I keep espresso in my milkshakes
For I need to stay fat and alive
No other way to tell my mother she’s been
Defeated by good wills and diet pill
And an inability to lie prostrate
In the bathtub, tucked
In the corner
Tucked up like a turnip.
I now rouge in the heat
The long chill has taken the sunlight
out of my skin.
When I’m dressed I feel naked
When I’m naked I feel large
Like a moving box or a plow horse
Or a Saturday celebrity news scandal
To fill in the lead banality of one
Lone white rhino ******* once more
Into sand and dust
And then dying quietly.
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 4:23 PM UTC
The breeze smells of saffron and cyprus shrubs,
Silent men with starved eyes and foreign tongues
Nap in shaded caves beneath Alhambra.
I pluck a kitten from the Inula,
Hold her body writhing, she’s hardly mine,
And when she leaps, she’s nobody’s again.
On the ascent, I’m worn, my calves are cakes
Powdered with fine silt. The ascent, I am alone.
Running my hands along terra cotta,
This city, she’s had many proud lords
Robed in furs and silks. They’ve built their churches.
They’ve impregnated the land with herds of sheep.
They’ve sent strong men to dam the melting snow,
To watch it flood in spring and wet their castles.
I’m sorry I left you in the alley.
I find myself beconded by high places,
A mare unbroken or a restless child.
Called up by the great blue velvet curtain.
The taste of lavender and burning peat,
The rolling amber hills, inherited
By these princes or husbands or tyrants,
But owned by no one but her desires.
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC
The breeze smells of saffron and cyprus shrubs,
Silent men with starved eyes and foreign tongues
Nap in shaded caves beneath Alhambra.
I pluck a kitten from the Inula,
Hold her body writhing, she’s hardly mine,
And when she leaps, she’s nobody’s again.
On the ascent, I’m worn, my calves are cakes
Powdered with fine silt. The ascent, I am alone.
Running my hands along terra cotta,
This city, she’s had many proud lords
Robed in furs and silks. They’ve built their churches.
They’ve impregnated the land with herds of sheep.
They’ve sent strong men to dam the melting snow,
To watch it flood in spring and wet their castles.
I’m sorry I left you in the alley.
I find myself beconded by high places,
A mare unbroken or a restless child.
Called up by the great blue velvet curtain.
The taste of lavender and burning peat,
The rolling amber hills, inherited
By these princes or husbands or tyrants,
But owned by no one but her desires.
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 4:21 PM UTC
Explain to me, danger.
Ice too thin on the coldest day of the year.
Snakes posed in the chasms, formed by dark red earth.
Quick sand, el chupacabra, a malignant tumor.
Pills and pastries, needles left in the park,
Poor knife skills, and poison darts.
Explain to me who he is.
Death playing chess on a windy beach.
Body-less hands reaching beneath my sheets,
Like corn snakes.
An old man in a fishing hat on the train platform.
The train conductor drunk in the smoke, snow, and storm
You’re a hungry boy with a weak lactose gene.
Parallel tracks like tres leches and vanilla ice cream.
A little string attached to my belly button.
A curious marionette, a dead puppet.
Too cocky, checkmate, and the sound of waves.
Everyone dies, but not everyone saves.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:48 PM UTC
Mary, plain name. Mary, mother of God
Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall
Mary, daughter of a King and a *****
Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands,
Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies.
Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes
Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41,
saltwater taffy legs, **** and ***
Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen
Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls.
Mary has no titles, Mary is a ******* Mary is an exile.
Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots.
Mary has disciples, all named Judas.
She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer.
She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco.
Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy.
Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives.
Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols.
Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army.
Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr.
Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand.
A graceful end, a unceremonious departure.
Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups.
Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds,
Left her in the strip mall mausoleum.
Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions.
Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
Tell me there’s money in the bank.
Take the eyeliner from Prince’s vanity.
Behead the queen and take the city in a coup.
Give me prose, give me a riddle, give me a rouse.
Hide the bread, and eat the rich.
Tell me I’m a **** boy but don’t touch me or I’ll bite.
Take my hand, then let me step on your neck.
Give me money, give me beauty, give me power.
I want to fill myself up until the land runs wet
And the rice drowns in the fields,
And the peasants die in their beds.
Selfishness to self-preservation, feast to gluttony.
Are we still skinny dipping if my arms have run rotten with gangrene.
Fill me up with floodwater, fill me up with wine.
I want to be full and fat, fight vulnerability with consumption.
The barricades I’ve set are mean, they run hot with electricity.
I want a heavy velvet dress and a fast flowing river.
Give me lilies and paint me, Millais.
Paint me **** paint me crazed.
All canvas turns to clothing, turns to rags, turns to ash.
Once the guillotine, then a cut, then a scab.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
All the sad, dark parts of my life bleed together like blue ink
What was here before the stains in my memory?
Please look at me,
Please look at my empty swollen stomach,
Please look at my beating heart.
Look at each one of my toes hanging languidly off my bed,
Look at them dry and cracked and broken
Look at my and tell me you love me
Lick this ink from my body
I am your pup
Hold my shoulders and rock me
I am so full of cold, dark words
The sparks at each tale end try and illuminate, but god is the ink dark
I don't want to trip too hard for I
don't want to crawl out the other side changed
I must like myself for there,
why would I opt out of self-destruction if not for self-preservation.
I have to see my family today
and act like I am not full of words that are oozing out
like wails and echos
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:58 PM UTC
My hands on hard wood
on soft skin,
on your eyelids
as at three in the morning I put you to bed.
You are drunk and I am on acid.
The whole room is wheeling and the wallpaper peels itself,
I am sad and scared,
and the picture of you lying comfortably
Your hand in my hand
You head full of warm wine
Makes me feel small and alone
I am always caught rebuilding what you knock down
But you have a matches in your hands
and I am the carpinter
Before you fell asleep you looked at me and asked,
"Did you see how he kissed me?"
I wanted to ask you back,
"Did he walk you home, did he peel the clothes from your body?
Did he pull your blankets to your chin
and put a needle on the record?
Did he walk back to his friends alone, with car alarms screeming banshees and concrete littered with dirt and teethandorangepeels and my skin and facehaspores that arerough and large like orangepeels and did he put you in bed?
Where is my hand to hold?
Where is my carpinter
I hope one day I allow myself to fall apart
and I hope someone cares to nail me back together.
Sand down my splinters
and run their fingertips along my forearms
If I tipped over on the street, I don't believe I would wake up at home.
If I eyes grew like saucers and my head filled with echos
I still would walk home alone.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
you can let your body be fragmented into one hundred bleeding pieces
and sewn back together.
you can see the future,
the past
and humanity’s frenzied crusade through them.
you can grasp the infinite complexities in the world.
simplify them
you can make constellations from the stars.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 12:05 PM UTC
Reading transcends time and space.
Langston Hughes wrote his poetry to the tempo of his own heartbeat;
the stars flicker,
the trees **** in water,
pulsing to the same collective heartbeat.
The oral stories of ancient African and Native American tribes have been lost to time,
evaporated into thin air with the water vapor in
their ancient breath.
If you are quiet,
you can hear
their impassioned voices whispering their stories in your sleep,
despite the fact
that their bodies have been crushed by colonization, corpses consumed by the earth,
miles and miles preventing their interaction.
These stories exist in a place where
miles crunch into inches,
where whispers are louder than screams,
where even oil and water are in love.
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC