Signal failed
Signature drooping
Telltale signs
Neurotransmitters: misfiring
Preoccupation,
Glitching phalanges
Losing grasp on reality
Creativity: collapsing
Paranoia resurfaces
Obsessions, obscure
Reduced to, as follows:
Fallacies: logical
Dissociation abundance
Time? Never on it
Obstacles: insurmountable
Retention? Improbable
Mimic and nod
Emotion: mirage
Glass full of emptiness
Present
As
Functional
Jul 16, 2019
Jul 16, 2019 at 1:01 AM UTC
I am but
a nesting doll, the outermost encasement
chipped from years of fumbling awkwardness, or purposeful
resentment
nicked and scratched by ***** hands pulsating unsteadily
growing impatient in
attempting to reach the innermost layer
the consolation for hard work and determination
the drool on your collar after the too-long, too-soon snooze on the bus
when you missed your stop and any of the alternates to reach the ultimate destination
a rotten half-eaten apple on hiatus from mouths trying to push away the impending scolding from doctors and dentists
who knew it had already been too late to make significant enough change
to prevent disease
the cigarette **** snuffed out by New Year's Resolutions
and good riddance
I am, by no particular consensus or consent
a small chime, at half-past nine from the old grandfather clock out of sync with the natural order of things
that cannot project its sound too far, but persists in stubborn hostility
not a blaring warning or reminder
but an insignificant tick and
a sad little attempt at notification
a faint headache
a dying balloon
a cry in the night when everyone is listening to radio shows
or the kind of opera that pierces the skull
futile and distant, muted
unspoken for
unnoticed
I am also, surprisingly,
the feeling you get before crossing the train tracks into new territory
or climbing the stairs after months of elevator riding due to the injury you'd incurred trying to prove to them you didn't have two left feet
the notion that time stands at the forefront
and the line of fire is a black hole
where warped memories are welcomed in hasty pleas
I am
a whisper of defeat when the pine trees collapsed in the middle of that summer upheaval, steaming and desperate
and out for the politics
turned into the
knotty pine paneled walls
that DIYers frown upon
But I am especially
the pearl of an oyster
gouged out
and taken to
someone who could decipher worth of shiny, iridescent things...its clarity, salability
a pearl now on a strand of comrades—lifeless pearls
in Chinatown, under the ruse of glamour and bargaining chips and great steals
certainly on clearance
and pushed on the people as inconvenience
a misuse of table space
and getting one-overs
or semi-precious insults
from tourists
who guffawed
at the feeble attempt
to turn a profit
eventually to be
tossed with slightly bitter nonchalance
into a black garbage bag,
thrown onto the sidewalk
and feasted upon by
seasonally elephantine rats
as they swallow the waste
from careless excess
and plastic soul collectors
yes
it's true that
I am,
with disdain,
especially and most certainly,
that pearl
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 4:29 AM UTC
physical space
is smaller than the places between your fingers
resting pen
in the webbed, intertwining narratives
scribbled with fervor
it is no greater than the consequences of past lives
it is
no farther
than Andromeda's
separate beacons
it is less determined than my fragility
it is but a monument
shellacked in lost diplomacy
erected in dishonor/honor of all i am that you will never know
it is purposeful, tactful
embalmed,
for i cannot plan for inadequacies glaring, jeering
bare as my writhing body in night terrors, barren as my future
i'm always planning for things that do not exist here
i can only be one vulnerability at a time
they can never have all of me
what i want to give you is contradictory to what i'm willing
i buried my will for sunnier days
when my mind thinks less clearly
when my mind is not as rational, as matter of fact
when i, for a fleeting moment, am worthy of your touch
your eyes on every lookout,
on every break
in lines—
jagged edge
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 4:49 AM UTC
You're not a good listener.
You're just good at making silence look meaningful.
Oct 20, 2014
Oct 20, 2014 at 5:53 PM UTC
beat me to a pulp
you've never cared for me in your breakfast cup
strained
spit or left out
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
moonshine on the lawn
amish rocking chair, creaking listlessly in the white wind snapping
howls
murdering crows with a swallow
fists to barking dogs and the dead bark, we are the 99%
of deadness on trees
only you are the leaves and root tips and phloem that thrives under the weight of dead things
and death
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
it's not that i didn't tell you to stay
it's that my face had been flattened
to a degree unrecognizable, unable to express emotion
eroded by too many acid raindrop-tears
and too many vicarious hits
of that ........ you covet more
than the newborn child ... years away in my stomach
we will not see light
you cannot make it fill the cavity between your selfish molars
and my cavernous ribcage
you can slash the curtains all you want, but the sun don't like you no more
and i barely love you
(even though it cannot dissipate more than it has)
and you won't admire me as a stolen sabertooth
all the crest whitening strips you fed to me
to protect me from the plaque building up
in my voice box
in my lexicon
are in the trash now, honey
i don't give a **** how yellow i'm getting
and if you really loved me
you'd not care either
but you have this need to place all theoretical constructs
on a ******* pedestal above you
like heaven
and happiness
and love
like they are unreachable for you because
you have short arms
and short legs
short ambition
short breath
and so you keep pushing various cleaning utensils toward me
brushes
mops
loufas
and i eat them
i swallow the bleach and plastic and mesh whole
like i've swallowed your feigned empathy
your lack of morality
and i'll regurgitate them for our (never to be) child
when .... is born
and i'll say "here, ............, look...look at all your father left you"
and i'll eat the placenta
and i'll purge it
and maybe by then
i'll have learned how to teach
our never to be had child
how to leave an addict
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
in a universe away
an alternate me
is also forever
writing about
an alternate you
and in the universe next
the same
will there be a day
when i put down the pens
rip finger-pads off keyboards
and, depending on my celestial address
bask in the moonlight
of our moon
or three moons
or eight moons?
only when the alternate you
and the alternate me
are star-crossed
no longer
and it's
our helium and hydrogen
spontaneously combusting
in every night sky
north this galaxy
and the one after that
and the one after that
and the one after that
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC