puking in a park bathroom, stamped with the words
"American Standard', yeah,
that is the American Standard, isn't it?
Soon, bulimia kits will be as common and shameless
as cigarettes (ten a day, how 'bout you?)
complete with tonsil tools
gum
and a surgeon's warning.

.       .       .      .      .       .      .       .       .       .       .

the flowers hold no revolt, they sup
patiently
(waiting to drown.)
damn it, they say
nothing.
their souls are too small to be
heavy.
or perhaps their lack of lips
prevent their cries.
can you feel my hand on your flaking bark?
does it tickle
when we count your ancient years?
'mightier then a sword', they say;
I think
we're all warriors
in the best way.

.       .        .       .       .       .      .      .     .


being encased
in the hush of breath holding back noise,
she puts a finger
to her own lips; she
closes her eyes
and sees the whites
of her mother's-
which I think about
with cold, raw
childish
fear.
I see dangerous animals
heavily tranquilized.
I have seen fangs dripping, spilling
clotted, spastic
I've heard their frantic cougar screams.
the biggest Fuck You I can muster, is
not wanting
to be anyone else.

.     .       .        .        .        .        .       .       .  

I've got a view of snow-encrusted pines.
the clouds emit seemingly gentle
particles of purity-
clandestine in their power
(oh, we estimate it.)
It is falling through my window to dissolve
into my skin.