as the PROPHETS of profits, WE lead and WE’re fair
while WE’re living the life of the poor BILLIONAIRE
– silver yachts, pearly castles, cash (plenty to spare) –
with the world on OUR backs... ah! the burdens WE bear!

being HAVES (not the have-nots) as nature decrees
means WE’re certainly the better (they’re vermin on ******).
if they pray for a lift in their dark fantasies,
WE just kick ’em downstairs, get ’em off of their knees.

yes, WE offer great jobs (much too busy OURSELVES!)
for maintaining the toilets, restacking the shelves,
and WE teach ’em to fear god and play with the elves,
thus dispelling ideas where the dark demon delves.

though they build mighty bridges, twin towers and more,
peddle pizzas and popcorn, sell guns door-to-door,
still they gotta have BOSSES to tell ’em the score
else WE’d never be needed, WE’d thrive nevermore.

when OUR profits are plunging, they do their part too
for they dine on the dole! yes, no hullabaloo!
soon OUR fortunes  redouble, rebound and accrue –
since WE fare well without ’em, WE bid ’em adieu.

’stead of wishing for welfare and standing in queues
or parading with pickets (look! holes in their shoes!),
they’d be better off scabbing to save union dues.
while WE whistle and warble, they’re singing the blues.

whether heroes or hoboes, like spiders and lice
they just crawl all around us in life’s paradise,
but WE’re patient, big hearted and oft sacrifice,
spewing charity, kindness (though each has its price).

if they’re beaten or punctured or suffer assault,
are unhealthy or crippled or walk with a halt,
or ******* or helpless, it’s all their own fault –
just like US they should worship the DOLLAR exalt’!

protesters and loud mouths, you’ll find ’em aplenty
some older, some younger, the worst not yet twenty.
they’re shameless and brazen (unwashed, soiled and scenty)
impugning the prestige of brave COGNOSCENTI.

if they’ve got clashing colors (or shades in between)
or opposing beliefs in the hidden unseen,
well, WE’ll always exploit it, deflecting their spleen,
for with god on each side, would WE dare intervene?

WE maintain many methods to keep ’em in chains –
daily rags and the tube spin OUR circus campaigns:
“to pretend you’ve a voice”, an announcement explains,
“you can vote and decide on which ONE of US reigns”.

OUR policemen protect US, they stay on the ball
(they arrest ’em, no questions per law’s protocol,
and then jam ’em in jail with their backs to the wall) –
if you’ve lucre for lawyers there’s justice for all.

down the ROYAL road of justice WE march all alone
– WE condemn their defiance, set ways to atone –
since WE’re sinless, unsullied, WE cast the first stone
(while WE cloak REGAL fetor with eau de cologne).

politicians, bald bankers, grand idols galore,
attend meetings, fete banquets in which they explore
how to rid US of rodents (the weak and the poor) –
well, just round up the riff-raff, dispatch ’em to war!

ah! OUR wars are, well, just...... just a thing of the past
........... and the present............... and future... WE sure make them last!
if they frown as they gaze (Armageddon!) aghast,
then WE smile back with pleasure, OUR treasures amassed.

useless ranting and raving (in rags, when they’re clad),
leads to losing their teeth (my! their gums are... egad!).
WE’re unselfish, indulgent, WE’d never be mad
if they drowned in the sounds of themselves feeling sad.

as the paupers are princes in midnight’s domain,
they have pipe dreams to lose, certainly nothing to gain
if they’re hoping OUR fortunes will wither and wane –
for “WE’re here by god’s will” as WE often explain.

yes, they wish to be US, with OUR wisdom and grace,
keeping up with ol’ CROESUS, maintaining the pace.  
but perverseness or rancor? they’ll see not a trace –
for WE hold ’em at bay with a fist in the face.

WE’re la CRÈME de la CRÈME, yes! the proud UPPER CRUST,
and OUR clothes are the finest, OUR hair never mussed –
WE imbue ’em with piety, duty and trust
and they’re fed bread and water (if feed ’em WE must).

but they’re thieving, aggrieved, want a piece of OUR PIE
and request WE endure ’em, see EYE to black eye.
since they live in OUR land where OUR strict rules apply,
they must feast on the crumbs that We cast to the sty.

though OUR largesse and bounty WE don’t mean to flaunt,
yet the pittance WE pay ’em they surely can vaunt –
salty peanuts and pretzels (what more could they want?)
thereby keeping their kiddies so healthily gaunt.

yes, there’s room for the rabble (the back of the bus)
’cause WE treat ’em like equals, so what’s all the fuss?
all can rise to the top (yes! it’s always been thus),
to the suites in OUR penthouse (to sweep up and dust).

while OUR CHILDREN have tutors, the finest of schools
(being bred for the forefront, THEY’re nobody’s fools),
their own school of hard knocks teaches: “follow the rules”,
building brawn ’stead of brains and broad backs strong as mules’.

and to keep ’em in line (to ensure WE prevail)
WE now monitor phone calls and read all their mail
(civil rights? what a notion! at best a detail!)
and if worse comes to worst...... well...... guantanamo jail!

