In seductions of ******
wisps of alarm, tongues fly
catching fire, their croaks
are red-headed matchsticks.

Intrepid hourly, the
blanketed white harassed
the appointed locum, the
cashmere buds of tobacco.

The open mouths adhere to
the King of Limbs, the
experimental corsages that
— bloom —
into existence.

There is a space between
all the noise where
my fetal poise can reside,

forever holding,
holding on,

forever holding,
holding on.

Yes I jumped in those leaves
crunchy, fluffy, autumn leaves
Waded in the decorative fountain
Climbed on the public art

Yes I danced swing in the BART station
Hid in the grocery store among rolls of
toilet paper
Had to *** a ride after the Dicken's faire
Played in the rain
Hugged my mother
Made my dad take me to see Tangled in 3D

Yes I measured the baking soda for those
dinosaur chocolate chip cookies
Loved Steve Irwin will all my childhood admiration
Was afraid of the Deep End
Memorized Shel Silverstein

Remember my sister reading me Harry Potter
Gripping my best friend on Tower of Terror, Indiana Jones, Space Mountain
Sang Christmas Carols in October
And I'm not even sorry

I was a pirate paleontologist pop-star
pokemon master steampunk rocker renaissance girl who
time-traveled, hunting T-rex
adventuring with Christopher Robin, Calvin and Hobbes

Made two corsages for my junior prom, fed ducks,
ate at Mels, posed in the dollar store, watched
the Avengers in our glittering dresses for the second

Laughed so hard I cried about the stupidest things
I doubted, got lost in Costco, found my faith
Had my prayers answered
For the bestest, most faithful friends
I have the "simple human relief of knowing you’ve done wrong, and living through it"

And don't take this the wrong way
It's not like I'm going to jump off a bridge
Well, maybe with a bungee cord?

But if I died right now
****! Gone.
I wouldn't say I envied anybody
Not really

We've had a pretty **** great time
haven't we?

Oh sure I'd protest
Places to go, people to see, things to eat, but...

As long as You forgive me
my faults

Whose to say,
There is anything else I HAVE to do
Before I have lived a GREAT life

I have nothing to prove
besides that I am grateful
for this breath of life
which may pass at any moment

Corsages
Pressed shirts
Flirty butterflies
Not me.
Just your sweatshirt
Slow music
Missing you.
Gorgeous smile
We chose your shirt today
All eyes on you.
Girls staring
How could they not
I would be too.
But what they don't know
Is the curve of your neck
The rise and fall of your chest
The flutter of your eyelids
The slight smile on your lips
As you fall asleep.
The beauty that I have memorized
That only I get to see
Tonight
And every night after.

