Pay attention to the cracks in the wall.
That piece of white paint peeling away,
Revealing the older, obsolete and forgotten surface.
Notice the trim,
Chipped away, defenseless against the sea of white from meeting the ceiling.
Water, taking its toll, forming waves,
Disturbances in a once perfect wall.
Pay attention to the detail on the floor.
A chamber of memories innocently
Revealing the life before.
Crimson reds and charcoal grays,
Flakes of the earth from outside,
All collectively displayed on the carpet.
Pay attention to the room,
A seemingly old, desperate abode.
Attention to the detail,
To the marks made by man and time,
Reveal the definition by which some call home.
Home is Not Where the Heart is
Helping a friend, that's what I was doing
Because I thought that's what good people did.
It was late,
A waning moon illuminated my once recognizable surroundings.
The porch light defined an unfamiliar place.
A few reassuring words exchanged.
I pushed my limits to make sure he was happy.
It was 12:15,
And a phone call,
A simple 5 minute exchange of technological thought
Was enough to make me believe.
One small error,
A miscalculation, misunderstanding, misguided intention.
I was not good enough anymore.
Felix Gonzalez-Torres, Untitled
At first glance one would see
A heap of brightly colored cellophane,
With assorted colors and assorted tastes,
A childhood desire,
Or a memoir of happier moments.
Take one if you want.
Enjoy candy from an everlasting pile.
At a second glance one might see
Love and loss,
Temporary but immortal.
Sickness, detrimental to weight,
Just like the diminishing pile of candy.
Take one if you want.
Celebrate the everlasting pile.
This poem is written about a painting entitled "Untitled" by artist Felix Gonzalez-Torres in his Los Angeles exhibition "Portrait of Ross in L.A."
I am the beginning.
I have come to take control.
I will take what is mine
and rid of the broken,
All that you know
will be extinguished.
Combust into flames, along
with the kingdom you terrorize.
I am the end.
I have come to take control,
to take what is mine.
To destroy this place of the sin,
the weak minded.
I am the end of your existence.
Ready for Pickup
Is it a human or a car? Is it a bird? A plane? A building, maybe even a landmark? Maybe it's a park, home to laughing children, scrapes, broken bones, tetanus. Or a parking lot for the angst-ridden teens. It could be a cemetery or a home where the heart is, where words are unheard and actions unnoticed. Is it an animal, a carnivorous monster? Something so terrifying it could send you into cardiac arrest without hesitation. Maybe it's responsibility, that heart-stopping anxiety that follows an incessant to-do list. Fear? Snakes, spiders, needles, oh my. Or something even worse. A grieving loss, failure, painful death, burning hell. Maybe it's just imagination turning your surroundings into everything that horrifies you. "It's just the wind," you say. "My mind's playing tricks on me," you say. Your sorry attempts at reassurance and comfort won't help you here. Whatever it is, a plane, a home, or even your backyard. It can be your biggest nightmare.