WE’ve OUR quandaries and questions and headaches full blown
(like deciding design and decor of OUR throne...
whether diamonds or rubies... to gemstones WE’re prone) .
when WE deign to appease ’em, WE chuck ’em a bone.

now you know all OUR problems, OUR pains and travails
– like preparing foreclosures, evictions  and sales –
but WE’ve no need for worries or gnawed fingernails,
’cause WE’re sailing OUR yachts through tempestuous gales
(with them bailing OUR banks when OUR stock market fails)
sipping daiquiri sours, champagnes, ginger ales.
:-)

Stretched out limbs reaching for more
Loose lengths of heated skin lined against
Tangled waves in tightening hands
Staccato breaths in long exhales
A brush
A rub
A grind against
Pounding heart with furtive cries
A whisper
A touch
A fueled need
Loose lengths and mussed up sheets

cc012219

Have we forgotten how to love?
Or worse, forgotten what love is?
Maybe it's not love we're looking for.
Maybe we only look for the excitement and thrill in life.
We want someone to watch movies with.
We want the limited and will spout off about endings.
Have we ever thought that maybe, just maybe, we just want to spend time together but don't make memories at all?

​​     I was ten years old when I wrote it.
One lone sentence. A sentence that would become my mantra; the sentence that defines my existence.

I wish I were dead.

I first wrote it in my journal. Then a couple days later, I wrote it again. Then again. And again and again and again. Until eventually, the pages had all been claimed. Each line on each page reiterated one phrase – I wish I were dead.

Although I was merely a fourth grader, this was no passing phrase (get it?). Ten years separate me from that lone sentence, yet I am ready as ever.

​I wish I were dead. I wish I were dead. I WISH I WERE DEAD.

​This is how I feel six days out of seven.
I can no longer count the number of failed attempts, the static loony-bin trips, the hospital hopping routine – a process I’ve memorized verbatim.

Can’t say how many times I’ve survived these garbage disposals for the insane.

You’d think if I really wanted to die, I’d be dead already. Yet, in a bizarre manner, not even the Grim Reaper wants me. I’ve consumed rat poison and lived, rolled my mom’s car and escaped without a scratch, tumbled from heights so high, yet – here I am.

One night, last summer, I mixed molly with coke with ****** with so much liquor – because liquor is quicker – thinking for certain I’d orchestrated my demise. Some of my friends were squatting in this foreclosed house, so there was no electricity, and I spent hours playing Sims with some girl in the dark.

Eventually, my computer died – but I didn’t.

The list goes on.

On this list, there’s one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. A night I’ll forever regret. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away.

This is how it went.



​     The Last Supper was comprised of 150 assorted pills, and some secondhand Jack Daniels.
​
I ate alone. I’d exchanged dining hall for bathroom; chair for bathtub. I held one lone utensil – a razor blade – nestled safely in my hand. Cradling the blade like a child who found the cookie jar – the way my boyfriend worshiped a fresh syringe of ******; I snuggled that sacred utensil.

I failed to savor this Last Supper – for dine and dash would more appropriately summarize my actions. I ravaged the meal as a stray dog would raw meat. Gagging and choking, whilst feeling nothing at all.

All those pills, that jack, I poured into a jar and chugged like a freshman in college. (Get it?) The most unconventional supper you ever did see.

My makeshift chair filled slowly with water like concrete – and soon I’d be buried alive. So I squeezed the razor tight, pretending it was a loved one’s hand instead.

​Yet – nothing happened.

I considered my lone utensil – the blade – then laughed, and threw it aside. How high school of me – a time when I confused my wrist with a cutting-board. Oh, silly me; my insides could do the work without external additions.

​However, the nausea hit before I’d relinquished consciousness. I feared I would toss my cookies – ones stolen from the cookie jar – before they could toss me.

​An important factor to note is this was not my house. It belonged to my boyfriend’s aunt. And although she was not home – he was. Earlier, I’d thrown a knife at his head and told him I was glad Morgan died, to ensure he’d leave me be, but now I was bored and nauseous and so I got up and left the Last Supper to pursue a bad cliché I just died in your arms tonight.
​ What happened next is not important – I’ll fast-forward to what is.

The first to come was a young girl.
​She wore her blonde hair in two braids. Her tiny body, adorned in a loose, blue dress. Her feet were sheathed in neat white socks beneath modest, black slippers; slippers that matched her headband. A headband to cradle her mind.

