Untitled by Nicole Barth [11/24/10]

Feel your ribcage rise as you immerse yourself

into the dancing keystrokes of the piano,

as your fingertips trace the curvature of the violin.

Its wooden spine shudders as you coax the secrets from its varnish.

Your blackened eyes will snap shut

as the laments of the violin are heard

over the opinionated rumbling of syncopated drums.

Find your God within the conspiring voices of the guitar.

Feel the warm breath of nights gone by on your frigid skin.

This song has seen your nightmares, floating like demonic marionettes

clinging to cat gut strings.

There, mingling with the dirt under your fingernails—

the reason why the pulsing veins in the conductor's hands

forces you back down into the grooves of your chair.

Can you immobilize yourself—your palms facing the unrelenting rain—

as the moth-eaten edges of your memories shrivel under the sun?

Do you hear the distant echoes of your regrets in the low thrumming of a drum?

The beat marches its way toward your restless lips

as they claw for meaning within the empty void of each breath you've taken.

Your insomnia is chasing you underground.

The promises you made were not enough.

Where is your God?

*inspired by "Hurricane" by 30 Seconds to Mars

Wishful Thinking by Nicole Barth [11/19/10]

And if I was stronger, I could up and go.

But here I am, and here we go again

as my my mind wanders off to you,

sitting like a shadow beside you as

your hands float over the polished oldsmobile

for the next hour.

And baby, you've got the sort of hands

that could pull me closer to you,

gently wrapping me into the steady rhythm

of your breaths;

the sludge of spluttering cars

and chuckles tucked neatly into your back pocket.

And I wouldn't care if I danced with you

dressed in a gown drenched in diamonds

or fleece pajamas.

An ancient radio and a single light bulb or

a chandelier and orchestra wouldn't make a difference.

And, baby, I can see the amber, the emerald and maple leaves

that trickle down through the air in each gust of wind
every time you catch me staring at you.

And I can picture the fresh cut grass beneath your palms in the spring.

I could take you there, you know.

And if I was stronger, I'd hum about something else.

I'd walk down the cobblestone road, sketchbook in hand.

But here I am, and here we go again.

**Inspired by “Sort Of” by Ingrid Michaelson

Tender Tattoo by Nicole Barth [11/18/10]

As always, your ivory ear buds peaked out of your

dark wash jeans as I shuffled through

the semi-conscious morning commuters.

That familiar quiescent attitude and waft of fresh laundry surrounded me.

The down of my silver jacket brushed up against your

olivaster sweater as I sat down next to you, noticing

your chestnut eyes float over to me.

The satin voice of

a familiar serenade temporarily

paused on your iPod.

My thoughts stuttered behind my lips

as I caught you glancing at me—that crooked smile and

charcoal hair of yours added a boyish charm to you.

The little schoolgirl in me couldn't help but giggle

as you shook your head like a reluctant toddler, determined

not to speak a word of English today—just like every other day.

You won't believe me, but your Spanish accent is adorable.

Yes, adorable...

And don't think I'm trying to make you any less manly.

Your use of smiles as adjectives and verb tenses was better

than having an immaculate conversation.

A sleepy silence washed over the two of us

as the train conductor carted us off to our destinations.

But I noticed something I suppose I had overlooked for

about a year now.

Clearly etched in ink,

on the tender part of your left hand

was an “R.I.”

Delicate fingertips traced its

contours.

Like a child's scrawled handwriting,

the imperfection of the capital letters

weaved themselves into the patchwork of a complex memory.

I suppose the question was written on my lips,

seeing as you told me it hurt quite a bit when you had it done.

A stupid idea, you explained.

I could never sit through one.

A train-car confession; I'm squeamish.

A shrug, a sigh, a smirk.

Oh, there was so much blood,

just gushing...Everywhere! You know how it is.

And the needles were like serrated knives,

piercing your skin over and over again,

you teased.

And then it happened.

I squeezed your hand,

shushing you anxiously

as the mental images of such a horror story

began to form.

You didn't let go.

On the contrary.

Your devilish grin widened

as you held my hand and

wrapped your arm around me.

Quédate conmigo.

“I don't need convincing.”

I was only waiting for this moment to arise.

Untitled by Nicole Barth [11/16/10]

The crows know your middle name

It's written in the ragdoll nun's veins

I, I see your face...always

Do it again...And I'll see you tomorrow

beneath the crumbling stone wall

where the piss and brine dance in lascivious secrecy,

clandestinely slithering through the backdoor of your illusory mind.

I, I see your face...always.

The syncopated rhythm of the ivory bones

keep time with your steps upon the frozen cheeks of your

old lovers.

Your tattered trench-coat runs its jagged

edges against the irriguous ground, licking

the bitter blades of grass as it passes by,

surreptitiously descending the hill which lies

between dripping thoughts and sandpaper skin.

You've got something to borrow

from the gaping fish's mouth

and the gnarled branches of

the oldest Oak tree

in the hollow banshee's garden.

The steel bucket laments against your white-knuckled grip;

your left hand sighs across the backs of opaque marionettes.

A warning shot is fired.

I, I see your face...always.

MONDAY MORNING by Nicole Barth [11/15/10]

If the mahogany cascade trickles down my back in the right way

and I end up planning my outfit the night before,

do you think I could will it to happen?

Could stretching my lungs until they

spontaneously combust as my shins begin to crack

on my way to the train station

will it to happen?

Or does he have to feel it churning in his gut

as he shrugs on his pitch black leather jacket

at six in the morning?

I wonder if the car grease

must choose to mingle

with his cereal bowl

so that the clock's arms

will align to our favor.

So that steel limousine can

push through the caliginosity

of its underground zip-line

and rope him into the same

container as me.

But today I'm guessing

the Spanish-speaking flirt that

reclines while bathed in sheets of silk

had plans for the the two of us.

Swirls of aged copper and lime peel

traced the contours of his burnt sienna eyes.

And I couldn't help it. Crimson paint coursed through

my veins and nestled into my cheeks.

The faint traces of after-shave and scented hair jell

wafted toward me as he sat down next to me,

slouching slightly in his customary cansado y relajado manner.

He yawned and slouched even more, but the smile that was slowly

tugging at the corner of his gentle lips told me all I needed to know.

Grogginess complicated verb conjugations in my mind as I stumbled

through Spanglitalianish in an effort to see him laugh.

The two of us were caught in a moment of silence,

eloquently cursing the perpetual Mondays in our heads

when he leaned against me.

And I could tell he wasn't about to blame it on

the man-shaped lard sitting next to him

or the jolting of the train car.

It didn't matter that speaking English

seemed like an impossible task to him this morning.

And it didn't matter that my vocabulary was muddled.

All I know is that the off-white tiles

of my stop could not have predicted this.

And no Monday morning has grinned this openly before.

“Quédate conmigo....No te vayas,” he murmured.