diametra

diametra, i wink for the less fortunate.
won't be formative but reserved: built on
the pretense that we are meant to be observed.
i can't handle your existence as leverage, i
call for the car, winning is breathing for me.
i'm against you and your teeth, intimacy teeth
fall sort upon the heavy security man, men who you
look back at me while possessing woman.
they each line up to become your spine
while hair grows on us everywhere. speak:
evidence to proof like cheese to mouse and
i am to hear you calling: pick me, mother
"won't you hold onto me in public?" resource
in the form of crossed fingers, shaken hands
in the way of the introduction that clogged up little
fragile, running on her voltage of not sure & what else

until we arrive

when you were a testament,
you made an example of
the fundamental crime of separation.

not separateness, the thing that
allows beauty. but separation, the action
which makes difference
partial enough to step on.

there being no real majority,
no real numbers other than zero
and one - i see as any. for in fact,
i forfeit my own eyes up to extend,
not simplify my vision,
and realize all sides that surround me.
we have manifested in one
infinite way.

there aren't enough titles,
we choose the same few:
lover, sister, child, mother.
we can associate, strictly, with the
single focus we have, the only scale
a scale of interpretted self,
and outside that could identify endlessly
until we became aware of
our same implications.

otherwise, we may move out
onto a watery earth of language,
speeches sending us into the absence,
and drift away
to where we say we mean to

holiday

tree against telephone pole
veins. the functioning systems
everywhere- streets as bones,
banks and courthouse organs--
we are the blood. i am made of you, too
but got used to the parasite. now we
all design for the message going back
and forth-and back going message
we've set it off spinning, we have less
definitions for real dialogue, talk like
twinkies for our health. most of the energy
we have manifesting a decision of lack.
which we are toppled within, which we become
thinner by, but still fat for the dinner
of the only powers we don't denounce-
and spoiling them, make them bad.
we are not sure if we are hungry,
we are not full until said so
and the city digests us to sleep

jesus's gold

wait a minute, Actress,
that's jesus's gold. whole world, pair of
hands, in one house a scrapbook filled with
copyrighted photos of barbie.
the barely naked ego
to fondle a hugging, five times
as much state of mind, eyes move toward
the invitation, the VIP trail toward
everybody's praying for change. remember
the time you were sober? when was that? it's
rounded up my skin across skin, dipped
in a burning fascinating height of why

bodymad

bodymad
in heavy machinery
if this is a time to endure then
i'm there, sprouting and talking
about it.

can't seem to make it count,
or can't make anything?
the only victory tossed up
between a little survival and a little
notoriety, integrity being invisible
against the opponent...

thanks but
i'm not taking anything...
can you call a fiend dedicated?
yes, i can but
neither of us can get up,
delirious within the symptoms

i only believe in death as much as i believe in time

which is only as much as i have to

to keep .. today intact, the pictures traveling as jewelry,

but the bright, thought of an aerial view too.

what do i know about calling myself a friend, a

real friend, when i don't know at all about

what to do when the news banner goes calling

It seems to come together, (time or placement together?),

the hungry taking opens and gives everybody

a taste. (you feel far away, i know. it's easy for me to

imagine solving it, the way i do when the pressure

hits. performance anxiety of perceiving a problem)

you said, play for keeps. and the pictures, boy do we

laugh well. i've got more lessons on the guilt of

showing up, being late, and i continue to learn

when. in a public place i feel most like you

and in the breaking down of all my certain realities

i learn that we're only beginning

any public place becomes a living thing

(not that i know the separation. that's for sure)

you can cut off an arm, both legs, even parts of the head

but not the heart? but not the heart.

you walk like you think, only more slowly. more silver.

i don't like when people walk fast.

when you die time stops counting you,

but we keep on doing it. stuck:

this is a private world. place that eats

up the whole word young and does nothing with it

anyway. we're the ones who need it,

so it's too busy to bother. waste-full (like us)

i'm the paper

i'm not
hung up you don't know me very well i don't get
hung up. i am very important to myself, and seem
to only be equally as important to others who are
hung up

we move exactly like the water. exactly
there is almost nothing it can't teach us if we
would first shut up, or make a joke
so everybody else will listen too

what if the beautiful woman hears a poem
coming to her on the ground, her throat
her body all cut up? there is no paper,
it comes to me

Uncle

we are going extinct. i wonder you, laid with eyes
rolled back in images on the cell phone screen.
the talk just keeps winding back up into its own ass,
and yes i was rude, though it seems to please people more
if i don't admit that right away. either way, we won't know
if you're scared or need our help, somebody is sitting with
you now she told me, the family that doesn't speak of itself
and all in all i can't blame you at all for what you didn't do.
after, and before that, i spit acid, always have,
you sit quietly at least. gets too close and i can't remember
to keep my legacy clean- maybe it comforts me to feel predestined for this.
i don't know why, that should be worse. i mean, the goodbyes are
unclear and the big picture is never the best motivation you know,
anything i focus on just cries when the machines
beep, my eyes turn them to stone, even if they're there
in front of me, and they are, looking fascinated, getting closer
to everything i fear comes out- things i'll never say up to next to
all the things i will- they have this phenomenon on not appearing real to me,
phone rings and the video stops, it all quickly stomps me out but
she opens and closes her body to the pain of it. her whole life
as your mother, the guilt that makes her climb walls, the way
she says i won't. maybe next time will tell us something
different, but for now the song goes on repeat and we're left here
blinking, home sitting ducks for each day later, blaming
the disease for knowing, the machine for saying so and
the hand we hold for keeping track

tjb

as much as it matters, it only remembers.
the making of a thing so brutal and priced.
i can only begin
as time yawns for us.
feels like one joke too many, or else
i'm in this fire with you.
i can't destroy anything useful,
or offend a fact.

i can only sit with one. my hand is,
and your accepting, always accepting.
the cat and his love, too. the car music
and the quiet cause we don't have to
know one another, but we do.

in this.
god, so dear in our tender,
and rifling tired through us. come a little
near. don't forget a thing. just forget
what we knew, only the new
impression of it will matter now.
don't let a clock stop unless its time does,
too. each one passing,
is literally the only one passing,
and each one just keeps on
passing through

for abby :)

there is a
wild wind of connection in you-
always considering your devotion
to the promise of creation we made
when we saw our selves a part of it.
medicine woman, pound the earth and make it
your own. reach out to the height
of ecstatic volts we are the living form of.
to be a woman, surround the light
and comfort the path in stone. color the sky
as it lays down the night, knowing
this whole world waits for no one
so we drink it in to save for watering.
what we grow will sustain this one nation,
all of us under the god within,
our healing hands open against the earth
and you show me, grinning, to
face the approaching rhythm we feel-
made of only the divine thing:
the love for what's inside,
and the longing to make it real.