by: William A. Marshall


I stepped off the world
today,
off the broken streets
that winter has damaged
and municipal assessments
off the political gluttons
and performative marks
off the know-it-alls
and wild dogs roving around
with their ****
noses in the air
it’s not pretty
they cover what they don’t know
so that they look good
I head back down the dark hallway
to get a more primitive angle
off of privileged confidence
they are vulnerable
basic caretakers pursuing opulent corsages
to free them from their anxious quotas
and ******* rules
telling me how to wipe my ***
and how to use baby wipes
jointly acting like they run things
from their phony utilitarian bus stop
and cutting-edge applications
their personal band plays a cheerful tune
in the background
as they search for a bigger
advantage and more likes
even though we all share the same horror
youth is about mistakes
and making money
and choices with one eye here and now
the other eye on prevalent professions
students and maintenance men
bureaucratic puppets and academics
farmers and auditors
sales greasers and coaches
writers and board members
somewhere they end up there
carrying a liability
and it creates a vibration in my foxhole
but right in here baby
deep down within me
inside my tomb
I transfer to a silent
place away from
rambling rotting fungus
I step off of it
not always methodically
and then back into faults
and louse packs
I can only assume my rock
that sits in my hole immobile
next to the ****** candy wipes
unless I push it up ontic peaks
nonbeing begins to doubt me
and grips part of you so don’t
think that it doesn’t
I cut it with my knife
obliquely
finding unfortunate contagions
and courage down in the vault of silence
it is there or it isn’t
it is what keeps my will interested
far from the ones moving rashly
without it you would leap from bridges
through minefields I remember
a certain detachment
an uneven and sick progression
paperwork and a number with
a D affixed to its file
the ceiling became the nightly norm
this plastic vacuum-packed
wedding gown made of white silk
made weird noises
in the back of my closet
like it was weeping
the kind of dress
only worn once
it smelled like her that closet
retelling me each time
I opened the private door
making fake crinkling sounds
an icon of pure young tenderness
love expense and faith
eventually cooked and burned  
but it is too early
those individuals that gloat in pictures
and dream about their prince
they are busy playing with
their hair and organic shoulder bags
driving around in furnished cars
the uncorrupted ones
constant courses to come and
subsequent interviews
nailed skintight dresses
soon to be colored sweet red
with danger competing
well you had better feel lucky
because when you plunge into
future swamplands
incompetence and repayment
of what to do with it
and how then to
fill up your cup
without spilling it
all over your soul
don’t tell me how
to live my **** life
now is your time
to reason and shake imperfection
interruptions
over and over
those that listen to your intrusiveness
false performances in chic coffee shops
it is not sustainable there
but you play the part to maintain
your chair in the cooperative
you will miss it
neglecting real evil
because you were talking too much
maintaining your image
Bradbury whispers
from the counter,
“You can't make people listen
they have to come round in
their own time wondering
what happened and why
the world blew up around them
it can't last.”
and numbness above nightly cocktails
distracted dub tracks
ultimately attending
hectic personnel meetings
in drenched swamps
spinning with heartless ***** jobs
unconcerned about safe comforts
two things balance them out
people and things
all part of it out there in the world
and they approach like a train
suffering shocks
unemotional images in chambers
some actually never return
from the beatings
but this isn’t the end
this is a commencement
for me
the forecast is water-resistant
they hurry snatching their
body spray and shower gel
on mirrored reflections
that scowl back at them
all alone there
in their glass steeple
family photos
thinking they have nurtured something
more than endless gossip
and ****** strains
much more important now
bent into independence
pausing with the approaching sunrise
as it splashes powerfully
inside their speculations
pride doesn’t care
if you think you are not puffed-up
at all you are
who in the hell are you kidding?
nothing to cling to
essential oilskins and manuscripts
credit problems
and autobiographical *** packed expressions
corner office windows
and diplomas
behind high-back chairs
trying to copy Sunday magazine’s
hottest statement
to fill up their life
a reminder just who the comics are
but it does not register
until that day
when it becomes intolerably vile
beneath wreckage
and burnt ruins
they find his
caring donation
clinched in the saviors grasp
jutting through burning garrisons
there is no truth more senior
than this truth here and now
but they can’t all be imparted
in this culturally planned folklore
I see them
when I am walking away
from the insulated bubble
down the street
like recruits in boot camp
and zealously rich parents
who send their youngsters
with luggage and loans
nearby like idols
salesman explaining things
as they nod like they are approving something
perhaps autonomy
from fathers and mothers
who stand with them astutely contemplating
the whole arrangement
they stare at the marble floor
I observe the run-through
the glittery entertainment
and documented departments
for happy pilgrims
who are insulated
for now

One night.
One night
Of magic, love, laughter.
One night
To drop your weights
And just dance, baby, dance.
One night
To see everyone you’ve known for years
As princesses and princes in their finest satins.
Jewels glisten and the smell of small flowers
Wafts through the air, mingling with the sweat of the dance floor.
Petals flutter from corsages, but no one seems to care,
They just dance, forget every fear
One night,
I had the best night of my life
I laughed and I danced
I kissed my love, and he kissed me
Under the light of a half-grown moon
Stars peeked through the fleeing storm clouds and smiled
And my love and I, we didn’t care who was watching
As we slow danced to a high-speed song;
We were singing our own song,
Just outside the party
And I felt the love
(with just a hint of lust)
Flowing between us,
And in that moment, in his arms,
I was home.

Empty pizza boxes, and green
Couch cushions
Chapped lips and sunburns
Staying inside because your air conditioning
Actually works

The ice rink that’s always cold, but you
Wear short sleeves anyway
Kissing you between sips
Of hot chocolate, kissing you
Between people cheering
And crowded stands and pucks in nets
And spilt popcorn

The time we broke up
And you cut off all your hair

I bought you a Boston Red Sox hat, so that
You’d remember our city and cover your scalp
While your hair slowly grew back

That night I was drunk
And stained your shirt sleeve with makeup
You never thought the shaking would stop,
I blamed the *****

Corsages and suit coats, tightening your
Tie to match the dress, which took
Months for me to pick out
You never got to unzip it

The morning after, packing up
At 7am because the house was
Too full and my stomach was
Empty

Crossing my arms in the passenger seat
And mumbling that maybe
We needed time apart

Only to come barreling back together, like
Lighting a matchstick
And kissing to relieve the casualties

The time I lost my breath
But found it in your arms
“you’re okay, I'm here… I'll always be here”
And just knowing, just knowing, just
Knowing.