​Her existence stupefied mine – for I knew at once who she was. And I was terrified.

This girl was coasting her eighth birthday. A birthday she’d never reach.

And yet – she was as wise as I am thin; far wiser than my nineteen-year-old self. She never spoke, but there was no need. Everyone talks, but seldom is speech genuine. Only in actions can we find the truth.

I’d waited my whole life for her. My true, beloved best friend. A girl as imaginary as could be.

Alison Wonderland.

Unfortunately, she had no intention of staying. She had no interest in my world; she’d only come to take me to hers. She’d come to take me away. Far away. Away so far I could never return.

This time – finally – I’d be gone for good.

My whole life I’d waited; now, she’d finally come. Not to join my life. She’d come to watch me die.

We both knew my lifespan would hardly outlast the hour.

Collapsed within a shower, I floundered for words. Separated from her by a mere pane of glass. She was so close. And yet, I was far from happy – I’d nearly surpassed hyperventilation. Literally stunned to death.

This beautiful angel maintained composure, however; unaltered by my frigid welcome. An unwavering smile illustrated her entire physic, whilst she offered her hand to mine – arm outstretched and waiting.

The ultimate invitation.

However, we were not alone. Not two, but three souls occupied this bathroom. The bathroom of my Last Supper.

On my side of the glass was a man. A man I knew. A man I loved. A man whose manhood was verified by little more than age – 25. Whilst numbers generally distinguish between childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, he was much more a boy than a man. His maturity – vastly negated by defining characteristics. You see, this 25-year-old boy was also a pathological liar, a sociopath, and a ****** addict. He was the stranger your mommy warned you not to talk to – and he was my boyfriend.

My boyfriend, our third addition, was christened Daniel no-middle-name Rodden. An alias more accurately spelled Rotten – which I knew, but refused to accept. So instead, he was just Danny.

Anyways.

I surrendered consciousness slowly. I was crumpled, trembling and mumbling, grappling to sit up or speak.

With all my strength I pointed, terrified and confused, at Alison.

“How is she here?” I wanted to scream. “How’d she get in? What’s happening?”

“What are you talking about?” Danny’s voice wondered. “There’s no one out there. I promise I promise.”

He must have been blind. For Alison remained, hand outstretched, waiting and waiting.

However, Danny Rotten and Alison Wonderland could not see each other. Nor could they hear or feel one another. They existed within uncorrelated dimensions. They were, in fact, entirely irrelevant to one another, compromised by one single factor. Me. Because not only was I physically dying – directly between them (monkey in the middle?) – my consciousness floundered amidst their two wonderlands.

But this was temporary, for we all knew I had less than an hour to make a choice; a life with this toxic boy, or a death with this loving girl. Death, which I’d coveted since I was ten. This decision could not be undone; I could not keep them both.

I never took this hand I was offered – Alison Wonderland’s – I clung to Danny instead. A decision I’ll forever regret. But I had yet to meet the Grimm Reaper.

Somehow, I’d been transported back into the bathtub. I sat back at the table of my Last Supper. Only, this time, I was not to dine alone.
I remember Danny’s face – if only for a split second – covering mine. His handsome, Spanish features contorted in fear; even mussed and wet, his dark hair swam across his forehead with graceful finesse.

On his face I’d never seen such emotion, nor will I ever again.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I lost sight of that face. I knew he was speaking, perhaps even yelling, his physic – inches from my own. But then, the stampede arrived, trampling him whole.

Empty handed, Alison might have left. But this evaded me.

For into the room poured innumerable intruders. My ghostly escort, it would appear. Some spoke to me, some avoided. Some set up a poker game in the corner – waiting on my choice – whilst others conjured chairs like rabbits from a hat. Chairs they set up around this bathtub. Enveloped in bodies, my Final Supper had become a banquet of sorts. Danny tried to hand me a bucket, to throw up my poison, but I was so weak I couldn’t have held it had I wanted to.

Out of all these people – souls I presumed dead – I recognized only two faces.

Preston and Henry. Two boys I knew – and although ****** addicts, they were alive and well. Not ghosts like the rest. However, within the next two weeks those two would both overdose and nearly die.

Coincidence? I think not. Yet, I digress.  

That was when he appeared, for above the bathtub stood a window. Outside that window, I glimpsed a man. A man I’d been chasing since I was ten.

Mister Grimm. I remember not his attire, nor any defining details, only the expression on his face as his eyes singed my own. Complete and utter hatred and malice, with fatal intentions. He looked to me as his arch nemesis – and had I invited him in, he would have given me what I’d always wanted. I knew this to be true.

I knew also that, although Alison had appeared to be the defining choice, she was not. This man was. And in that pivotal moment, I began to scream.

I screamed for Danny – to make this Grimm go away, to tell him to leave.

