Indifferent

2009-02-10T12:59:00.000-08:00

interjection weeps beyond
endless curls of sugarcane hair
dripping rubies from lips less
attractive than shadows playing
games with oaks
that want more from
farm apples picked or
discarded for a purpose less
foul and free

fortune teller plays roulette

2009-02-08T17:52:00.000-08:00

I type,
I delete.
Type I
Delete U

Gorilla

2009-02-03T18:45:00.000-08:00

Wishing you were my backyard

Somethings

2009-02-03T14:17:00.000-08:00

Somethings

crack the applause and drain
letters mismatched by chance
they catch flame in the glow of a glass half full-
half emptied by the smile lacking a confident
tongue that meets the stamp of our approval
to dance across merlot lips
cutting corners off emerald buttons
shaped like ice cubes slipping from puddles
of ecstasy and cherished items adrift
in the palm of the sky
cupping the bond between the fire
and the fly

reshaping old fiction

2009-02-02T16:30:00.000-08:00

City Streets

She tells me how she hates her feet but obsesses over her lips; how they make the boys feel. Talking of city streets and her allergen to soil, my eyes shift south to watch rain pierce through cotton. Taxi's steamed from over indulged conversations that lack conflict and passion, we might be okay after all. Speaking words of desire laced in sexual frustration, her fingers tap formations across my chest, welcoming me to a foreign land. Welcoming me to a foreign body.

Canary

2009-01-26T12:41:00.001-08:00

I came upon a Canary
tarred and feathered with blotches
of golden trimmed breasts
puffed out in a rhythmic inhale
trying hard to mimic the crows
callused stature tongue
bouncing off lustful eyes
with obedient feet
and a two sided mind

Process of Revision

2009-01-26T12:39:00.001-08:00

Restrictive

Elegant cuisines lay flat amongst the blue trimmed porcelain plates topped with creamy goat cheese polenta. Pork tenderloin bathes in a zinfandel glaze, sprinkled with bits of sage that purify the sweet aroma of cremini mushrooms. To disassemble such genius would be nothing less than destruction of property. I watch as the knife glides through with ease, teasing me with every forward and backwards motion. The fork piles on a heaping amount of polenta as it pierces through the tenderloin. Soaking in the sweet glaze for a few seconds before the tongue is allowed to enjoy true satisfaction, I feel the growl intensify. Lips tremble as clouds of heat exit the mouth, chewing frantically to avoid the roof from burning. One quick swallow would do the trick, ending the dissatisfaction of not waiting for the food to cool down. Hands grasp the chilled glass of water, forcing any reminisce of flavor down the throat.

“How did it taste?” I ask, watching her wipe the salvia from the corner of her bird-shaped lips.

“Hot,” she said taking another sip of water.

“Maybe next time let it cool down first, then you can enjoy it.”

She gives me a beautiful sarcastic smile with her washboard teeth. I peer down at the delectable baby purple artichoke salad in front of me. In hopes of finding a luscious piece of meat hiding beneath the mounds of arugula and fennel, I slosh through the vinaigrette only to come up shy.

“You searching for gold?” she says with a mouth full of food, as the smell of pulverized goat cheese seeps from her mouth.

I imagine myself slicing through an oak-fired filet of beef. I replace the herb vinaigrette with clamshell mushrooms coated in a teriyaki barbecue sauce. As the fork nestles along my tongue, my senses do not budge an inch.

“How’s your salad?”

Swallowing quickly to wash away the bitter taste of dressing, I wipe my mouth.

“Tastes like a salad.”

The bubbles within the scantron scramble across the page. My right leg violently moves up and down, causing continuous friction between my once jet black pair of sweatpants. I use my long sleeve to prevent sweat from dripping into my eyes as I examine my classmates. They all appear pretty collected, but I can’t focus on their success for too long or I’ll pop. Gripping the pencil tighter I loose the rhythm in my right leg. The clock taunts bath-room with each tick. Melinda’s pencil taps bath-room. Allen’s asthmatic breathing, bath-room. I think to myself, “Only forty-nine more to go you can hold it.” My eyes glance quickly over the questions and even faster over the answers. Ms. Matthews’ pacing makes me nervous. Back and forth she inches between our desks, peeking over our shoulders to check on our progress. She taps me on the shoulder.

“Nicholas, you only have half an hour left,” she says slightly above a whisper.

I smile as she makes her way down the aisle. Her quarter inch heels, bath-room. A sudden jolt rumbles within my lower intestines. “Only twenty-seven left to go,” I think to myself. But here goes Allen again wheezing. Ms Matthews begins pacing faster and more furious. The purple vein I named Henk appears above her right bushy brow. If Melinda doesn’t stop tapping that pencil I’m going to break it and tell her she was adopted. Even Henk is pulsating, bath-room. I throw my head into my hands. I just need silence.

“Pencils down.”

I stare down at my scantron to see twenty-three of the fifty bubbles filled in. Don’t know how I’m going to explain this one to mom and dad. I rush to the front of the class with my arms outstretched.

Straightening the papers she asks, “What do you need?”

“A bath-room.”

She looks good when she sleeps. Her head nuzzled close to pillows, subconsciously stealing all the covers, which she’ll argue tomorrow morning that I was indeed the thief. A routine Friday night movie in bed gradually turns into a routine weekend like a viral infection.

“We should be out doing something,” I say.

She sleeps.

“Am I holding us back?”

She sleeps.

I roll onto my back, staring blankly at the ceiling. The heater mutters gentle lullabies as I try to fight routines.

“No. We should go out. Go and see a movie or something”

She sleeps.

My eyelids are pinned open, but I feel something.

“You know that feeling when you’re driving,” I say taking a deep breath, “that feeling when you get home, and you don’t know how you got there.”