the soft skin

how can it be so much about your body
your body
your body
dark leaves against the window and
the way i feel. it doesn't seem to anybody
but me a question to be a full, full answer.
i'm battling the same thing we all do,
adolescence, this giving up game. i know.
it's learning to love the cat knocking
the phone off the bed as much as anything else
we picture you as something outside,
but you're not. i picture you outside the
window, smiling. why is smiling not considered
talking. i laid my bed on you,
didn't think i'd have to wait so long. i didn't
know how much time there was in the world,
or all the thoughts i'd have to think before i could get
inside again. but i've learned to value the leaves
we're not stars, we just shaved our legs today
none of us know anything about being others.
we've drawn the middle in this, created our
time. it will divide you, and you will not doubt it then.
you will not wonder, because
we are not possibly any different.
therefore assume the same, inside instinct we just
follow our feeling, our fucking universal
contact. the fingers
your body
the soft skin
that is it.

caterpillar

tell me to come here, we share
the size of this. i'm noisy, you sound so
used to, charging a battery i know nothing of.

i may be subject to only my own -
my recession, my wardrobe, my dynamic.
my attempts at empathy- there is no mean
to that end. but i feel like i am a legend, a joke
that makes everyone seem to be a part
of something by knowing.

laughter matters at every level but only
when it measures what we know
about our selves. otherwise

i may not need to know you.
the caterpillar is exhausted, but that's not
a part of the story. and i do know the value
of this chapter: the changes i don't choose
to make, the real life foreshadowing itself

i wonder if i could even remember it all, every part
while obviously we are traveling time. the only thing
there is is a beginning and an end,
but those are the parts i know i won't remember. and this
is the best part. look, the part i remember
is always the best part

ass of her

i'm gooey, i'm forever twenty one,
calling to place a request from the pay phone.
back up the light booth with Just the right fit for
stalling. i walk in, high fiveless, to see
one of her sitting. she looks me feet first into
the room and says one thing,
which remains the traveling amen of what
i'm solving. sunburns, nights alone or aloud now,
with dinner exchanges and our charming truth or dare.
she wears the questions too, her lips the ass of her asking.
salute, smile with brows tight.
"what are you doing?"

weapon

you present your weapon,
it speaks only punctuation,
sigh here, dive there. your tiny body
surpassed. you project this apocalypse
of power, small gas station parking lot.
so many times the world ended---
we were floored. knife reflects light.
i know these are people, living things, despite.
we've all got cities, countries, pets.
my own paradise shifting away with
contact, the cold contents lost, smuggled.
no one is a thief just like no one is a
dead person but we all die. weapon,
weapon, weapon. where aren't you?
i can't hide, i could barely die.

bread crumb

an ode to the white and why me
play the planetary card -
a room full of chairs, and nobody.
there were clouds in a sky
a generation began new
the earth itself is not so far away and
we have slightly splurged our way here.
made toast of the bread crumb trail -
there were clouds in a sky.

the place sparkles

can we paint the place sparkles?
light for the universal reverend-
the gravity of giants fell against the loudness, blues,
in strings as the sound of flight, scales of ice
and the jazz chants toward the spirits of the
season. every thing on us is magic apparel, peach rain,
creating juice, a tea with one body. but not
one mind- what differs and makes us melon
choly- in the way of situations we're presented.
signals are searching for holes in our sky-
our great grand scape, a right of passage
for all that the lunar locked here. we are all effect-
can we paint the place sparkles now?
what dance do we do when it's done?

bliss

on my way to night, not home,
just alone, which is home. turn signal, sky opens up,
blue to all the pale, gentle things again. it's
paved empty for me, just me, i sit here travelling.
being alone is the ultimate pleasure. street lights go off, see-
robots already have taken over the world.
no action, no sound at all; decadence of self.
finally i know this space. i looked for nothing,
i found a lot. we rest every day- each
and every day we rest. nothing is happening,
cops are lined up along every curb. nothing is
happening. i might love you; it doesn't matter.
nothing is happening, nothing.

blood brother

i am a frank whisperer in this, a
life. we do undress our deserving.
i want what you want: to study
a bug outside. to have a freedom
that leaves with. tell me what my effect is,
on you and on all things. i have
permapermission, i need to know.
my happiness is mutual, and exclusive.
a laxative form of the timing. why, please.
won't i know when to get love, nearer to
this rancid, wild caught wish? there are
so many corners i can cut comfortably.
do you know me? what is that? with
even better thinking to do. locking up
a past i did not choose either. how could i
or can i- just locks. still there are
noises, narrations in this sharp nostalgia.
promises we must keep supplemented to
remember. and with that, whether or not
it did a thing, is tenacity, a faith in
the minimum, the half-ordered,
the cut forth blood brother. just remind
me why and i'll come running.

to quote the dj

the audience, the repelling audience
comes way, reaching its slow crawl to choice.
repression is a form of the same intense,
forbidden craters, the size of their moons. hello,
we happen to be your culture, we cry out, indecent.
hungry as kids. then we devour one another
for the problems sake. fog machine, faint spark light,
the stage waits her. but what do you see? to do
what you see? nerves, fixations on nerves.
belly the beguiled, sight of incentives and
the belligerent sanity of the believed?

predator

these are the days you fly away from.
i know you've built your case, escaped us now,
gone riding your dreams of flying. i know more.
you are smiling. you're laughing like me.
you are crazy, shaken and riddled with laughter
like vines that take over empty cathedrals.

you walked me through the prayer circle at
the old church you remembered that night.
we laughed when you led me right to it. our dreams
were never as faultless as your's.
i needed clarity, but i prayed for you. you

are a cartoon self in a mess of understood magic.
your great capability. you hear chords in c major,
faint and lovely, always approaching, beginning again.
do you love me there? do i pass the pipe?
when i dream of you, i am looking up from
the bottom of the pool, bright, the taste of chlorine
that never goes down. i seem to be half-kid, forever.
i am all water ballads and sesame seeds, i'm just full of it.
i don't wonder anymore- it is perfect
where you are. your drug

is fashionized, a bathroom vanity, addicted to you.
revolt of demands, welcome violation to
any mystery. it is, and you are, absolutely,
more beautiful there. i know but

is this fear mine to keep now, predator? i know and i
know more. you are a memory of shields,
you as your's and mine. we have
the deep medecine of imagining in this world.
and you have this, evidence for a proposal, man
beside you, whistling for your clone of a coma ear.
he is your new white knight, shimmering and strange.
childhood accomplice. he fights me off
with the dragon of the day. you're his
scooter selling princess, teeth gleaming at all
the right white. we wait.