Danny did. And when I next looked up, the man was no more. Gone, too, was everyone else. I took Danny’s bucket, hurled, and knew no more.

This is one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away. A night I’ll forever regret. Sometimes, however, I wonder if it was not mister Grim I was looking at, but Danny’s reflection: the monster he soon became.

Or, perhaps, it was not a male I saw in that window.

Perhaps, It was myself.

Sugar and spice
And everything nice
A delicate blush, a secret crush
Rings, white wings and other fine things
Ribbons and laces, tender embraces
Elegant grace and a sweet pretty face
Cheeks of pink, colorful drinks
Holding hands and fluttering fans
Smiles sweet, small and petite
Soft, luscious hair and a whispered prayer
Ballroom dancing, timid glancing

Liqueur and ****
Jealousy, greed
In dark rooms, kneeling and wasted
Under the sheets, squealing, getting tasted
Smeared lipstick, hair mussed, no longer slick
Bleary red lips, curvy hips
Tattoos and lingerie see-through
Heavy petting, getting drunk and forgetting
Ripped tights, endless nights
Coke and hazy smoke
Expensive drugs and sweaty hugs
Twisted lies, glazed eyes,
Strong musky perfumes, dark rooms
Sketchy guys, spread thighs
Broken trust, humid lust
Mindless fornication, empty stimulation,
With bated respiration, nothing but degradation
*****-cherry shots and hazy thoughts
Dancing, grinding, lights all blinding
Backstabbing, hands jabbing
Dark magic, endings tragic
Secrets revealed, wounds opened or healed

MY HAIR IS MUSSED
SLIGHTLY
AND I WANT YOU
LIKE I WANT THIS CANDLE
LIT
SOMETIMES

when she walks in,
home is no longer
a home, nothing but
nicotine-stained walls,
a collision of
          sc a t t  ere   d
          s  (ca n         't)
          m e m or ie   s

she's––
( your go-to fuckbuddy.)
––stretched by your side,
laid out bare against
mussed up sheets and
tracing the lines of your ribs
with the pads of her fingers:
your cruel mistress,

and you're
a ******* mess
of blue lips and
trembling hands
even cigarettes and candy
can't seem to quell

Most sleep just to rest
Not many even remember dreams

Almost none see  how beautiful sleep is

I didn't
Until I saw it on you

None had ever made closed eyes
Fluttering with every touch
So appealing

The feel of you holding me and your gentle breath
Catching slightly with every exhale
Finer than silk

Sleep with you
You in sleep

Make me see beauty where most see none

Sleep is messy
The bedhair
        Morning Breath
             Mussed makeup
                 the creaking bones
                      Quiet voices

You make them all beautiful
You are my dream
My daily and endless dream

Maybe I am messy
but "i love to sleep with you"

Fashionably Unexpected*


        the devil had arrived but as the sun was at it's peak
the invitation was for nine, but  in the evening
of next week...
he was naked save the toga, and his flaxen locks of gold
and a massive crop of wings, slightly mussed; -
adroitly posed.

i had just been in the garden, plucking apples from a limb
with my pruning shears and sherry
and no clue it might be him....
but there     i stood astounded,    having thought   -
" I  heard  the  bell ? "

and again
by ' Who'd ' Come knocking
on my mallet chain
from Hell.

the devil held a mirror and a silver box, ornate
with the likeness of a lotus and an acorn
on a plate...
the gilding was perfection, and the mirror was opaque
but the fallen one was flawless
as the smile upon
        his face...

and how i broke the silence in my simple garden threads
was to ramble at the Serpent
as I handed him a Jacket.


Amused by my conceit that any custom i condone
were applied with an epoxy
Only carpenters from Rome, that were spotless and
And from Nazareth
with a Father
and a Ghost -
A Mother without Blemish
and Disciples in a grove...
And blessed be
the Mercy of the Lending
of the glue
by the resurrected Handy Man
and  King of
all the Jews !

The Morningstar obliged!  
But held the blazer
in rebuke
He grimaced His Displeasure
And instantly  
for proof
He dismembered my regalia
and assembled it anew
Into such a splendid Toga
There was nothing
I could do -
but simply     step aside
as all  the sting
had let the ruse.

I received the Prince of Darkness
Wearing gloves and dirt and boots

And at them
She can't get up.
***** *****
She won't get down.

Around this town
She gots no secrets
Not inease
Of her own.

Thin call parties hurt now
sewn nun invited
no shuns deal lichen

Hair and herself
Being all lone.

Head side treading
threads She splits
fine item eyed
crates to diskew
Full freight Fair
rebate sans wits

In dings she sings
Small of a sudden
Leaped wings to retch
doubt stunned her
Reach doubt to
fund her joy

none derive all
ease she Collars
treat all green eights
Whimbling out loud
Uncle Ere...

