People take turns inserting coins
attempting to grab plushy hearts and plastic capsules
the claws never were good at holding on for long
always went limp, dropping the trinkets, just before the finish line
only time it grabbed hold of something long enough
to flash all the lights and sing
was for children
who pointed a tiny hand
at something shiny they saw inside
parents step up to fail again and again
at winning it for them.
when the kids have a turn.
on the first try, they lasso this heart
resting firmly on the bottom
hidden beneath all the old ipods and heavy rubber toys.
would glow in the lights
when they lit all up and sang for them.
revered for their expertise and skill,
they reach in to claim their reward.
not even knowing what it really was.
but for some reason
grabbing it.
bringing it everywhere.
when the kids get older.
it was kept on their bed.
when they had their own children
handed down to toy chests
when they grew old, their children left the hearts
in hospital rooms...

they didn't think of it much.
seemed natural to lug it around.
everyone was so proud, that the machine chose them.
the prize was so soft, and familiar.

the machine, though.
could tell every day that it was missing.
held tightly onto the coins they left.
kept filling itself with junk and giving it to strangers
hoping one day they'd come back to play again.

a man comes by once in awhile to relieve him of his coin
then fills him full of new prizes to divvy out.
but the claw machine lodges some coins
far in the back, where his short arms can't reach
so he can remember

Demons are born in
the venn diagrams of who
you are vs. who
you want to be.

Eclipsing the hell
portals is the only way
to seal the gate to
mental illness.

the only way to
lasso your planetary
pie charts is to self
actualize.

Under her left eye.
It had turned Black,
baffled the doctors,
But the fortune teller knew exactlly what it was.
she Told her it represented death,
Something precious.

doctors said If she let the mark sit any longer
She would've been cursed with
calloused eyes.
gave her ten years to see.
nobody can explain where it came from.
But By proxy she blamed god.

she traveled 6 months later
Against her will blinded by city lights
and lost more than her eyes.

No stars
Cracked like an eggshell
On the cold table.

Drove back broken and tired to
find not a man, but a theif.
With a manic smile,
blood glowing in his eyes.

she was so worried
about losing her sight.
she didn't see his spell.

he told her to choose
And when she chose him,
When she Limped into him, vacant and afraid
He left anyway.

I promise you.
every day.
I will describe the stars to you.
Paint every dog in the street,
pile of leaves, with my voice.
I will keep writing you poetry,
I'll bring your eyes around with me.

I wish I could preach the world was clean.
But you love
how human it all is.
you wouldn't let me lie to you.
about the constellations being out every night.
you know that sometimes, clouds play blanket for the stars.
the cardboard signs, on commercial street.
you always said they deserve to be read.
as loudly as any grandfathers story so i Will read them to you.
"Homeless, anything will help.
i Quit gambling, but I bet you can't hit me with a quarter"

But lover, you will never be blind.
You are
My oracle, feeling tarot in your heart.
guessing each card by the vibrations
three of wands, two of cups, the fool.
even now, when we can't see a future together.
you will never be blind
I will keep writing you poetry.
until I run out of blood, or ink.
and even in that silence.
if you listen closely
You will hear everything I see.

because when I'm gone, lover.
i'll find her for you.
tell you how beautiful she's become.
Tell you
How she has your eyes.

"How many licks does
It take me, to sleep at the
Center, Officer?"

You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,

spend less time breathing than contemplating,
jailbreak daily from your ribcage,

harbor kitchen spoons to feed your escapism.
hide the entrance
under stale white hotel sheets.

Born to be an actress
with no script, you ponder this
in every mirror.

In every mirror you inherit this vacant body,
enough money to live in a studio apartment
in Washington, Vegas or anywhere

men would pay for three phone plans,
calf-length black socks and pseudonyms.

A room at the Marriot to trade scars,
connect you again with your skin.

At a political dinner
roasted hog, blueberry pie,
gilded knifes protecting the spoons.

Dog mouths are wet for scraps.
They bark beneath the table,

"Unoccupied bodies, should start charging rent.
Have you considered being a *** worker?"

"...Oh come on,
you never even turn on the lights."

Have you considered being a *** worker?
You have a body.
I know you never sleep there,
spend less time breathing than associating with your own ribcage.
You're an actress
no script, just a character summary.

Limp, age 12, non-verbal marionette.
Snaps her strings when forced to dance.
Clings to the ceiling tiles, like the shadows she hallucinates.
Let's the puppet fall numb under strangers.
Ragdoll to be used for kindling.

When you play your part
You'll inherit enough money to afford a studio apartment
in Washington, or Las Vegas; anywhere with men paid large enough salary to afford your vacant body,
three phone plans,
a hotel room for you to stay awake in
Listening to dull thuds against your wrongfully warm corpse
Invited hoping the stinging could form tendons
adhere together like rubber bands
Snap you back into your skin.
You cling helpless to the ceiling tiles
Watch the ragdoll make mistakes.

"Have you considered being a *** worker?"
A homeless woman asked me,
*"Unoccupied bodies should start charging rent.
Let a man who can afford it pay for utilities.
You might be homeless
but you won't be wasted space".