Raggedy Ann

there is the moment

when the other shadow

slips too close

the legs quickens their pace

left right left right left right

breathe in.

hold.

glance

leftrightleftrightleftright

all the while

streetlights tower like

dead jack-o-lanterns

chanting mantras

don’t look back

shadows converge

strong hands circle the neck

the body

jerks, strains, finally folds

a rag doll with closed hands

and a stitched mouth…

she hurls screams

into blackness

but her mouth betrays her

the stitches hold

and her eyes will not close

there is picture but no sound;

movement but no chorus

frantically she bucks her straw hips

to dislodge the dead weight

that suffocates her

but there is only the

whiplash of bone

cutting through silence

all that is left

is the ringing;

the reverberations

from the pavement

echoing

“you bitches are all the same.”

her second mouth

a single scar

that wrecks her swan posture

a second mouth

that screams redemption

to the city gutter

that swallowed her blood like rain

while she waited

to finally sleep

without shaking and cutting her teeth

he carved her a smile

for the ones she had missed

while she was waiting

for winter to pass

and the sidewalk to finally give in

he carved her a smile

so she could no longer speak

her tears mixed with iron

and the city's cold shoulder gave way

her hands flailing openclose like a fishmouth

where are the women of Dan

with their swords

to fight this plague of locusts?

where is the rising

like air ?

her feet are dancing death

no sword in her mouth

the air mocks her grasp

and night falls hard and terrible

her second mouth

gapes open like a cavern

her second smile

seeps through the cracks

he pounds her skin into pavement

and the city, it keeps, it keeps.

EAC © 2010

Your Hands

your hands erase me

the acrylic stillness of your fingertips

pocketing pieces of my flesh--

a fitting offering for the red want

that floods my veins

you watch painstakingly

as i disappear where my ends meet

where the yearning suffocates

and sizzles like an open wire

in the grey weary night

i have become empty and estranged

uncloaked and unkempt

clinging to the walls

that soothe the edges

and swallow me whole

hold me phantom

a little while longer

EAC © 2010

how it feels...

i can feel it coming now that i am older. slow and pulsating. creeping and suffocating. i can brace myself for the impact. place my hand over my heart and count the beats like a fated metronome. when i was smaller, it would hit me unannounced, hurling me into blackness. the buzzing in my ears would drown out all sound. i would bury my face into my palms, wet with tears. my hot breath moving across the valleys of my hands, the only thing letting me know i was still alive.

now my skin starts to hurt, and i always fear that this is the moment when i have finally become untouchable. i feel the blackness seeping into my lungs, making it hard to breathe. i feel the tar forming underneath my feet, making it hard to move. i feel my heartbeat in my head, trumpeting the static that crackles and screams, making it hard to think or speak. the ghosts get restless and the sheets scrape at my skin. i long for hands that are not my own. words that will soothe the wounds. i try to erase myself and redraw the lines, but my hand shakes and the lines are charged and raw.

when i was smaller, i would climb the trellis on the back porch to the roof where i would lie staring at the sky for hours, waiting for the blackness to leave...inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, hoping that the wind would fill my lungs with air that didn't taste like acid. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. i would trace words into the roof tiles until my skin bled like some ancient ritual to appease the gods. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, amen.

i can feel it coming now that i am older. i brace myself for the impact.

the photo

there is a photo of you and i. i am small. my knees curled to my stomach. my face, covered, resting on my hands. mom said that is how i must have slept in the womb, already protecting myself from violence unseen. you are asleep, stretched out, taking up space. i curl up trying to disappear.

you are asleep and i am wide awake, a thin grimace on my face. there is a small distance between us, and i will not cross it, because i don't want to be touched by you. everything in that picture is lifeless. except the sheets--they are only thing filled with color. i still have them. they still smell like that house.

i drove by it once, slowing at the driveway, staring at the oak tree in the front yard, the sloping branches where i would hide, curled up in the womb of the tree waiting for it to pass. there are only a few pictures of us, only one where i am smiling. you rarely smiled. you collected things that were beautiful and tried to keep them still and untouched. sometimes, i think, i am still waiting for it to pass.

the dance

i have been unable

to look you in the eyes

since he disappeared

in smoke and ash

since the phone call came

and i wept on the sidewalk

until morning

and now

you are here

your eyes

filled with the same

lackluster performance

and the heated effort

to push it back

drown out

the way he used to laugh

with a drink

drown out

the songs that he sang

with a dance

i would never say it

of course

that he is there

reflected in your pupils

like i know he is in mine

i only move in

holding you up

my hand against your back

you mistake my touch

for something closer

to the performance

a lie

a fake gesture

i only wanted

to say

it's okay

to break

so you can break

the dance continues

we fight the reflection

my hand never leaves your back.