She sleeps.

“I’m killing us-”

She awakes.

“Were you talking to me? What were you saying?” she asks barely half awake. I roll over to face the wall, burying myself under an abundant amount of covers.

“Nothing, you must have dreamt it.”

She rolls back over as I close my eyes, allowing routine to win me over once again.

To Whom It May Concern:

It feels like I’ve written you 673 times now, altering your genetalia in order to fit such a persistent personality. Still I cannot figure you out. You prefer a title less discrete, but I beg to differ. No matter the approach, you find a way to reshape your own character. I’ve forced my mind to be rid your torment, but have failed miserably. You do not deserve number 674, but I’m afraid that you will receive that letter soon. Till then I wish you well.

Yours truly,

Nick

As the aged leather begins to boil beneath the midday sun, the confinement of this automobile becomes more nauseating with each breath taken. Cracked windows supply momentary relief as my mind begins to wander. Unfamiliar pine trees remind me that I’m out of my element and away from civilization. My demeanor sways back and forth like the artificial pumpkin pie car freshener. The seatbelt tightens around my waist with each readjustment I make. I close my eyes and lean my chair back.

“You feeling all right?” she asks from the driver seat.

“Stomach is starting to hurt,” I say flicking the unlock button on and off.

“We’re almost there,” her voice shakes.

I know she’s lying. She knows I know she’s lying, but she’s just trying to take the edge off. I force myself to believe her. Rhythms and hymns begin to formulate in my mind, as I do my best to mimic the repetition with my thumbs.

The car veers off road along with the all too quick solitude I was creating.

“Grab the map,” she barks.

I keep my mouth shut, praying she isn’t thinking what I’m thinking. She punches numbers into her cell phone as my legs begin to shake uncontrollably. There goes that seatbelt again. There goes the pine tree’s reminding me I’m not home. There goes the reassuring beat that calmed my nerves once. I watch my sanity get sucked in with the locks on the car doors.

“Mom we have a problem,” she says.

Please don’t say it. Bread and water from here on out, I promise. Just don’t say-

“We’re lost.”

I scramble for a way out of my mind. My body begins to jostle in the constraints of a 2 inch piece of polyester. I notice the trees aren’t moving like they did before. My roots grow deep into the ground, enabling me of any form of movement.

“We need to keep moving,” I say fiddling with my fingertips.

“I’m not going anywhere until we know where we are.”

“We need to keep moving,” I say to myself, “or I’ll get stuck.”

To Whom It May Concern:

My hand cramps with each stroke of the pen, too afraid of letting go a thought that deserves more than the captivity of the mind. A thought that has afflicted characters on and off paper. I’ve grown tired of your fictional manipulation. You no longer contain my sympathy. You shall no longer rob me of a first kiss. No longer rob me of fresh air. No longer rob me of an idea. For I’ve unwritten you from my mind.

Yours truly,

#674

Wishful Thinking

2009-01-23T15:33:00.000-08:00

Working at the library on a Friday night gives me some time to do nothing. Here is an idea for something.

Wishful Thinking

Through foot play and bottled kisses
you ask of my name- what I've made of it
as I seal words of fruitlessness away,
shipped far from the concept of home,
dislodging the effort of compassion
for the echoes of silence.

2009-01-22T19:17:00.001-08:00

After an enticing night of treading water for ten minutes, I've come to realize I'm slightly out of shape and nauseated by the smell of chlorine. Six more weeks of self submerging in the depths of Oswego's swimming facility. Til then I wish the bacteria lurking amongst the walls and floor of the pool, farewell.

2009-01-22T10:26:00.000-08:00

shoveling til kingdom come

Postcards

2009-01-15T12:19:00.000-08:00

Round she goes

spinning neckties for daisy's

dropping men like empty postcards.

She counts the deck

dealing bulletproof

promises that are suited for mothers

with empty faces

holding letters of war.

Another round of gin

and she’s pointing at the ceiling

playing the loneliest game of tic-tac-toe

with ivory tiles covered in black fuzz.

Round she swirls the glass

searching for an imaginary man with thick

brownie fudge arms,

to carry her from what is,

to what could be-

a postcard sent to the wrong address.

Lightning Bug

2009-01-15T12:07:00.000-08:00

Flickering aimlessly under the midday sun.

Hiding behind the brush that cuts even the finest

grapes, a chance to catch lightning in a pickle

jar where raspberry jam and sweet bell peppers

still cling. Swatting the sky with clean strokes to

break course and capture a few resting

on the branch of a scarlet oak. Sealing the lid and make way

towards the river. Watch the current take lead and set sail,

natures handpicked lantern.

Reassure

2009-01-15T12:06:00.001-08:00

My gun works time and a half on holidays

resisting the recoil of a tremor pulse,

ignoring sleep as I slip my hand

underneath the divine beat of two hearts. Releasing the

trigger towards the bodies intersection

kicking

back

the notion of a memorable childhood when

racing tadpoles in mothers kitchen sink was

considered normal and dangling stuffed animals

from shoe laces and bazooka gum was legal.

My gun doesn’t care for

a lollipop love or a clean exit because

my gun can’t breathe.

Farewell

2009-01-15T11:58:00.001-08:00

I lick a maple tree

to find it tastes of lemon rinds and tumble weeds.

My face cringes to savor this abundant surprise

but the tree he mocks me “Would you care for another side?”

I lick a branch

to find it tastes of sadness and slab rock

but my lips do discard such an unusual reprise,

as the tree does giggle “Give it one last try.”

I lick a leaf

to find it taste of curtain fabric and cherry laurel.

I hear him laugh such a boisterous laugh “That’ll teach you to lick me.”

I pull a match from my back pocket

“What’s that you got there?” he asks.

I smile

“You’ll see.”