we're waking up in a world real with officiallys, a
soundtrack that just tells us. we brush the taste away.
cigarettes, meals we don't really like. ah,
we feel very right, though, about not enjoying them.
we get our milk from this other place. maybe
we wish we could keep from holding our
presence. i raise my hand; i have to make up for
the understanding. i wish i were flying- i am
the one who has to live, and live with that joy.

resistance field

you are one close
canal to my traveler, seek through
my dripping co creator. need a machine.
need me not to drop the roam. yet i find
some thing, down this street i call
familiar. we will live.
resistance field- fly off the handle
and the wanting to will consume it all.
there must be high expectations for the ones
that behave like us. what did you think
we came here to do? our space is altered,
and we are trying to neutralize
it,with extra silence as
our personal speed. i am getting there
and staying with what it is then.
we come to pray upon you.
if you write your request down,
it will make off with less of the
forms we allow to pass through us-
it is best this way.

blanket

why didn't you just
come get the blanket from me in my room
the door doesn't close anyway. i do know this, though
the choices get more daunting.

you went to his room and i
couldn't keep from remembering
it was glorious, your arms were around each
other like spiders moving, black then white,
two professionals meeting and recognizing at once
the craft in the other. you don't need to redeem
anything but by being, girl. I think you are most
precious this way, excited and left shoeless.
it's all a reminder of what we forgave ourselves
for knowing long ago.

we can't give our hearts
anything real but pictures
of our adjusting pulses, in their race.
regrets away, we remember this, and we will not

Beast

Like:
we were very naked. there
was no way to clothe us. one
of these things was a hit:
stillness. restraint. the quiets.
it was like suddenly there were no
choices. tomorrow i'll be the great
nymph grace and length give back,
own space. but future becomes
redundant, perceiving more
in a monday moon. it is in this thrill
that i must relate. the third time
i've expelled the same solvents,
learning the art of the acheless whatever.
each sobriety is different,
we share some of the same high.
it could be the thirst i've been waiting to
open up and feed. frames we force behind,
this inevitable intimacy.
it makes all things believable
still we feel proud to be brave and approach
it. the winter holds over, we're not in sight,
we believe in it to reappear to us. We. no comfort.
oh, it envelopes! Beast of creation!
make a savage of me with acceptance!
i see everything! i see it all!

beauty advisor

you must release me, beauty advisor.
it is not my fault what that i love.
i think and i think and i still feel sure
not to know what it is.
just how i am. make time a cave
and crawl inside. i have got to have
some definitions for this. it is the more
grateful thing to be like. in my mind
i was dancing, so in touch ,and i felt
just within my reach. everything i love
becomes a baby. beautiful, all
these, traced in numbers, these
smiles, in their home, make me talk
different. i've got to release

b4u

i stand here before you, not text.
untaming the go getter. we are
not real children yet, out
in the street, east of rain. the sum of the
yet unexplored keeps growing.
we've got four cases of our favorite things left
to feel. brother, i am yet. living around.
not sure what my options are, and
could use your guidance. suddenly
this life emerges me, out of the breaking water,
and again i've got something to say.
wish i could say it to you. god: is it
because i can't? desire is draining me.
i am more than i see. i would be a different
girl today if it were for you. of course,
we are not really children yet, but the rain
helps us keep track. and what's that?
you don't look in my eyes, but you ask.
i stand here, before you. went from
being. violently, across destinarys,
across exactions, with decision
as a cautionary tale. before you

Lulu the rainbow machine

Wattery eyes of a dog.
You were a fat pink
babe,growing your life,
little petri dish.

You did not know one thing
about pleasing us.
By your nature, you required
much medecine. People are
never sure about these things,the
worst part is the nonsense.

gone A curly little sense, inadequate
legs, coughed when we noticed
thus your poodleness.
it's just hard to really
Love such a thing.

But i think we pleased you
Lulu Esmerelda Marie
how do these things work;assimilating.
We think of you
with our own rescue in mind;

i knew you'd never really recover.
Your rest was right, i just hope it
makes some denials possible,for now
You deserve a better body after all

You were a favor,for you to
make a wish for something like that
of our selves. One more quarter in
the rainbow machine

and i hope it makes some sense to
you. It's a part of our design that
you wanted to know. and you were.
For what you did, you were
good. You did good.

in fact

there are no opposite humans.
it is silly to say so. in fact,
what the fuck is an opposite
and what would be the opposite
of one human being? today
we look out upon landscapes.
everything we touch we no longer
know how to relate to.
we are in our cars, so it's not
very romantic, and it calls for more
poetry. after all,
the body in use is the anti poem.
skin functioning as the epicenter.
the body in use is the
real poem. direct exposure to the
functioning events. so if i seem to be
preoccupied with my earthly accounts,
even after dipping my feet into these
here seas of oblivion, it is because they are
the things that are limited. it is
their nature. they are married, no,
they are opposites to time.
therefore the same.
inseparable. inconclusive.
you start seeing your sight and
then it never stops. don't you see,
we are not smart enough to tell
the difference. we need to recognize,
make use of our competitive edge. beer,
body, color, vapor, sound, memory.
that's the real question:
will we be able to keep our memory?
automatically this creates
potential for the anti. but
you have to say fuck it, fuck it
all, you must forget, and in
fact, fuck this.

some rest

slice me up, bitch,
i'm soy & unaltered.
my tendency is this brain.my body
has less use, i've got a mind to
bring it back. not unstoppable. not
an alternate and not the best.
your message sounds a bribe off,
we have one webcam offering but
no where to put the patch. bequisse.
skype the sky. the sun is assigned
the welcome garden, our
swollen adventure. somebody
stop me. birds are made of worms
i need there to be less cookies around
here to worry about- it's a stash, rip it up
in this place. it has been a realwhile since
i said please. the vibrations were me staying
the sense of our heat hatching
the bug sound. necessitizing, and bones
and bones and bones we are.
nobody really hates enough not
to know these days, nobody's got enough
handcuffs. need to sit down and
do some convincing; salt the film running,
beaming my own reference & write while
i puke it out. on the roof,on the
roof, on the roof, on fire.