EC © 2005

I Know How.

i don't mind being alone. i'm comforted by silence and the sound of my feet shuffling across the hardwood floors. i know how to be alone. i grew up alone, huddled around books and papers, murmuring to stuffed animals to drown out louder, hostile voices i was too young to hear. i know how to be alone, but there are days...days when the silence is too loud and my hands are clumsy and incapable.

i'll slip into a dress, revel in the fabric as it brushes past my hips, sits calmly on my waist. i slowly slip my arms through the open spaces, working my hands down to the start of the zipper. at a certain point i can go no further. i wrench and turn, grimace and twist. just a few more inches and i would be complete, but i can't cross the distance of my back. i sit on the edge of the bed in frustration, finally ripping the dress off, cursing as i rustle through drawers, kicking shoes across the floor, and stomping indignation into the floorboards.

i don't mind being alone. i know how to be alone. i have thrown away all the dresses.

3 AM

3 a.m. phone calls

cutting through silence

the jagged edges

where i used to tell you about my dreams,

nightscapes of thrashing nightmares

crashing through my sleepwalk sleeping

soft and low i could hear you breathing

as i raged and stormed

sketching my death monsters in the air

static live wires,

you received them

held them in your hand

weighed them

let them drop

massive and writhing

on the floor

i think it scared you,

the pretty girl with the ugly dreams

startled and shaking

i would call just to see

if you were still breathing

all i could see

coming out of my pillows

was blood and bone

i had a dream.

who died.

everyone. all the time,

i howled until the line went quiet.

i still wake

swimming under the covers

the slow pulsating sickness

trapped in sleep moving pictures

i reach for the phone

wanting to unleash them

into the earlynightmorning

but there is no number

to dial anymore

ariel

ariel is with me now

her laughter rattles my bones

her black stench stretches in my lungs

cellophane goddess of inspiration

languidly draped over my face

sticking to my mouth

her asphyxiation grip

her airtight embrace

stasis where i strain

she says she knew you

the woman with the pen

the fat pen held in your head hands

she says to tell you

you did not let her stay her welcome

she hauls me through air

red haired and clawing my nights

you had lady lazarus mistaken

they are both red in their intent

there is no white godiva

only lioness and cannibal

knocking on my mind's eye

i can see her through the keyhole

eyes afire and teeth stretched wide

i tremble in my cobweb corner

scratching the walls

and murmuring incantations

i have no calling

i still own my skin

but she is the beekeeper you know

she is both the honey and the hive

she will devour me

into the shadows,

the cauldron of mourning

her whisperings

made you bleed words

made you inhale your death

suffocating on the world

she helped you construct

out of paper and blood

and i can feel her diamond eyes

cutting my veins

bleeding me onto the page

tell her

i have no calling

tell her

i still own my skin

the painting

the acrylic sheen

begins to fade

sharp strokes

of purple

royal and loud

sweep beneath

the eyes

gray lines

stenciled at the corners

of the mouth

the hand

pauses and shakes

the brush

falters and drops

the muddled water

from an overturned glass

runs down the face

finely

she becomes unintelligible

finally

she is broken

a swirling pool

of the abstract

picasso's dream,

her mother's

latest nightmare

in pieces

she smiles

in dark cracks

of time

she rages...

Stream of Consciousness.

i've got flowers underneath my fingernails. and i was wondering when you were coming home, love. the floorboards creek and shift when i'm not looking. i painted the walls blue so i could sleep. my skin is plastered with ghosts that i can't shake. embedded fingerprints and gaping word wounds that burn when my eyes flutter half dead sleep. the mattress has a valley where my body rests less. and i was wondering when you were coming home, love. yesterday was one of those days where i couldn't breathe and i could feel my heartbeat in my hands. i moved my feet but held my tongue. i scribbled on the walls and waited for it to pass. i wanted to deconstruct my thoughts like a shattered oedipus. artifacts for the museum. but the static was too loud. and i was wondering when you were coming home, love.

Dreamscapes

dreamscapes haunt walking hours

shadowing my footsteps

rolling like fog in my breath

white and wounded

fragmented ghosts

that paint the skin behind my eyelids

bodies that hang from rafters

fish mouths gaping

arms flailing over the frayed noose

hospital doors

and the wave of dread

radiating from the exit sign

bullet holes and shattered glass

dummy bodies on the floor

toes sticky with blood

the woman with the broken face

the smiling neck stitched and raw

waking to sleep

with scratches that span my fingers

searching for who is not there

who is missing from the side.

insomnia 4

my eyes spiderweb red. i rub them raw with my knuckles. the tv is too loud but not loud enough to drown out the radio stations in my head. i press my cheek to the glass of the windowpane. it is cool against my flushed skin. the blackness comforts. all the other houses are dark. everyone is asleep except for me. everyone is still and i am a fine frenzy of nerves. i tear off my shirt because it grates against my skin. the ceiling cracks have grown bigger. they are starting to peel and flake. i try to slow my breathing, close my eyes, keep motionless, but this is all a big charade. i am simply falling awake.

