how to not make waste;
cry over everything so
pain does not go to
the flies over graves.
let it go to art or love
maybe something sane.
water your plants each
waking day so they can live
but when it comes time
for burning season,
cry over everything so
they know you miss them.
the fields are empty
now / a cremation of your
dust you couldn't have saved
anyone/ so you
exist in utter shame and
return to our dust.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 6:22 PM UTC
1.
wonderful dexterity is required
to be clasped tight
flush against wooden walls having knives
thrown at you.
(most people call that a relationship.)
2.
the board i stand against is
a miraculous work of pageantry,
showing only the abuser’s side of the story while
the rest is hidden away amongst
a work of cabinets and springs
pushing landed knives away from limbs.
(most people just call that stockholm syndrome)
3.
this trick, when well executed,
leaves you with knives lodged just below
the crotch
leaves you close to death
but not with it.
it leaves you questioning:
will he do it again? (he does.)
(most people call that abuse)
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 7:05 PM UTC
you don’t get to feel
thunderstorms under fingers
not like i did then
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 6:54 PM UTC
you are not the roar
you are the whimpers
the crook necked panting
your skin melding with other skins
learning new ways of exalting
(holiness or blasphemy-- i don’t know.)
you are not the water
you are not the water
you are not the water
you are the wine
a drink,
half served,
half severed.
you are not the tired reminder
you are the action the moment meant to be remembered.
i think it only makes sense that i give up
and kiss away the last memory
of being human.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 4:38 AM UTC
learn new ways
of taking fire and turning it into art.
take off finding old ways and methods that
are just as good as she remembered kissing the sky with
pure heat.
i don’t quite remember
was it patriotism or fear?
i don’t quite remember
was it a gunshot or a celebration?
can we eat today without guilt?
it goes up in smoke
she looks on // he looks weakly
all things are half broken in this lifeless stupor.
understand,
a firework is just a reminder of what we are
burning, tired, exploding.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 4:37 AM UTC
there is a god dying in America
somewhere over the **** ivy leaves
encapsulating whole monument walls
where i have not seen sense in years
and i can smell-feel-taste the god dying in
this paralyzed America.
he stood six feet tall
unassuming hair and a soft puerile face
where leaving thought on skin made sense and
where we could see him fully and foolishly.
he stood with angel wings and vexed spirits
floating above the carapace of the earth
dare not touch what is not his to touch.
he could make and marry and sell America
but instead took a powerless position
with a headache mind
and decided to stay along with vagabond america.
and we used to think america was godless
but no it's worse; it has a God who has
decided against taking the government's side
meaning; all of your philando castilles and
michael browns will come back to shame America.
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
it is late June
there is no bell to ring
or song to be sung
so the silence is just heat
all the holidays passed and
broken in the heat.
it is late June
and i am dissociated in the
sunshine. they say that
this makes us human
but i am a drab recollection
of life and not a reality
all realities are
broken in the heat.
it is late June
and somewhere across
fourteenth and V we find
ourselves crying in tongues
and ******* ourselves
don't you know that's the proof
of a poet?
it is late June
i have yet to give up on you
but you are broken
in the heat.
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 3:52 PM UTC
left with a pencil sans eraser, a paper
denoting, “this is what to do if you feel self
harmful or aggressive.” down from there
a list of things to do in the sanctimonious occasion.
from the hall you can only see rooms
room after room after room
inside, i hear it, the reminder
of where i am.
a girl in a blue sweatshirt smiles
waves. makes polite gestures and suggests
maybe things aren’t awful for everyone
but they are for me.
i recognize her face from somewhere
and i realize there are so many
****** souls here that i used to
only see in dreams.
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 3:45 PM UTC
while your hands traced the curves of my body and touched the breath on my lips
i knew that i would be doomed with another thing to write about
that you would create bruises wherever your skin ignited mine
like the nape of my neck, or the back of my hand.
or my eyelids. yeah a very funny place to be kissed at.
or the spaces in between my legs
they will rot and mourn the passing of another lover another abuser
i put your name right next to the first man that touched this body they call a temple
and i call a warzone
i was two years old then, and i was twenty two when you claimed what you thought
was rightfully yours to take
somenights i wonder that when your brain takes you back to that room
what do you remeber?
i remeber yellow sunny lights
my hearts catapulating, my eyes blurry
my legs open like a cave
my body getting prepared to please another
to take refuge of you only to never see you again
i hope you remeber the last time you touched my body and
called it comfortable was when
i couldnt feel anything but death on my tongue
now i lay here
four prescriptions , ten suicide attempts later
trying to remember
which list to put you in?
where you a lover? or where you a abuser?
or where we so complicated in the mix that
i made a burning house out of my body
and burnt you down too.
i still sit at 3am waiting with that
blade in my hand waiting to make that last
final call
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 10:22 AM UTC
knees faltering and feet failing
my steps betray me
strides carry me no further away
stationary, subjugated, gasp for air
keep running to nowhere
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 10:22 AM UTC