magic

back to the magic-
it draws you to a deep risen,
calms you clearer, already
two layers of you attached.
what she does is really magic.
notice

"ping ping ping"
you're all alone for her. in
the garage, watching the scare go out
with the wildhood. pass to
the sweet nurture self.

the water, the blue
heat with the decision coming on.
the grass is no longer counting
chamomile. don't you know?
love is this is something it
really is. i have dozens and dozens
of these though
"ditto"

from start to finish, my massive friends,
in quantities completely unheard of
by the third world and the natural book of history.
including, but not limited to, the diamond
in the smooth magic, the baby
in a pile of cubic zirconia
and the receipt to prove it all. crop
for the coil of the loyal galore. it cries! where
there is life there is habit forming.
maybe the sky used to open up and make
an exchange, nobody can know these things.
we didn't have cameras then.
one collateral left against the damage,
must make use of this collection,
portioned for the clumsy future. where there is
death, there is a recycling bin.
trash bag ready, to move on or at least be faced

our taste

do understandings remain mutual in places of rest
where secrets give way to the moments they blessed?
from root to root, swinging, to monitor growth --
where no one asks questions of unspoken oath.
they plan for inaction, ten feet below earth
where static drowns silence to aid in thought birth.
and there is no sleeping to dream of proportion,
and there is no excess to create distortion.
each breath and each day, each glass of milk spilled --
we see only products these factories build
and seeping from objects, too small for our taste --
exhaust is a memory, time is replaced.

Silo

i've kicked so many parties
just knowing who who I am might be.
things I learn
that I let go of maybe
are not in compliment with what I think I can.
I think I can and am being
owned, groaning against the
grainy suburban slate at sunset. and
if you are still under there, I can write for you.
we are all dissent, I stand
somewhere between protections.
I perceive my pain to be sordid. that of others,
becomes the marker. how did I
create this, slyly, structured by all my attemptings.
I do think I disagree with the ground,
neither can know how to own it, even what
we use is less ours afterward.
there must be a preliminary consideration:
our internalizations need to be known
for their suspension. Say it, situational existence.
any passing thing plodding comes
out of me-- I need to know there's
a reason you're here. I get
trapped up in the flexibility of some and
I can only fly with certain birds.
and in times of realizations like these, I search
through heroes and the helpless, seek out if I am
solely the course to seeing a conflict. of course not.
but there is a certain belief
about balances; they'll always
be, there's a mystery to them, like
need, like law like innocence

slipword

the thunder drum done
arms of the beat were sure
raised in place of
my friends like the cells of
the brightly colored weeds
of opportunism.

these people, around me just
a city in reversed view

it happened.
some days, some places may seem
the same so, so is
your fat drink and so
even the earth reacts.

it doesn't mean if it's wilting
it is wrong though i

slept next to the
plastic window, a gift, and the
water came in against me.
in it's best advice it would whisper,
not to let me look too far. these
are the things who know what
i need. i mean

sometimes, let it hold me.
everybody who made jokes
made good ones. but
there are somebodys still
asleep against me. so,
some of it can't escape
being beautiful. and i keep
questioning what is fate What

is outside
of circumstance?

Intention.

thee
thing. flush your drink
here or with a
people chaser. to me it
only raises the proof
of letting everything Else
choose, and i deny

you can
saturate my inbox
with the flaking off familiar,
your face says almost
everything about you any way.

honey honey honey i wish you'd
seehearsense this with me, happy
to seek your own on it but yes
i did fall off the stage so
i'm moving, with these
cut up feet breathing
the ground

they are young
they are blood monsters they are gentle
they are young, and they know it
they are drawing all the whiled peace out they
are bleeding, they are fucking, they are cumming.

they are making all the time stop still they are
knowing. they were once extinct
they are turning.
they foam at the mouth, spit up,
as clean as a baby's

they are climbing. they are on
parade they are leaving.
they are climbing
out of windows, they smell of the season,
windows of houses of
the textbook bricks they learned about,
they are climbing they
are still alive.

there is some vicious potential
in our laughter
it's all we do that we can.
let threat expose it, our throats be
sucking pulse, gnashing out a
fertility and every body
can; every time
our eyes do something new.
who taught us? do we turn
our heads up, open
as if sugar water rain
drips down in? use: with
no figured authority. forget
and in fact, we can't do
without revealing ourselves
to something wise.
we might be aliens, but we don't care
we're pregnant with something
beside reverence. we stepped up,
so every funny thing ever just
happened: and when
we laugh, we are our own kings

coming outs

we went wet
coming outs of inside itself
such a taste is
reserved for the celebratory..
..satisfied only with
the little dangersalt in it.
nothing is ever
separate for long, though
it is our play trying.
though it is a flurry full
of greasy glitter, shards of
mirror all mouth foggy, sharp.
what we say is- immediate and oh
nothing is not round about it-
rhythm i don't care this
is the way i'm baptised:
possessed, occupied
in a dance of derivatives

bleach

atlantic unibowl-there are hills
and valleys
in the water. it makes me wish
we were windborn, more free
but still it says no. we need this,
to be restrained.
it's a slave to itself too,
all the unforgotten
fluencies of water,
so xxl, high barbed, no audition.
competing without risk, these won't
try or want to corale you into
tolerating collaborations.
it lets bleach exist. lets us
put our stock in, bells
and whistles, and it giggles.
there are no windmills. only glaciers
only the curve of the earth
and the silvered pull at our distinctions.
we can keep it up, this modesty,
but it's not fenced in or
frosted with anything. eventually
we may see it an honor to be
chosen to drown in it. accept
you would be there be
taken care of, happy looking up
above your own fight rising,
so say thank you.

pep

from which
went on and on.
from which we all
came to meet,
there's no reason to be full
of such forgiveness
anymore. not if it
doesn't work that way- and
thanks to me, her-
she knows all about you too
and that's why she is not
standing; some things can't live after
looking at what they are.
some can. honestly, truth
doesn't strive. it won't
meet you half way; i
might. but i might be
becoming it by looking: now
i never really sleep, just think
gold on a safe approval. so
what if i know. Why shouldn't
i have these beautiful thoughts?
all i have to do is be-
my country my people
must survive me.
and on and on,

pastel

I think there's always been a memory/moment
or vision of me, sound, as cultured as cats,
two weeks off my mind. Hair huge
as the beehive branches and deep red
ribbon run throughout.
My eyes were like fangs themselves.
I never needed to even open my mouth. Sky was
as blue as a daisy. Invention, evil like ivory
arms, slight as an all night shiver just waking from.
In our minds, this was somehow the way we made
me. Colors were the most important thing
about you. And all I am is what is seen, so,
you couldn't come any closer. My skirt was
long, and hung on as the kind of question a riddle
could be made from. In bed, and while waking,
happy still now to be alone. but You became a page
in the planner I'd need someday- My life. it feels
far from me. I slipped off-- we went once together-
a soft voice from head to head "give back
my goosebumps, my very supposed baby.
you are big as definition, you and you will
be there
in all these, existing dreams of mine. pastel