susie sits

susie sits

in her cramped apartment

on rock haven street

watching the door

with shifting eyes

she pulls at her clothes

waiting for the knock

that comes everyday

busy B with her

twitching hands

and greasy hair

her Cheshire smile

just one hour

just one hit

just one fuck

money in your hand

love out of pocket

oh susie q.

busy B coaxes

we love you

susie stares

at her fingers

picked and raw

blood that runs wrong

always at

Home

In her

Veins

oh susie q.

busy B coaxes

we know you

susie reads

the tv too loud

flipping pages too fast

the words blur

and disappear

her foot taps relentlessly

on the dirty carpet

footsteps cause

her to shudder

the monsters have moved

from underneath the bed

to her front door

oh susie q.

busy B screams

we've got you...

Ritual

the prayer flags burn to ashes

curling to the floor at my bound feet

i have rubbed the buddha raw

to rid the smell of you from my hair

i have prayed for peace

stared at my plastic hands stitched together

gripped my alien legs and begged for release

i have turned the wheel

cracked the mirror in the lion's mouth

eaten the paper caked with honey

but i still taste your skin

exhale, amen, leave me

i can't welcome no one in

dissipate now you holy ghost

you whisper memories like restless chants

sink into my kingly walls

like the incense smoke above the mantle

let something else hold you at bay

a eucharist of teeth and nails and bones

allow me to pray

you away.

Sometime Soon

i'm hoping to turn beautiful

sometime soon

waking to stretch

and all the lines of my body

make sense

and the sheets don't fight me

to sleep

tangled and unkempt

i unfurl myself.

i'm hoping to breathe deeper

sometime soon

and not choke

on the regrets lies and bones

i stored for when

the blackness wasn't

black enough

dirty and sullen

i fall prostrate.

i'm hoping to blur at the lines

sometime soon

i was always a little

sharp around the edges

black and blue

and yet you still see

through

me

ragged and fading

i call on clarity.

Summer

the heat seeps

out of the pavement

in long whisps

stealing the air

from my lungs

the city suffocates

and i shuffle

to the mailbox

kicking magnolia leaves

peering inside

for love letters

that never come

the tomatoes

at the farmer’s market

smell sour and earthy

but i’m still

rifling through

dirty clothes

trying to capture

what’s left of your

skin on my shirts

i sit on benches

drinking beer

sweat dripping

down the backs

of my thighs

desperate to remember

anything at all

the sun sets angry red

over the downtown skyline

the buildings are

ugly and fragmented

and i miss

the curve of your back

the construction site

where no one ever works

gapes like hades

in the humid night

i kick cones

and throw rocks

no one sees

me anymore

i can wonder

all night along

the railroad tracks

but it won’t make

the phone ring.

you and i

bloody knees
crawl concrete
rock specks
sparkle red
in the skin
this merry-go-round
turns again
you and i
do this dance
quite well
my friend
you standing
tall
me on the
ground
and no one
can tell
if you feel
anything
at all.

Like Paper

i am on the verge of tearstains

i am setting up house inside my head

a little house made of

books and words and blood memories

where i sit inside

slowly rocking myself sane

and you will never know

because i will walk and talk

my eyes will still glitter

like a bittersweet marionette

ill make all the right gestures

but this is a play i have already written

and you are playing your part

to perfection

acting like my voice doesn't waver

0r my expression doesn't slip

out of your fingertips

i just watch from inside

carving ruins onto my arms

i tried drinking the bar down

i tried folding myself into

someone else's skin

like the foolish man

who built his house on sinking sand

and on street corners lips mimic

these are the best times of your life

but my life feels too old

like i've been walking in this tar patch

longer than my life line stretches

my bones crack 

and the trees whisper secrets

that leave me winded

no one can coax me out now

my skin becomes paper

my veins the pen

ill bind myself up

nice and neat

writing the epilogue into skin.

True Story 4

i was a child and you were a child.  we used to hold hands in the hallway because it was what everyone did.  i thought i was a woman trapped in a girl's body so i would smoke cigarettes after school and kiss you in the woods on the weekends.  you were just my type--breaking all the rules and pretending to be someone who you were not.  my mother didn't approve and so i just held your hand tighter. i knew there was something else behind the baggy pants, drugs, and bravado--like the things you would whisper over the phone late at night. you told me about it once--finding your brother that day--gun on the floor and blood on the walls.  the house had been too silent, like death, and climbing the stairs was like wading through quicksand. there he was.  but it wasn't him at all, just a rag doll limp on the floor.  and then there was the waiting.  waiting for the proper people to come to take statements, to snap photos, to make it disappear.  and then there was the waiting.  waiting for the world to feel right again, to stop hurting, to stop crying, to make it disappear.  so i just held your hand tighter.