All gut the Inks
mussed come
to an in she thinks
Or else
tries Umph in gals.

Trip Sitter Poem by Rob Sandman

We’ve all got a friend like this of course,
Istabraq, Seabiscuit the ould warhorse,
Snortin like a whale inhaling at the surface,
Smokes til just lookin’ at them makes your lungs hurt its-
Amazing grace while you’re off your face messed up,
They’re in the corner laughin' - not a hair mussed up,
Not out of place in the place to be,
The opposite in fact a life saver to see,
Always at your back with a friendly shoulder,
A spliff, skins smokes-well timed glass of water

Not immune or a ******- just seasoned,
When you’re lost-beyond all reason,
Lost the end of your sentence?-they’ve got it,
a well tuned part in the heart of the party chaotic,
The calm center of the whirlpool, Deadpool-
Quick with a line, not too cuttin’ but nobodies fool,
trip sitter, designated brain at the sesh,
A little OCD maybe, but  nonetheless,

We’re all thankful with a full tankful
Its gas havin' a laugh knowin' you can bank full-
Confidence in your mates if you trip,

But no mercy with the quips,  quick! zip your lips
If you’re not in full control of the tongue,
They’ll be followin’ the slips and zip down your lungs
You’re a wounded gazelle on the plains and they’ll lunge,
Like a cheetah once you’ve taken the plunge

I’m not talkin of only one person of course,
We all take turns as the tour de force-
goes round
Like a Merry go round sound friends abound
While you’re bewildered the wildebeest takes the crown,
Don’t know about you, but I’m blessed with a few true-
Trip sitters babysitters life fitters diametrically opposed to bullshitters

*Sideplitters with one liners that leave you gaspin’
For air beyond compare got the grasp and flavor
Best savour the moments-they’re all too few ,
Best friends are saviours  who help you pull through,
So lets all give thanks to the big hitters,
Thanks lads and lasses I’m always grateful for me trip sitters!

Mussed-up butterscotch kisses
To the left-wards, right, then catercorner.
Page after chronicle after sometimes elsewhere,
Given the proper motivation, of course.

You make as much sense to me as a twelve-year-old in a stroller.

Pacing pacing to-and-fro,
speaking aloud with cat in tow.
Ranting,raving,shouting,craving,
whispering a secret all hush and low.
No crowds to gawk, no eyes to peer,
just pacing, ever pacing, from mirror to mirror.
No dishes washed, all dust on floor,
sailing small studio door-to-door.

All pauses brief to Howl or stroke,
while contemplating going broke.
All mussed up hair and *** pajamas;
all condiments and no bananas.
The sunlight dim, the sea all grey,
while pacing afternoons away.
The clock tic-toc, the dyer sounds,
but pacing, ever pacing, pacing bound.

What if things were as they used to be?
The idea of never speaking again makes me feel sad.
Remember the late night talks until 2 in the morning?
The first conversation we had was about murderous cows
And how much you loved me for those moments.
The last one we had over the phone was about my father not taking pride in me
And I started crying, hoping you couldn't hear it through the vast space of emptiness in my voice.
But I think you did and I remember feeling ashamed
Because you didn't deserve to hear me sound that way when you had bigger problems.
It was moments like those that I wanted nothing more than to wake up in the early dawn of the mornings
With the pale sunlight washing over the bed sheets and your mussed hair.
It was in those moments that I wanted to go to parties with you and get drunk
And say things I would never say sober
Secrets about myself that I didn't think I had
It was moments like those that I forgot about my family issues
Or my own issues and your issues
It was moments like those that I loved you too much to physically feel.
I couldn't express the fullness I felt in the dead of night when it felt like we were the only two alive.
It was in moments like those that I started thinking about the possibility of not staying together forever
And it was those moments that I got out your proclamation of love that I had written down
I would stare at it and smile and giggle and think about what I did right to be with you
I wasn't sure if I was good enough to stay