Tiava

i
eat up all the men before i clean them.
even with you in my mouth i'm a tender little
lucifer - The equivalent of mantra deposits
deep in a well of disregard. many people tripping
in the shiny grass with adam; snakes wrapped
around cemetaries bright for naked playing,
toss down from the trees. we want graveyard
births in the bed born bite to keep them
warm. now i'm an example of something
you can take care of, and i don't even feel
any differently about my self. cause hey, blood
shouldn't taste like that. this idea of
innocence, sick. i'll ask you again.
again, again, again - what happened that day?
when did i start feeling the attraction
to the green dress the castle cast off in
the matrix you're working so hard for? probly
right when you said not to eat the secret. this is
major therapy: let me wash you with
one slow decadence approaching. you won't
deny it and i'm gonna keep on laughing while i
like it toward me... somebody else feels
pretty good about it, too, and i bet you
could guess who it is

MINT

were there what were there. baked bathing
in all this -- blameless, it's a spinning, removeable city.
smart now, youth. be guilded and do not be a groove in
anybody else's world. everything done now is,
making
instant
babies. fucked so many times into the new clay.
made of the old clay. in dust we drove out such a
natural way. did they do the night?
did it triplify and give up a need for our familiar
stuff? these are thoughts that only
the train can take me away from.
our languages braid reasons for seriously everything
undiscovered to be divided. got in the face.
how capable are we of incest? when there
is no such thing as less. it really barely
matters what's been damaged so
troop, hang tight...saying it's an accident don't
mean shit. we all know god's got no desire, thanking.
saying we accept it means nothing, too. it already
finds the world well.

and the fish was good

tugging on the seam at
the thread of me. tagged with touch-
kept running back up with sweet
coffee burn before, and coffee again
afterward. when i saw you two,
aligned range, i just understood:
everything is
a matter of placement... when
you can, even comprehend the scope.
saw you run, so fragile, unconscious up to Where.
brain still doesn't know
how many full revolutions made, but we do.
it's game, all your cuts, as fair as it's ever going to be;
turning over trades we may, and it's as well,
never know for certain whether something
was real enough to be lost. may. something may
have been gained. in meeting, this is not nearly
the major predecessor to the things we can do.
you put your truce out,
saw it humbled. it is, to be being human.

one the only

oh, drunk drunk denials. gives me
a full time drive to be in your low voice, wanting.
sitting against the contrary. on this couch.
acting like i'm one the only. i can hear about
whoever i want to; i can be next to somebody, purple
shirted, feeling like a friend shows how reflective we are.
whiskey, believe me. poison my strangeness.
disconnect and lurch across this with the viscera
to fake my foot asleep on. but that's just the way
whiskey works. the way i burr back, just to feel arms
around me. as soon as you come across the thought,
it almost makes it better to admit to anyone
how we have really sick ways of turning feelings to life.
that i think i might know. come clean
break and shot up, seems to me like it's procrastinated
needing. splintered like exhaust. braced to a heart
throbbing. use your slang to move me,
make your neighborhood something even
more solid, 50th and some street and i'm still
outside. i think we might be a little, molten military
against that that we cannot fathom.
i joined in like i knew you better than you did.
is there new information here? was it
acting if i learned later that i was right?

Lapping

i can always feel baby in me. she says,
licking a stamp. i know it's there cause
it vibrates when it needs me and
i put my hand down onto my belly,
eyebrows locked, and feel it purring. it sends me
a text when it's hungry. then i know, let it take
from me what it needs. not sure why i prefer it,
no. it gets what it wants. it gets
silk, and nectar, and butter. her legs crossed
beneath her, foot in lap. it has a signature,
but no sure name yet. it has my
big feet, and it's strong, and so it is clear.
we wanted this. we are why. that man
wasn't even big enough to get inside. don't take it
the wrong way, don't take it out of
context. we laugh about that now.
it's our inside joke, me and baby. baby and me.
she glides her hand over. i got hairs on my tummy.
and it don't make me no prettier to be attacked.
i wish that baby would, baby, call mama
back. sometimes it feels like i'm
drowning out. she sits up suddenly.
don't forget to dial area code. don't forget to do
your practice. she looks for the
camera. i show baby terrorist flashcards.
i cry so it can identify who is our enemy.
and i know that we agree cause
when baby sweats it comes out of me. she
smiles into the black glass eye. do you
think that it sees me? she leans over to
take a long puff. she leans over to grab a pen.
signed,
burlap baby, bumble bee wet.
young sum of the times.

this was a song. god growing

sing this spanish lullaby,
a rock in a foreign home.
space the doubt between us,
broken roads we roam alone.
watch the past remain as we
roll through the lonely fight.
the air is a clean fortress
tonight. it almost loves you.
and when we all need a little touch,
we call out to our clearing
mothers, who kneel beside the bed
we used to make. sing for their sake.
cry for our peace and their knowing.
we can't be only god growing.
hold your wings now
when they have far to fall.
god growing inside you
and inside us all.

mind over

this world has a weird way of
drinking me up. i don't know if it's
universal or not. it's, well,
definitely not as powerful as a
trend. but, here's to- hoping you can't
hear me peeing. accepting your neck
rub offer. sharing home with
whoever, just across the floor, and, just
as honest as always, but...no more consistent.
it feels like a sense of humor. sand in your
hair. and i think i can taste something
i'm imagining. i don't know, it's

somebody else's scrapbook

a place where i was when we had
an argument once

a bottle of ketchup

tapeworm

money in my hair, the church
in your wallet. the sink full of
losses, tapeworm growing in the
toilet. coughed up a bouldering
lava in my sleep, saw it all
hiccuping away with the
better causes. oh, with so many
directions, loving becomes less
distinct. falling for the priest in his
handsome robe, he's trying to
think himself out of all those
privacies. he tells me- live for what's
limited, my friend. give out your
mornings, your little memories, and
your sanctions. God, things
are changing.