That night in the backseat
When it felt like the first time with you
All over again, the wheels clicked inside the motor
everything fell apart, the world stood still
And then everything fell back together

While going through the trash, sorting plastic
Organizing bottles and classifying cans
I told my mother we had 10 days left
And my tears dripped into the recycling bin

Dreaming about losing you to a plane ticket
And pushing your number at 3am
Because I only have 12,960 minutes left, to hear
The heartbeat through your shirt

Springsteen sang about glory days
and I laughed
and swore that wouldn’t be me.
I looked around this small town
at these large fishes
and knew I’d find a bigger pond.

But here I am
holding up jerseys
reading newspaper clippings
looking at old pictures
corsages
valentine’s roses
yearbook autographs
picture day poses

and can’t stop talking about
glory days.

Here they all come to get ready.
Excitement is rosying their cheeks.
This is the day they’ve been waiting for
And dreaming and planning for weeks.

The six bridesmaids, all in a flurry
Of hangers and makeup cases,
Begin to get into their dresses
And do last minute things to their faces.

On the other side of the building
In a room that’s a little more male,
All the groomsmen are solving the mystery
Of dressing in white tie and tails.

Now the bride and her parents arrive
And I really can go into action.
I have  checked over every last detail
And it all  meets to my satisfaction.

I supervise pinning corsages
And give the girls their bouquets.
Then I check on the progress of seating
To make sure there will be no delays.

Everything now is in order
And still five minutes left to the time
I will start them each one down the aisle
To the sound of the ***** and chime.

At last here it is, it’s beginning.
“Start on your left foot...and smile”
The glow that I get as I watch them
Makes all of the effort worthwhile.

And now for the bride and her father.
She’s radiant.  He’s very proud.
I open the doors, the ***** swells,
But she doesn’t notice the crowd.

She looks to her groom at the altar
And her smile is only for him.
As he waits for her there with the preacher,
Slightly nervous, but handsome and trim.

As I watch from the back I get misty
Remembering my own wedding day
And I know that my joy is worth more
Than any fee I could ask them to pay
                               

Quel temps de chien ! - il pleut, il neige ;
Les cochers, transis sur leur siège,
Ont le nez bleu.
Par ce vilain soir de décembre,
Qu'il ferait bon garder la chambre,
Devant son feu !

A l'angle de la cheminée
La chauffeuse capitonnée
Vous tend les bras
Et semble avec une caresse
Vous dire comme une maîtresse,
" Tu resteras ! "

Un papier rose à découpures,
Comme un sein blanc sous des guipures.
Voile à demi
Le globe laiteux de la lampe
Dont le reflet au plafond rampe,
Tout endormi.

On n'entend rien dans le silence
Que le pendule qui balance
Son disque d'or,
Et que le vent qui pleure et rôde,
Parcourant, pour entrer en fraude,
Le corridor.

C'est bal à l'ambassade anglaise ;
Mon habit noir est sur la chaise,
Les bras ballants ;
Mon gilet bâille et ma chemise
Semble dresser, pour être mise,
Ses poignets blancs.

Les brodequins à pointe étroite
Montrent leur vernis qui miroite,
Au feu placés ;
A côté des minces cravates
S'allongent comme des mains plates
Les gants glacés.

Il faut sortir ! - quelle corvée !
Prendre la file à l'arrivée  
Et suivre au pas
Les coupés des beautés altières
Portant blasons sur leurs portières
Et leurs appas.

Rester debout contre une porte
A voir se ruer la cohorte
Des invités ;
Les vieux museaux, les frais visages,
Les fracs en coeur et les corsages
Décolletés ;

Les dos où fleurit la pustule,
Couvrant leur peau rouge d'un tulle
Aérien ;
Les dandys et les diplomates,
Sur leurs faces à teintes mates,
Ne montrant rien.

