pomes

romantics

I look down on the hopeless
Romantics – with their necks
Outstretched so far into the
Clouds that it takes decades
Of delusion to knock them
Down; I look down on
Heaven, the notion that any-
One and everyone will find
A person, that every heart
Will see love; I look down on
The greens and blues, the
“Old days,” the presumption
That we, in the new age, are
Somehow defective – because
We, born from a new wave,
Are powerful and raw, the
Separation between man-
Made, hand-made, and god;
I look down on the planet
From a high and mighty horse,
That every heart will see love;
Because to see is not to keep, and
To keep is not to share, and
To love, and be loved in return,
Is remarkably rare.

-s.f.

pomes

sun again

A year ago,
I decided I wanted to be warm.
I decided
I’d save money, pack up, and move –
Maybe in a year or two –
Somewhere warm.
A place where the snow and beaded lights
Can’t suffocate my mind
And take me back –

I won’t go back.

I lost $300.
Another $20 on a train.
I sat in my car with soft music playing
And watched the midnight hour consume
Whatever was left of my childhood
Outside the church I grew up in.
(My body would burn if I went in.)

I don’t remember snow,
But there were lights
That danced in my head like dynamite
Until the final glimpse of my self-awareness
Exploded
And I went home.
I don’t remember snow,
But I remember feeling cold
And, by choice, alone.

I won’t go back.

I fear the falling of leaves
Like feathery toxic things,
Pretty in the air and on the ground,
Pretty in the sky –
But only for a moment,
Til they brown and dry
And layer upon layer
On the summer in my mind;

And it dies,
And I die,
And so do the crickets at night;
So do the cicadas and butterflies –
No more open-window lullabies –
And I am,
By force,
Alone.

And I won’t go back.

I will build a home of sun-beams and moss;
A fortress of pillows and sheets,
Soft things,
Instruments with strings,
Maybe sand and terrycloth –

Maybe I’ll build something bigger
Than what I was.
And maybe my problems will follow,
But I will be ready
When the chemical pool in my head erupts,
I will fight it
With kind words and sun –

Again and again.
Until it stops.

And I will be warm.
And I will not go back.

-s.f.

pomes

rupture, rinse, repeat

I thrive upon routine;
Rupture, die, rinse, repeat;
No night is complete without
Honey-lavender leaves
Dried, boiled, steeped at my bed side.
I desire stability;
I desire my own warmth at night,
My own skin, my own breaths,
My own arms tucked tight around me.
I am
The only one
I know with all certainty
Will never abandon me by morning.
I wake up with the sun and cleanse thoroughly
Whatever ails I fought the night before;
I am always fighting.
I crave routine and the sounds of summer,
The softness of winter,
My worn, steady hand –
“You can’t make me sad
Because I already am.”

-s.f.

pomes

Poem on a Plane

Between the grids of glitter on a pitch-black slate,
Between the intermittent flickers of yellow, gold, and gray –
Somewhere,
Between and behind,

It feels like a dream.
It feels like a lie.

But I could push myself against the glass
And see every inch of endless blue tarp,
Breathe the palm grass,
Feel that white-hot splinter,

In like a whirlwind and out like a whisper,

I float with thoughts of not being human.
I didn’t make this hell,
But still I walk through it.
If I could bury my body in the sand
And stare up at the clouds all my life,
I would.

But is to do no harm to do no good?

There were days of feeling happy
Before this pitch-black sky,
But it feels like a dream.
It feels like a lie.

-s.f.

pomes

Day by Day

If I didn’t hate, hate, hate,
What would I have to love?
If I didn’t go day by day
In situations I don’t want,
Then how would I make myself
Into something else
Better than what I was.

If I didn’t move so slow,
Maybe I’d catch a train
To somewhere wonderful –
And I’ll keep running away
Until I feel nothing,
Day by day.

I make homes out of bed sheets,
Lovers and small things,
Like the way that the birds sing
In the afternoon.
And if I keep living this way,
Day by day,
I will wash away

And drown.

Day by day, I hate hate hate
The gray in the mornings
And the traffic after 3;
Day by day, I will complain
And not change a thing.

And day by day, I will die this way,
Mundane and drunk,
Completely bottled up,
Living paycheck to paycheck,
In debt and on the cusp
Of a breakdown,
Any minute now,
I’m going to blow up – –

But day by day I spend with you,
I feel okay when I’m with you.
I hate, hate, hate,
A little less when I’m with you.

-s.f.

pomes

Piston

Are you teething on your own skin?
Swallowed up by the littlest things?
Sewn together with small pins
In all the places where light would’ve been?

Everybody’s running, but we don’t know what from –
Could be a rich man or a gun
Or something bigger than us;
Are you just another piston?
Are you just another piston?

People love talking like they can’t see,
Love spewing venom on everyone’s beliefs;
Who do we blame when we’re all screaming
“It’s not me, not me, it’s society!”

I made up my mind about it when I was young;
I’m not gonna run in circles while the world’s blowing up,
Like I’m just another piston,
Like I’m just another piston.

The taste of metal in my mouth,
I’m in charge of when it all comes down.

All it takes is a small break
All it takes is a
Small thing.

Quality is never built to last;
So are you really living
If you aren’t living fast?

-s.f.

pomes

Alive, Empty, Fine

Morning’s are gray.
Morning’s are brushing against skin by accident,
Staying a little longer –
Just a few moments longer –
Until the gray turns blue
And the blue turns black
And the black is

All in my head.

I can’t say there aren’t mornings
I wish I were dead,
Or maybe just injured
Or silenced;
More often,
I wish my thoughts weren’t so violent.
All too often I wake with these thoughts –
Moreso, it’s the feeling of needing to

Pause.

Push a button in plastic and feel fine;
Re-evaluate the hard parts,
Put ice on the burn marks,
Feel fine.

Aren’t I?

Am I not a whole body?
Maybe only half a mind,
But am I not a somebody?

Am I not alive?

Mornings are gray,
Brief, freckled, soft and quiet.

Am I not alive,
Empty and fine?

pomes

On adulthood;

I think we’re all just children
in big-kid shoes,
holding cigarettes and bottles of booze,
all just fumbling around like drunken lovers –
groping around at whatever hand reaches back to us.
I think we’re all just
children in button-ups and ties,
high-heels and bedroom eyes –
What are bedroom eyes?
Do any of us know
what we’re doing here,
are we all just dying painfully slow, or
is there something I’m missing?
Have I done something wrong?
When they passed out the manuals in high school,
Was I sick at home?

I’ve never felt so incompetent,

so feeble and raw,

like how a baby teethes on her chewed up thumb;
we cause pain to relieve it.
We become addicted.
And it’s all downhill from there.
We’re in slacks and ties and we’re crying,
Crazy in our bedrooms,
Crying bullets from our eyes –

Because you are never an adult;
Just a sad, grown-up child.

-s.f.