highest validity

whatever moniker is derived,
there is no equal or lesser value.
place the eraser upon the slight trigger
of your free in-theory free,
which travelled with standard proof, tested
against its own trademark, fallacised.
forever so be our befallen differences.
help bereave and shave the art
because there may be no defining it, and
what that means is your opinion can not be
the best, means there is no top to a circle,
and they all hold the highest validity
there. if one more person tells me that i
should not use the word should. if you were
really a believer that everyone's thoughts
and actions are acceptable, you wouldn't
be participating in this argument. and you
wouldn't be a believer. sit it out, kid.
leaning down to throw the stone. skip,
and see the ripples. they're like little curtsys
to the moon. don't look so. your face tells
your head to be stubborn. tells me to
smile more. clenching your chin in,
following your mouth out into a kissless cycle

>>fuck me typing

*one is watching the other as it goes.
one is me, and i am- be right back-
travelling here. i hear you ringing but i am
talking to my friend in rehab and i am
writing to your mom. so hold on this
guy i just added says he thinks i
am probably perfect because
everything i've written rhymes with what
he wants to hear. tell me what you are
doing again? the internet is going stupidly
out. do we need somebody else to be
be us? some things have gone too far. fuck
me typing. this battery is a hard part of
how i feel now. my independence
is a piece of paper, scanned and forwarded
to every one >>>> if i had three
wishes, i would want to see
all of the paper in the world stacked
on top of each other again.
>>>everything i wrote would be one forest.
>>>and everything i knew could be two leaves.
falling down virtually and reloading
>>>
>>>>
>>>>>
>>>
>>
>
*

my self clearer

the window is cold. i'm finally dark,
and feeling like i look
lined with your ideas about
girls who wear make-up
and their poetry.
girls who share drinks and
girls who don't show respect for
their bodies. thinking of losing
pillar after pillar
of your faith being not who i should
be, or need to be, because of right
and because of how much it hurts
otherwise. cradling that fear i wonder
who is giving it such a safe home?
i don't need to know
who thinks i'm smart if i feel pretty,
or what they think it means
that i don't understand.
i'm not after your hands, any of you.
and i want to be here as i am. against
a cold window, seeing my self
clearer than you can.

until morning

it came at night
surrounded by cold air. in too many words
it rolled across tongues like a train underground,
collecting speed. all that is unfamiliar
touching every secret spot, claiming every
motive and closing every question, unanswered.
a dream that moves you but you can't recall,
it had your name. it was slow and graceful
as the fog turned to water, the shadows all faded to
dark black weight and the air hovered around you,
accusing. you didn't see it coming but
it came, like a song in a foreign language.
it came, like looking a complete stranger
in the eye. and then it came closer.
it came at night, and the mess it left behind
couldn't be seen until morning

your coat

I wore your coat tonight. Out,
into the cold wind
that whipped the ugly city around.
Snug, I felt still inside.
I imagined you there,
tried to remember your voice,
Loud and sure. “Do not
Do nothing.” I raised the hood,
slid my pink hands into your pockets
and felt for anything.
The sky was empty and black to match.
Without one doubt, it has been
the longest two weeks of my life.
Pleading for what’s left of real,
warning magic to prove something to me.
The guilt is surely creeping up behind.
I follow anything that leans back when I fall,
still silent. I can’t keep on forgetting.
Your loyalty lead lines to me
but I don’t know where they stop.
And tonight, staring out, I started to see
that I couldn’t, still can’t,
take your advice.
Standing there, totally gone
with the spirit of loss, nothing left.
I did nothing.
I‘d done nothing.
What had I done?

worth my violence

i spoke in a spasm, moved out
of a room that had slowly started feeling
like leftovers, toward something
i was somehow sure knew me.
on the way, looked at my options,
and they all seemed the same - just,
one had me moving its way already.
i remembered i'd dreamt out
of it. it coming up, pretending to be
me, and suggesting: what
we can do, other than be thankful
that the world still has more to offer
up to the searching. i noticed its
little warmth at my side. not remarkable
enough to press on from,
just to walk with. i started seeing
my scenario and trusting it. so when it
got up, and didn't even wait to see
that i would follow, i did, and felt
like i was guiding. i even figured that
through all the spaces i'd filled
my speeches with, it was maybe
protecting me, by moving me
toward a fight that felt
finally worth my violence

Quixotica

america, you talk to me like i am
a child. you are so much defense and so
little offering- leave me to question even
the thought of you. a land, yes, a
home, but here is where you are losing me -
your gate falls inward and tells me to
lie face down, napping with the
lights on, all my notions about
the things you might be behind me.
your freedom coughs. ahem, over
the assignment. and when you asked it
of me, i did try to acknowledge what you've
been announcing, but i couldn't deny
the sources that kept tickling my
reflex and hiding under the seat.
america, it's not that you're not any
good. it's just that, maybe you've
forgotten- when i drink water
with whiskey, water with beer or
water with wine, i get drunk. and now
i'm drunk, america, but you're
the water.

someone i should be

i don't care about anger today.
it's doing nothing for me.
not empowering, propelling, or even
masking some more vulnerable state.
no, and it's not honesty, really,
that i need, because actually i'm
finding it hard to identify, within myself
and in others, or realizing that at
the very least, life is still showing me
that i have unforeseen bewilderment,
which i had at some point just
accepted into my world view,
to be rejected and laughed out.
and in a way i appreciate that. i
feel a bit like i'm getting
too tired, or old even, to believe
that i can resolve it here, tonight,
with these two shaking hands.
because i'm not someone i
should be, i just am, and i hear an
alarm when anyone now tries to
tell me that they know how to use
that word. should- very little to it,
really, yet so many failures that
could have been avoided by its
absence. should you be right, and how? well,
think about it forever if you'd like,
but i might just assume that we're
not and listen. hope that in giving
up we'll get something back,
even if it's just that more of those
stubborn youths will start to do
more of nothing for us, and lose weight.
i mean, can we sit here and really
watch through something we can't see
or keep up a fight by slamming two
mirrors against each other?
tonight i am just too tired not to
let be. so, someone else can climb into
the sky on ideals alone and clean
the stars we wish on. i mean,
do it. i'll watch. and i think i can
still even believe you if you
tell me you've seen one falling

the beliefs we were born with

Reach up across a coal, brass night.
Reach up into a cut glass sky
of paused green stars we keep while
we spin in an orbit of refusing to fade and forget.

You’re still recruiting your hand- but
it gets softer the more you know
and your eyes try to glow, and open to enter
when you look forever at where what
went away was. It’s okay.
I can forgive you.

