lean boys with bruised skin line the walls—
he turns; last five dollars already to the funhouse manager
(thank you, ma'am)
he reminds himself not to inhale, for fear that he will remember the emptiness of the carpet beneath his feet and in his throat and in his eyes
indulging worst nightmares seemed like a better idea on the fields of the fairground,
where he couldn't escape shifting eyes and spun pink silk and the bloating in the photos that the medical examiner took when his body washed up onshore
he is surrounded when his eyes are closed,
with the water by the beach, inhaling like he'll never breathe again and he breathes you in, you in every state of matter
melted eyes and cheap cologne; and he is drenched in the molasses voice he knew in another life,
before
before
when he was young and glittering
when he was untouchable
immortal
the mirrors reflect luxury in the form of decent highs and indecent clothes and
movement in the night as they never stop;
heaven to africa, and not back again
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
a thousand eyes follow you from newly waxed floors
and trail after me with form-filled labels, white on gold
take as needed; do not operate machinery; relax.
the shadows follow our steps, ***** and blood next to God’s poster love.
pin it to the bathroom wall: peccavi, peccavi
two years, fifteen minutes, miles of scars.
we sleep through the days, and whisper
of nights before the hurricane
("what happened to those two?")
("Deus misereatur, the storm took them.")
I daydream of sinking my teeth into the flesh of redemption,
to rip muscle from immaculate bone.
can we not move on?
copper denial drips from our jaws.
and Deo gratias, they say, you survived.
limbless and naked on tiled floors.
Deo gratias et Deus mortuus est.
survival is in our veins.
I watch you waiting in LCD purgatory
as you see my fingers bleed into the vinyl shielded couches of the 12am ER
perception through observation — I let you reveal who I am.
what am I feeling? how do I act?
breathing through each other with liquor in our lungs.
I know how the bile tastes in your throat,
and you know the burn of the whiskey on my tongue
why do we still reach for walls
where cicada-shell notices cling with scotch tape?
take a number and restore the riches;
leave the room and tear them down.
who but God can build over the ruins of fallen cities, fallen worlds?
and ora pro nobis, He is yet unwelcome here.
we are holy, in our own names we pray, and Hallelujah, we are saved
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 6:18 PM UTC
I live for two hours, five hours, bite to bleed.
A cryogenic coma until we begin.
Arguing in vain with the town around me,
over nothing able to be justified, and he and I don't care;
reveling in the confusion of the tri-city area—
drowning our egos and taking our time
until we truce with razor smiles; shift
to removing tongues with pliers in our words.
(living amputation and too much diet coke)
Shouted disclaimers spread to the rest of the state,
in case they never wondered how it feels
to watch a living heart exposed.
He gleamed gold with self-confidence as he cracked his knuckles.
"I'd like someone to hit me, y'know?"
Next to him, Tallahassee rolls her eyes, Tampa looks away.
(I catch his stare. Deo gratias. Deo gratias. Father, Son, and Violent Thoughts.)
Thank God, I whisper, and I am yelling.
He is split from throat to hip and I drain his open truth.
Speaker static shifts the room,
podium to floor.
This isn't over, he says, and we laugh
because nothing we ever say can be proven,
and we intend to prove it all.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
this isn't a poem this is just me complaining that the old writing on this account ***** but I don't want to delete it
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 11:42 AM UTC
sharpie scars on gas station sinks, and "for a good time" still staining my thigh
(splatters of red on a ceramic floor are the only remains of a three am high)
the ballpoint names are fading away, red and white under flickering bulbs
somebody's number is left on my hip, **** it and see if I ever grow old
neon blue and a pale yellow buzz, xenon and glass no different from flies
lighting bandages and a Trojan box for moments of warmth before the flame dies
years of stories on bathroom stall doors, but all that remains is dates and a time
I write my name over cracked reflections, say a prayer for somebody to know they are mine.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
your poems, like yourself
are better than you think
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 12:20 AM UTC
Maybe if I close my eyes
my fingertips will feel like yours
Maybe if I lay deathly still
I can pretend you're here by me
Maybe if we stay online
we'll be in the same bed one day
Maybe if I inhale deeply
You'll be there to exhale for me.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 12:08 AM UTC
I used to paint my nails every month,
the night before chapel,
just to have something to scratch off the next day.
(Flakes of OPI No. 25 in the cracks of cheap pews)
Today I peeled the clear coat from my index finger in math
while I stared at a bottle of Diet Pepsi
Kept up at night by politics or teenage hormones, but usually both.
(Transferral: Catholic to Jewish, Madonna to Lindsey)
Steel replaced by fingertips, arms replaced by thighs.
A year ago, I wouldn't have believed I would be thinking of foreign policy puns at midnight,
even if Jesus himself had told me so.
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
I never thought I could be so relieved
to be crying in a friend's bathroom during a party
Or so glad to remember
that I am a telescope
and you are a constellation of stars
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 10:12 PM UTC
Today was the first time I put on makeup in six days,
flinching as I anticipated the usual sting of misplaced liner.
I have to look good, though. After all,
how else do I make up for nearly a week of anesthesia?
There's nothing else i can do.
I lie on my back on dulled blue flannel
whispering a Hail Mary, one of many this week
and think of all the pointless, trivial things we shared.
You used to tell me that I was always brushing my teeth, and I smiled each time,
laughing through mouthfuls of blood and self-preservation.
How was your week? What's the weather like there? Are you thrilled for tomorrow? Do you remember what it felt like to fall asleep hearing me on the other side of the line?
I wanted to draw today, but notes on my clipboard were everywhere,
surrounding a graphite picture of Lisbeth Salander like a halo.
Notes to you, of course, all of them.
*You used to say you liked my lips,
covering your own mouth
so I couldn't see your beautiful, dripping, two toned words.*
My to-do list is filled with broken promises and shards of glass, but I swear,
I'll get around to it all some day.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 1:03 AM UTC