Night Fishing by Nicole Barth [4/22/11]

If I could fish the light

out of the ocean, I would.

Bury myself into the watery abyss

of shimmering fish scales and momentary silence.

I'd invite you to dance along the fossilized fish hooks

—paralyzed with their anticipation—

and sink beneath your iron expectations.

Your gluttony for all that you think you know...

The cemented castles of your belief looming high above you:

leave them rotting along the pavement

as your lungs fill with the impregnated salt water.

Let your water-color memories bleed

into the obsidian of the night.

Exhale your toxic dreams.

*inspired by "Night Fishing at Antibes" by Pablo Picasso

#?!%!! by Nicole Barth [4/21/11]

The Plague of first period lecturing

barreled on ad infinitum—like Protestant Fathers

in the years of 666.

Surely, we were experiencing the Hell

the Londoners believed in,

sitting in this puerile classroom

with the heater on full blast.

The—last thing I want to be learning about.

Great—is my need to stain this bleached dress of mine with true soil; with Missouri mud.

Fire—whoever decided to chain me to this chipping desk so early in the morning.

1666—reasons why I don't want to be here.

Pinched the nerve between my tolerance and sanity

as he did/could/will shove another unwanted dose

of syntax and single verb conjugations

down my throat.

Bleed the pen dry.

Punch the patience out of you.

Layer upon layer of typed brushstrokes:

Edit. Delete. Destroy.

Blank canvas: new document.

Zero willpower.

Train car epiphany.

I have orphaned the

hectically sketched optimism

—thriving within the tea-stained pages—

in the abyss of

blackboards and deadlines.

Strike two. 

I'd Make You Beautiful by Nicole Barth [4/13/11]

Oh, I could paint you grey,

for all the promises we've made.

I could paint you clear

'cause you're still lovely to me.

You're scattered between the field of clovers,

near the rifles we burried long ago.

I could paint you red,

to show you how your syllables

course through me.

I could paint you gold—malleable laughter.

And all the things we talked about,

farther and glistening

with miles of concrete in between.

Or I could paint you imperfectly,

with the fear in your eyes.

I could paint you clear.

It's not very colorful,

but you're still lovely to me.  

EAST and WEST by Nicole Barth [4/4/11]

Choking on my own key strokes,

I can feel you lingering between

every stanza as the memory

of you washes over me.

Where do you think you're going with my heart?

I thought I'd successfully disposed of this seasick feeling.

You've got me oscilatting like a pendelum

as I sway between denial and a tarnished need.

But you're more than...more than.

The mellifluous tone of your voice

—like vapor—finds it's way into

the caverns of my mind.

So maybe I'm stuck in a world of

scarlet gowns and second chances,

but your midnight confessions

leave me catching the breath that rattles in my chest.

Oh, and these ink stained pages will tell me otherwise.

But I'll dig my feet into this upward slope

until the panicked fingers of uncertainty release their grip.

LOVE (noun):

 A million paper cuts aligned in

perfect formation—like blinded soldiers.

They'll tell you it means unmade bedsheets,

laugh lines that have etched

a home in your face—

grinning silence.

But love is just a responsibility.  

*written on [3/3/11]

14,800 by Nicole Barth [2/21/11]

You are that diary entry—

written in a frantic scrawl,

you are those tattered pages

that have been dog-eared,

twisted in every which way.

I've run my trembling finger over

the well-known lines.

The broken spine,

the lop-sided angle

you've decided to balance on. 

And every memory,

every soliloquy and

every good for nothing sketch,

all the ink that's been shed...

Every key beaten into submission.

Demanded—expected creativity.

An ocean howling

the could have beens,

the should have beens

—and murmuring my name.  

The Spiral Staircase by Nicole Barth [1/12/11]

I am the leaping embers

from the simmering coal

beneath the slats,

The curve in your spine—

the slouch in your shoulders.

I'm the lingering burn

that trickles down your throat,

into your chest cavity,

before the vodka caresses

your lungs.

I can't be the down

that floats across

your skin.

I won't be

the lullaby that whispers

in your ear.

Because the minute you've

seen the silver you are bathed in

is the minute

you won't need me

anymore.