I can reach out from the dust I wear,
into a silence we knew when we were
woven in our religious innocence together.

But now, slide along against a cold, blue wall.
Follow the dark, photo-less hall that leads
away from the dirty deliveries you
sleep on, sent out by the dreams you
wake from. Dreams of you, your little girl.
It will be long. But keep on, recording,
until you reach the room where my child still
lays awake- unchanging, keeps her curls.
She is waiting for you. I have always
been. Waiting

car by car, in that play house we built
on cards and the beliefs we were born with.
We didn’t lose our crowns in the night,
they were gone with what we saw in that
false, bright light. A child is born to her mother,
but not through evidence. They see each
other. The world is a secret between them,
Tip toeing, room to room, saving laughter.

I am waiting. That homeless sun will not
rise again without us, just little girls,
just the same, still, never a place for it
to grow. I know you know
the wish is not lost without time.
I cannot leave you all the way behind.

"aha" a letter to the guest

of course, many animals don't know
what an orphan is, but today
the light proves the child again.
this has got to be explained without
taking you into some position.
first, conceive that very little sense
is common. "what's behind the
trap door?" there is always an aha-
and, the dreams continue to appear real,
and, we see how heavy a "normal" burdens
hands are. it's in the approaching. it's a
nother invigoration once the door is fully closed.
"aren't you proud of your little saucer?
yes? yes? only trying to help." only trying, hovering.
visiting to inspect. each game with a task, each
dealt with a hand of what is not okay, around
your neck when you are trying to eat. mom
comes down stairs, half awake, says some
shit that retells about the whole ordeal.
what is- our blind sight, anesthetized, realigned.
"you should never be proud of me for being
who i am." i guess the sin's been
compromised. just pet the cat.

what I meant to say

Yes, I still love.
Nothing but desire
in the soil it grows of.
I know how to love.
And it burns so far, so deep
inside what I will always,
Always hold to be true.
I made a promise,
and whether or not you
let me show it by seeing, looking
at what I give, I won’t break it.
and I will keep
Loving you in the only way
I can now. Next to me.
Next to you, fighting me.
But I won’t hope to hurt you.
And if I do, you can’t
make me proud. I’ll keep
your peace in my interest
if it ever comes my way.
You can’t make me forget
what I meant to say. And if you
want to know how far I’ve given,
just look where I do.
Look, first, at you.
And see the light I tried for.
Don’t see me, you don’t need to.
Because now, I do.
and in the mirror, I still see,
believe that your best is true.
Yes, I still love.
I know how to.

Relia Caligrum

she reserves the death among us,
a wandering typecast.
no beginnings can reveal her,
she is hidden in the past.
and the fearful wish you carry
is the mark behind her trade-
when you feel your dark heart racing,
she, enrobed, prepares the shade...

plan b

don't get hard. not
for this, now, while cold blood is
crammed inside some pain, pressure
the small aftermath of you who are a stranger
not to see. we didn't meet anywhere
but my body. we met at me, and I am the weather.
tried, clean and ready to hold on to all
the future it can create. my blind, inner furniture
singing its desperate songs of forever and
not knowing who is there. i deserve
to be this place where we share. so, don't
be naive. i carry you with me, we all do, and not as a
gift you give. women are places, and after you
come into us we leave with more than you appear
to plan on. but this is just blood- thickening,
tired, for who knows what happened. this is me,
sick for your small pleasures. and, sad for
my standard, so don't tell me it's not serious when
only i pay and this is not my body for you. how far
do you have to get off to see me some
respect? we are all always for you and i don't see
why. you're lucky i'm still just me and
that soon i'll be dry

meeting you again

it might be too soon for the words,
though we feel we know yet.
being too willing loses its gait and
i want my truth to all be enough
to handle. i don't know how we do this,
without iron grip i think, so i just see
that i could really write a hundred
words about your eyes. or about looking
at them. in them. clean and untouched
purely slow gentle young old strong like
dark planets that stay still, floating.
shot up, shaped out of something in and
each a reflection of the other but
just as real. you are not my child.
but i understand. i think i understand
romance. friendship. i want something
unformed, without the i, to move in with
enough distance never to feel your focus
burning off again like that claimness. be
not the same, but plain and everywhere.
i might be dim in the making, drawn
in the creating, but the long breath
i breathed in this new kiss gave me
permission. let the low burning world
try to release it. leave it to suffer
on repeat, with its loopholes and omens.
i've never not known you, good, bad or
afraid. i'm small in it and you're
right, it's not really us.
you can't even see your own eyes.

corinthian

I feel dirty when I know i'm in your mind
behind the bars with all us little women
you've sold out to the biases, outdating you and

I'm sure I'm cleaning up after the mistakes
you think we made, milking your dead childhood
cows, doing chores as punishment for our pride,

it keeps you placated. even if only there, with
your vision glazed out, clogging some kind of streaming
slight, and i can be pretty sure now that you're undoing me
in your world of mixed mania and leaving well enough

alone and, please daddy, become an imagined play
to own me, look over my shoulder for your priorities.
spit in my mouth like a jealous neighbor

hellbent

open your mouth
and say something too
i don't want to know much but
need to
hear you, or
else i will just tell you what you want.
give me something to put in
and, keep your smell on,
like you're still dressed,
like,

i'm hellbent, wired on
this movement this
cream this ownership
stapled down -

back behind
you, asking something
invasive -
so pushed, just
be forward, let it cross,
i know you're not looking
at my eyes
but you sound
serious

why does anger, fear
feel like lust? my breath itches.
i feel all drawn out, fueled in just
the right amount of guilt.
it hurts
a little bit. it's
good. in everything vivid
and virile, i'm, so ready, right
here, with all this enthusiasm. give
me some force back.
i want to make
a little gravity

your daughter

some people see me. they say they see
me smart, pretty. they say i'm still
here. i look at me from outside me
in pictures, in my memory and
i am beginning to see the places
where you break the way i love.
you make me feel lost when i
look straight into my own eyes.
straight, and see an innocence keep giving.
mother, i'm not your daughter anymore.
the law changed us when you ran from the law.
you tried to escape your self and released me
along the way. i try not to wait
for what i know will give destructively.
the memory i dreamed of for so long
is gone, now empty because i don't even know
you. you don't look at me
until you're broke without a fix,
kneeling at my feet and begging
for validation. after two years of
hiding, stealing, lying, jealousy
because i am not ending my own life
backward in your honor.
i make you want to use? i have to tell you
i am not ashamed. i have to hear
when you tell me that i'm beautiful
in a way that makes me feel i shouldn't be.
why do you look at me at all?
others say they're grateful to see
what i share, but still i give it
through a faint pain that pulls me hard against it,
and i can't get over, around, across.
mother, i am still here.
you keep me to let me go. want me,
to go. you don't feel proud. you think
you look bad against me and that's all you know.
where are you when i'm lucky and
you have given me to the world?
should i be sorry, if i am your curse
by burning what bleeds you?
am i not big enough to change your mind?
at your hospital, we all look away.
we can't say why but we know better.
your mouth, your teeth are black
with what you drink to clean you.
you're laughing, hysterical,
in slow motion, then look out
and don't know me.
you look across with your eyes
out from your dark high and don't know
your daughter.
mother, i'm still here, but we're wrong
and we both lost our names.
i don't know me either.