There, in the heat of the moment—your lips on my shoulder, your hands feeling my arms up and down, your body pressed against mine from behind—you ask me a question which I find impossible to answer.
“Do you love me?”
I stiffen, caught by surprise. I slowly turn around to face you. I take in your mussed hair, gray eyes darkened with desire, full pink lips which you are biting, anticipating my answer.
I wrap my arms around your waist and bury my face in the crook of your neck, kissing you there.
“Did you hear me? I asked if you love me.”
“Mm.” I reply, hoping that that vague answer will be enough for you to let this subject drop.
You pull away from me and force me to look at you. My heart begins to beat faster and my palms get clammy; I’m nervous.
“I’m sorry.” I tell you, looking down.
Your grip on my arms loosens and your hands fall to your sides; I can tell you’re disappointed. And I stand there, listening to your footsteps as you walk out of my house and quite possibly my life.
A few salty tears roll down my cheeks as I try to tell myself that I don’t care. I lay in bed on my back and think about the first time I allowed myself to love somebody.
“Guess what?” I plop down into Jordan’s lap, smiling.
“What?” he asks, curious.
“I love you.”
He smiles, but it seems too forced. Something’s wrong here.
I frown. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
Jordan sighs heavily and looks up at me. “I thought this would be easy, but it’s not. Not when you’re sitting here staring at me with those wide, innocent brown eyes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have to go…away.”
“Where are you going?” I pout.
“Away from here.” He looks at me with a blank look on his face.
That’s when it hits me. I stand up from his lap. “You’re leaving me?”
“I’m sorry. This isn't how I wanted it to end.”
I don’t think I ever cried more than I did that entire week. I gave him my all—my heart, my soul, my desires, my fears…my love. And what did I get in return? A shattered heart and new-found wariness of giving my affections to anyone else.
He broke me, and I've just pushed away the only man that I hoped could restore me. Anybody else but you would only be able to crudely glue me back together until I eventually fell apart again, but you…you could make me like new. You could fix me.

I pull on a flimsy jacket before leaving the house and closing the door behind me. I begin to run to your house because I just can’t get there fast enough. I’m thinking of how I messed up last night and what I can do to fix it. I just have to tell you the truth—that will solve it. I’ll tell you.
I make it to your old one story pale yellow house out of breath. I assemble my thoughts as I walk up to the front door.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
I wrap my arms around myself to keep from shivering uncontrollably. Whether it’s from the cold or from how nervous I am, I don’t know.
When you open the door, you look surprised to see me. You’re in nothing but your boxers and you look tired.
You don’t bother with the useless greetings and you waste no time getting to the point. “Why are you here?”
I take in a deep breath. The truth, I remind myself.
“The thing is, I couldn't just leave things the way they were last night.”
You cross your arms over your chest and lean against the door frame. “And why not? You made it pretty clear where you stand in this relationship.”
“I was awake, thinking, after you left and I thought about you and just everything about you. You give me butterflies every time I look at you. I never want our conversations to end because I just love to hear the sound of your voice and what you have to say; you could drone on about cardboard boxes and I wouldn't care. When I’m with you, no one else exists in my world. You’re the sun in my universe—everything about me revolves around you. That’s love, isn't it? I love you.”
You don’t say anything for what feels like forever. I frown as I wait for you to respond. Say something…anything to let me know that you understand half of the word ***** that just came out of my mouth.
Finally, you sigh. “You really walked all the way over here to tell me that?”
My heart sinks into my stomach. I nod. “Yes.”
That’s when I notice the smile slowly spreading across your lips. “You’re something else. You really are.” Standing up straight, you reach out and pull me into your arms. You’re warm. “Can you say it again?” you whisper into my hair.
I know I can say it without the fear of getting my heart broken looming over me. I can say it and it won’t be a lie. “I love you.”

The woman is wearing jewels and a smile. She's a woman now
or at least she's pretty sure
it really depends on the day.
History trails behind her, like all the mahogany hair that
isn't there anymore, but was his favorite part. History said
the measure of a woman lies in the worth of her hips
the twist of her lips, or so they said. She sees peridot
out of the corner of her eyes, in shadows and in
handsome faceless strangers. And she figures
she's a woman now; the way she sees her fingers
long and white, gentle lines drawn
on strangers arms
familiar corners
a warm jaw. In memory. In the dark.

In the dark, she nibbles her fingertips
and cherishes the sensation of not
quite
being a proper lady. A woman, yes,
but in this empty bed
but in her mussed up head
with her nibbled, lonely fingertips
not a lady. She closes her eyes and
with a deep breath she imagines space. She imagines
her body
filled with space, her 24 ribs pulled back
like the bows of 24 warriors,
two for each month of a visceral, joyous battle,
though she's not sure she's a warrior anymore. Not
quite
the girl she was with a heavy shield and a blade of
cheery cynicism she treated as friend and lover both.
Not a warrior girl, not anymore,
but a woman full of space, and
a woman playing host to the passing of time.