Et ne pouvoir franchir la haie
Des douairières aux yeux d'orfraie
Ou de vautour,
Pour aller dire à son oreille
Petite, nacrée et vermeille,
Un mot d'amour !

Je n'irai pas ! - et ferai mettre
Dans son bouquet un bout de lettre
A l'Opéra.
Par les violettes de Parme,
La mauvaise humeur se désarme :
Elle viendra !

J'ai là l'Intermezzo de Heine,
Le Thomas Grain-d'Orge de Taine,
Les deux Goncourt ;
Le temps, jusqu'à l'heure où s'achève
Sur l'oreiller l'idée en rêve,
Me sera court.

I tried so very hard
To turn you into that thing
You said you would turn me into

I turned you into a box
That sits high up in my closet
With only the most valuable things in it
To remember

There are corsages and letters
And that ****** bracelet I can't look at
There are smiley faces
And cards
And quotes all around the sides
To keep me from looking at it
Because it knew I would linger
And go back

Sometimes that box falls off my shelf
Straight into my arms
And I collapse onto the floor
Looking at what was
Contemplating if everything was
Just some lie
A beautiful lie

I’ve always been good at navigating. I can find my way in a crowd or a city unknown to me. I no longer get shaky when I think about getting lost. Asking strangers for directions has never been a problem. My legs take me as far as I need to go, and my feet share secrets with the road to bargain with back in the bazaar of my head. We know how to get there. We usually do.  I tried going to my happy place today. Turns out it’s hard to pinpoint on the myriad of maps I’ve been making since I was 4 years old. I don’t know where to start. I don’t know what counts anymore. Places I once knew to glow yellow from the inside out have dimmed, and most old memories have the scrap of a taint too sharp to touch still attached to them. I have problems with letting go. I find it hard to forget the same way an elephant keeps count of every word anyone’s ever said. You would think this would be an advantage. Sometimes it isn’t. It is hard to try and write new on a slate that was never wiped clean. I have changed. I am envious of everyone able to close the boxes they’ve packed away. Because the lid on mine never seems to fit properly. It is tiring to be responsible for your own hurt every time you have to hold the door shut to stop the past from lingering. Nails ready to dig into the New you’re doing your best to treasure. I think about the temporary nature of all things. How no one is invincible. No one is ever as perfect as we project.  I am not without my flaws or faults. In fact, they have grown bouquets on my sleeves and have built their own corsages on my wrists for when my heart is too heavy to smile for the camera. I think of the “who” rather than the where. The bubbles I have collected with my breath and held with full air in the hopes they don’t burst. Their rainbow undersides and defiance to my gravity while never floating too far away outside my hazy atmosphere. The happy they have given me to make my own. The happy they radiate during visiting hours. The happy that soaks into the knowledge that I sometimes do the same. I am grateful. Always grateful. I may not have bought my house yet but I can always keep renting the flat where the couch is always cosying up to a comfy I am lucky to accommodate. It still smells like warmth and conversations  yet to come once they leave. Until next time. Let yourself in.

Crushed corsages
crumbling in stress,
come with
multi-colored
corsets
that are tightened
till you
lose your breath;

Straighten
your spine
till you are
a perfect line,
and everyone
says
you are perfectly fine;

Sick expectations,
people pass
pathetic pleasantries
as they continue
judging thee
declaring,
whether you are
or are not
a special beauty.

Earrings, make-up, dresses, pantyhose, corsets, brassieres, I.U.D.'s, nail polish, anklets, lockets, skirts, tampons, hose attachments, slips, high-healed shoes, mascara, purses, lipstick, evening gowns, teddies, bobby pins, *******, menopause, pasties, gynecology, ******, pregnancy, lactation, ovaries, shaved legs, curling irons, endometriosis, uteri, corsages, floral patterns, bikinis, *****, wigs & cleavage are the stuff, stuffings & concerns of feminie.

Fatal truth
And liberated corsages
with any luck slipping off wrists of loose girls + tight women under guise of raspberry liquor
Caloric vibration + energy consumption.

On earth owls call,
clawing face till the mice run home or die to mate.
You’d like to know that blood and lipstick share a goal,
but stay unknowing in your facefuck view.

Drinking smoke you scrawl
“I was here”
on any surface another version of yourself can fall in love with.

faceless and gone we are here.
Clinging to our underwear in times of doom, dropping ******* in an almost everlasting freedom from it.

Rolling tobacco for each other, love is immediate and afraid!