309

hot wednesday, your afternoon
tells nothing. cars seem to
vanish from all their parking lots.
i pour the light back outside
and turn my thick blinds away.
like guards they line up,
dense to serve their purpose.
the cat sings out his purr-hymn,
pawing at all my loose hairs.
a friend has said to me,
'i feel as if i've been
walking this whole life,
and i just want to sit down.'
i lean back into black
knowing and die for that
moment. and in it, lucid,
a stain, i stretch for ever -

seed

I wonder if she ever thinks
of him when she looks at
me: The rampant weed of some
scattered seeds sprouting up in unexpected
places now. The gift of a fit of
assaulted caution - we don’t speak of it.
I wonder if she loved him, even for any moment,
or if they talked about who their
child together would be, holding tight
like orphans, testing that one more second
would be for squeezing the very last drop
out of the only thing that could not run dry.
They were looking in the right places
for the wrong things. But it’s
growing now behind the words that
straddled some stranger’s confession, beneath
the blanket of every fairy-taled child sleeping
with the enemy of their soil’s soiled stem.
There’s no room to be welcomed by those who keep
spitting into the sand that falls through
the fist of every half-born son and calling it their own,
those inadvertent pacifiers who need sex most
and are the least like parents.
It’s living between the fantasy that keeps them
together in the mind of the same old placebo and
the moment when they wake up,
still barely turning their wet backs away
from a vanishing nightmare and screaming:
we can’t own life, You can’t ever own life.

the boldest

crying for the cage, i cried
beside it, sinking with what lost lie.
you sat heavy to call it for
what it was. at least, in your narrow way -
and i looked, through further gray
and saw what you thought you threw.
our white sky skinned and the
sun blistered over your pale hand.
your claims praised you as most bold
of open land. but i didn't create cages,
and i'm not so tired, small
like you say. i'm not so weak
to call you your hate. the wind
blows even the boldest when their
passion fears itself. tell me:
where does it go? does it protect you
from what it knows? who does it follow?
the facts of math, with their hands
too small to hold? i want things
you don't want to see. i, too,
slipped into that heat, turned around,
and watched your thick eye
sliding.

born remembering

i followed silence to where words dissolve into color.
i followed my mind to the place where i gave birth to you;

you are there in my memory, an echo,
weightless as flowers blooming underwater.

you seem so much more real in the dark.

i have seen two places,
and of the two, reality has given me only proof---

those two silences never meet in words

warm moon

try to predict a meteor falling.
a dinosaur going extinct
after millions upon millions
of years on an earth.

there is only yellow prediction-
no attempt to call out
past clocks but fear; the loss
of the womb. you want
to know, with your eyes,
that you'll come back to it.
like two, mother and father cinched together.
forget mouths, half-ready
with curled lips that don't lead to any
nowhere. there is no nowhere.
we fear that there is no joy if
we cannot make it predictable.
forget that even the warm half-
moon is still whole.
give the pupils in our eyes
bigger, further back bodies,
the more of our children we see.
we look up at the sky and we fear it.
we cry. sweat. forget to breathe. forget even
the cinched smiles inside us. the clock
when it rests between tickings.

the spark alive

i want to watch
their blood beaded body work
make waste with what was idled dead.
in tore their flexibility,
underscored velocity, rediagraming for
the lost at home. we may need to decide for
each other. or instead pad the tissue, pre
occupied with what is too good to say.
you have to stop trying to remain
unattained. reaction is one thing - but
the spark, alive, is only fair. only matter
when it's present enough to point out.
you pull blood from where it should be
needed, like crytallized red thread.
sit down. or oscillate into
a rhythm even you can't relate to.
i want to appraise the work
ing inside something real that requires
no anterior allegations. split fire, and
at least it's personal. at least it knows
that it burns...

Much

Two hours late and the crying eyes have closed.
The morning is without a memory, it shakes
the leaves in its delivery and new birds are close
but unseen. There’s only a beginning now
and they seem to have never slept. Quicker than
my ear they keep repeating, “let’s hear it.” then
don’t wait for a response. They must know no one
could come out and say anything. I think
they know it all already anyway. Still, maybe the
chaos, the obvious must be stated; maybe it’s just --
the same, old story, inspired again by a new anger.
claimed as creation in some rebirth, selling symbiosis to
the idea of a stranger and wearing a holy hat
on the cover of the auto-biography. But why
is it too much not knowing if the girl's story is
familiar? Why can I still feel her burning beside
me? Identifying the family we have can be hard,
even if you know no one remembers to define it but
you. Why do we still try to forget something
that now has to have made us freer than ever

pink

my pink prophecies,
coming up out of under
a silkened surrender that seems
so clever now. all that red, kept
below a heavy white cover. i
can see where i was written.
and in some weatherless
realm, maybe there are no
allowed reactions. but there are
seasons in me and, this one's

finally stiff. even knowing it wasn't
the whole goal to drain or freeze
me, but that it couldn't factor in-
and that's no apology. so,
contest to my aggression and i will
stomp out your survival speech. because
this is mine now. i will not keep re
stricting my self, remaining so long with
out because someone can't keep
their focus or word. take
lightly to me as one paused
screenshot, open to interpretation.
but i'm not. i'm

pink.
lit from inside. like a rose
grown in a fucking fireant.
like a wooden glove wrapped
around a firearm that's pressing into
the dirt. ground down from the
sick dissecting of all that you
couldn't bring to life. just because
i carry more than my weight
doesn't mean i will
put my hand in my mouth-

i will hold it out, hot,
still burning and say, stop. i will
tell you when i am done. pink,
grinding away toward red. licking
up my breath when you don't know
what to say and can't remember
what was mine before. strike, strike,
strike a match. i don't want it back.
ha, and it all came true. you
look better sorry.