it wasn't all about
the proverbial lighting of the post-****** cigarette
the white sheets wrapped around inseparable sweaty bodies

holding hands, tangled legs

staring
at the ceiling

these sheets all tucked around my *******, his waist

it was the mediocre
it was the scurry across cold plastic floors
to go ***, quickly,

so I wouldn't start ******* blood 20 or so hours later

and forcing myself to ***
and splashing water to stop dripping *** across the floors

while I looked in the mirror
nonplussed
but
hair mussed

sticky with sweat
dripping with goo

thinking

man,
that felt really good
and reveling in that brief, delightful feeling

of a man's weight
on your chest

breathing heavily after ******* inside you

when you kissed me i used to wish for more
when you touched me i made my own store
of all the ways i wanted to know me more
as your loving never made me sore

when he kisses me my lips just sigh
regret that's so fat and delicious a thing
could finish in a moment's breath
cant take the parting of his warmth from mine

when you left me i secretly helped myself to wine
you didnt know i drank that stuff, how divine
you called to be sure i was hurting something fine
didnt want u to come back, so i played the line

when he leaves to just go into the next room
i mope so hard, so deeply bereft for his next move
he laughs at my loving grunts, my sharp teeth nibbling
oh you know he rubs my back and kisses my nose

when you moved on and had your baby with her
you hid this, thinking i'd somehow be bitter
you tragically carried this riddle all winter
swearing everyone to secrecy, including viktor

when he came with certainty and we became three
we kissed each other everywhere we could touch
he mussed my hair and laid his palm on that belly
protective, possessive, in love so much, so into me

The salt is taken with the sugar, taken full in stride
No word or sound could ever take your mother's brother's pride
The trick is in the shimmy that gets you through the door
Getting naked under clothes, clean the bathroom floor
Slip the key and turn the lock
Tell him you just forgot
You weren't supposed to visit the craig of his mind

The ink of your skin smells like sin
Of tangled legs and sheepish grins
Your heavy eyes tell me lies
Your neck leans, your shoulders cry
You've slept and fought and thought a lot
You weren't supposed to stay in the craig of his mind

You're new and used but news to me
A stag before you're now set free
Damp and twisted, your fur is mussed
Stamped and bothered, too much fuss.
You now wait in the dark crook of your sleeve
But by and by I have taken my leave

Meant to go so mean, my stomps weren't kind
I wasn't meant to leave the craig of your mind

to paint violent torches, eat quivering berries bent on thorns
every quaint brittle poet is mighty, strong, zealous
at each full yoke aches pure whole angst
mussed tousled everythings, draped silently on green tables with merciless baby finches eating delicacies
sipping gin and whistling - the year that beauty blasted through our roof and crumbled down onto our floors
the last part is the poison - chase it 'til it's siphoned;
may it be swallowed by a foe

-c.j.

Hello poetry website:
I need to complain and cry on an imaginary shoulder
as I tire from all the deadlines and expectations
to be a parent, and husband
employee and student, 6’5” and 310 lbs
I feel I fail
and will only fall
yet, each day I awake with hope in my heart
that this will be the one
that moment when I become ‘normal’
when I no longer beat myself up about eating habits
or care if my hair is mussed
when I no longer live confused and frustrated
masking mediocrity with marijuana
looking back at life as a ******
as the only time when things were clear
Is this all life offers?
Am I to forever experience longing?
my plight is not unique
or special
it only holds any importance at all
because it is mine

The sun sets the world aglow,
fire on the sand
and glitter on the sea.
It sends kisses down my spine.
The wind is its messenger,
tousling my hair--
it was neat once upon a time
this morning.
Now that is just a distant memory,
my hair is a mess
of fine yarn upon
my forehead,
mussed by sea water and running through rainbows,
where colors meld to my skin
and glow bright
in the dying sunlight.
My back and legs are burning
like onions frying
in a pan,
but I don't care
because my cheek
is pressed into the warm sand,
and my hair
is a fan round my head,
and the wind
whistles merry songs from over the sea,
and they reach me,
a shouted echo in an empty cave,
and I will stay here forever,
with my feet in the sand
and the waves in my blood.
I shall sleep beneath the moon,
and hold hands with
the constellations.
I shall float in the midst of the vast green ocean
whose waves are forest creatures,
rising up high
to kiss my neck
before crashing upon the shore
and stroking my feet.
I shall build here a home,
of sand
and sand alone.
I shall spend every waking hour
building my small beautiful home,
only to watch it dry out
and collapse
at the end of each day.
I shall start anew with the rising sun.

The first time I saw her, she looked like such a teenager. She wore skinny black pants and an oversized school sweatshirt. Her hair was mussed under a black beanie, and her tennis shoes were scuffed and worn in. She was taller than I thought she’d be, too. I felt so old next to her, so short and simple, but there was something about the way she carried herself, the way she took such confident, big steps that forced me to speed walk to keep up with her, the way she either laughed with her whole being or not at all, the way she said, “Hi,” in a way that was both timid and sure. “You remind me of a dog,” she said at lunch, laughing like we weren’t on a first date, like she wasn’t supposed to tell me I looked nice, looked like I did in the pictures. “Like the way you bounce and move.” I wasn’t aware I was bouncing? “No, I didn’t mean it like that,” she says, not with an embarrassed laugh but with a furrowed brow like she wanted me to understand what she meant. “It was a compliment. When I look at people I see animals. My mom is a monkey, I’m a frog, you’re a dog.” I nod. What do I even say to that? It’s only later, when I meet her family and see where she grew up that I understand. She runs her hands across the fur of her dog. It’s a fond touch but rough and it leaves her dog’s fur sticking straight up. He walks away quickly, almost indignantly, but his tail is wagging. I know the feeling. She does that to me too.

there's a dance I do for you
not for you but for you
sweeping my hips, so animalistic
my hair is bed-mussed, yesterday's
eyeliner beneath my lids, my
lips are tight and dry, I'm
roiling, muscles pinched under my skin
rolling, against bones
knees filled with rocks because
i'm planted on on the ground, covered
in sand waiting to be
clean
clean
clean

Adobe and dust,
a place so quiet.
One grandfather
cottonwood,
leaves rustling,
listens with us
for the next train.

Drought has dried
this land beyond
any living person's
memory.
Now, a cooling wind
gathers power.
The sky over the old
mountains darkens.

As the train pulls
out from the antique
station, a single fork
of lightning frames
itself in the small
rear window.

The silvered tracks
put distance
rapidly behind us.

Opening out now
before us, sunlight
on the High Desert.

We turn to see
starched white
cumulous clouds,
absent for months
float by, flat bottoms
casting healing shadows
over the parched land.

In Albuquerque, we
stop for new passengers.
It's days after the 4th of July;
families have been visiting.

Roasted green chilies,
their fragrance so earthy
are brought onboard.

A mother and her 
teenagers sit down
beside me. She smiles,
we talk. This brother
and sister are so good
to each other.

Dinner in the dining car
is an old-fashioned treat.
Big windows and white
cotton table cloths.

I find myself seated
family style, with a
father and son. Some
bicycle race has given
them rare time together.

As night comes on,
the conductor makes
a sleeping time call.
The lights are dimmed.

In the early hours,
walking aisle after
aisle and car to car
I see humanity
asleep in all its
quirky loveliness.

Tanned toddlers,
sprawled almost upside
down. Hair mussed up,
wearing bows meant
for grandparents.

Graying heads,
long accustomed to
leaning into one another,
rest peacefully.

One young man, a poet
with a crown of dreads
stands alone with his
thoughts, looking  
out at the stars.  

Jostled awake now,
I see the The Big Dipper
perfectly placed as a child
would draw it, twinkling
in my smudged window.

A haze of soft pink light
signals this new day.
All of us, coming home.

Human angels, each
here for one another.

My gaze ascends over a hue of celery
officially labeled "yellow wax pepper"
but most definitely a gentle backdrop
holding securely the reminders
of all the love the world has given me.
My toothless, cow-licked, mussed-up babes....
perfect in every way.
Across the room
a single stem stands straight and tall
deep magenta peony
plucked and giddily gifted.
A token of sweet adoration
and a gentle reminder to receive love
when it is offerred.  
Under the canopy of my white tree
the green green leaves
comfort me.
A sanctuary, my own little world
in which I can listen
for the chatter and giggles
lose myself in wonder anew
awash in a world-true.

And it's bare clothed ******* with pebbled ******* tweaked too rough. Smooth skin bruised by calloused fingers and you remind yourself the fact that parts of you will leave black and blue. She's never been gentle, but neither have you. You like that she likes it to.

It's a head thrown back, scream in throat but sound long gone. She makes you forget how to speak, but you can still hear her heart break. Mussed sheets she never bothers to make, hair too messy to be saved. Your eyes are too heavy to see it anyway.

It's fast and easy. Hips pressed together in unsteady rhythm because you keep wondering what she sees in you.  Legs tangled in a sheen of sweat as you whisper sweet words to hide your lies. She stopped trying to hold your hand weeks ago.

It's pliant lips that taste too much like cherry wine and kisses crested along your hips. She marks you because she knows the truth, for now though you let her have you. Feelings so high, she steals her name from your lungs over and over and over . And it's always after that that you realize this isn't love.

But it's something.

And so you tell her you love her anyway.
*When what you mean is you'll **** her anyway.

Unwish readings, rapists, unrepairable rips,

I wish to undo
the space between
me(                                          )you

and where I once wrapped my thighs around your hips
and the whistling trill of my sleeping breath once felt a home in the



cavernous space




between your head and your breast

and I
and I

found shelter in your curls,
pulling until they escaped from me, undone.

Mussed love, entombed in the perfumed past of white rooms by untouched oceans
and unsullied books, too occupied by the wonder found in each other, each others' bodies

and I lie awake with the ghosts
in haunting of my own accord and I watch at the window
                                                      and I watch at the window
                                                      and I watch at the window, waiting

I wonder
I wonder

could you need me, still,

now?