I am a nervous wreck.
A boy I thought had no intention of kissing me has done it again,
and his mouth tasted less of alcohol the second time around.
Now he messages me during the day,
the night,
the second he gets off of work.
Yet he speaks nothing of his intentions.
Does he want me or my mouth?
Do I want him or his?
I've brushed my teeth a dozen times, but my tongue still burns from that night.

I am a year's supply of fruit,
and even though you have every peach
you could ask for,
I am rotten before you can appreciate what you sought.
I am flesh
and stem
and pit.
My insides are measly and the orange glow I once produced is blackened
like the dirt you threw me in.
Here I rest as you stomp through my peel and crack my core.
I cannot pick myself up.
I must decompose and start again; regrow, grow, growth.
Reach out from branch to sky until I glisten again.
This takes time.
I succumb to comfort in the catacomb containing the plums and apples before me.
Safe as I am in the dark,
I cannot stay long.
My seed will sprout as I am reborn with fresh pupils and stronger limbs.
I've learned to protect myself.
And when another boy,
mouth watering and eyes hungry,
comes to my trunk,
I will summon storms to tear up my roots and cast me down
so he cannot do it himself.

Behind him he dragged his ill-fickle mind
On a tether
That distanced subjectivity and
Seclusion.
He glazed over portraits the way a newborn might look at a parent;
Rolling marble eyes across a wooden floor
That thud upon the friction of
"I know you, what is your meaning? Maybe I don't care."
He chipped off every stroke of pigment leaving flecks of red and yellow under his fingernails.
Holding it up to the light, he looked to see if translucency would bear a bible of translation.
Some would paint over the Mona Lisa if her ambiguous smile displeased them.
But he treated each crack as a symbol;
The morse code of artistry.

My lover was ill. I wasn't sure whether it was her health or her batty old mind, but nonetheless she was not well. It was in moments like these that I knew of only one way to cheer her up.
"I shall return at the next hour, with lilies from the market we love to venture to," I assured her, taking my ragged hat from its hook on the coat rack.
“No need,” I think I saw her smile,“they’ll only die. A grim remembrance of a day, no way to hold a memory. Buy for us a memory that will not perish. Shall I suggest a music box? Large enough to fit the pins and gears and an entire day, but let it be able to sit in the palm of your hand. Ensure it has a lock, so that the keeper of time has a key, where seconds cannot escape it, and minutes lurk in the corners. A trinket that for those who live beyond us will know not of what we knew, what belonged to us in this moment, but can replace our knowledge with theirs.”
I wasn't sure what my lover meant, how tragic her mind like this, yet I could only tip my hat to her with the promise of fulfilling her desires.
I set to town with ten silver coins in a velvet sachet my lover had sewn for me. My steps were light and small, but did not lack haste. The market smelled the way it always did when I arrived, like fresh dough and my lover's hair, and I knew exactly where to find what she sought. An old friend of mine started making tchotchkes by hand after his mother, who played music with my lover, passed away.
"It's about time you came to see me again," his said, his voice booming with joy as he saw me, "I know just the thing you need."
It was beyond me how he could have known anything before I said it, but alas he was right. He dusted off a small wooden box with an elephant atop it.
"My momma told me you'd be needing this. Said it'd keep you company," his eyes twinkled with a secret.
I nodded to him, confused but with no time to waste, placed the ten coins on his table and was on my way.
A storm was in the works as I made my way home, and by the time I arrived, my lover had died. The rain danced slowly into the house as I shut the door. I said not a word, and shed not a tear, but wound up the old gears on that music box, setting it next to her bedside table. All was quiet except for that box, the one I had hoped for her to hear, and our small cabin felt larger now. The stray cat that argued its way into our home was pawing at the window, trying to escape into the night. The song was almost over when I heard her. Yes, she was humming from the kitchen indeed, as she often did, as if she never left at all. The music box's key ticked slowly as it turned for the final time, but the song continued to play.

i can't beat the clock.
the hands of death,
if hands at all,
are linked to my limbs, in martyrdom.
in fall, i smell lilies,
like those we tossed into the ground
with you.
why are we buried closer to hell?

Hey, Ma

Remember when ya forgot my birthday?

Well, how could ya?

They were zappin' ya brain like a moth to a flame,

riddin' ya of the worms that crawled there.

Well,

it was my birthday, and ya didn't quite know it.

Ya didn't even quite know your own age.

"You turning how old?"

It was funny cuz ya knew it just a week before, and the chances were slim that ya would forget at all.

Oh! And hey, Ma? Remember when ya forgot the entire English language for a night?

Well, how could ya?

Ya went into your chambers and screamed the lord's name

or at least I think ya did.

Ya wreathed in pain and cursed the devil out of ya, clenching The Holy word.

Ya remembered Spanish, Ma. Ya hollered what coulda been my name, or maybe the word for *****. There's no tellin'!

Ya always said the word for Dog was "Perro," but I think ya might have called Ol' Miss Daisey a ***** as well. The similarity in the two words is amazin'!

Well, anyway, Ma, ya were hootin' out about somethin', probably how the Devil and all of mankind had hurt ya, and Jolly Todd was the only one who could fix ya.

He hushed ya like a baby, like he were the Holy Father himself.

Ya sloped into sleep and didn't speak again.

I love ya, Ma, and I'm glad ya don't remember those times,

the ones where they were pokin' into ya like a sewer rat for science.

Maybe this year the Prince of Darkness will loosen the reigns,

release the bugs from ya head,

and maybe ya can remember the cake this time 'round!

A king may buy whatever he likes
A canary, for example
may he choose to please his knights and gents
And the canary she is ample

For what? They know not of her grace
And shining boys become dull jack-a-dandies
Singing to a barren dope's dream by the creek
Drinking a fool's dumb brandy

But a pleasant peasant such as I
Would miss Miss canary's tale
A bountiful breast of song she bears
Ceaselessly singing yonder till the day is pale

Tis she who taught men so bold
And frail girls down at heart
"No meaning lies in a white man's life,
neglect till death do us part."

And death did part a king and his bird
Where is my song this morning, love?
By ashen heart and ill minded men
He traded the people's money for a dove

Twas no great doing for he to trade
Pure beauty for plain brash
I heard her sing her sad farewell
And break her wings through a broken bride's mad dash

Oh how the moons fly by
I'd pray to catch Miss canary in the highest blossom tree
That she did love as much as I
The home of his highness, his royal majesty

I dreamt he called me the most beautiful.
It drifted through my open sill,
and landed softly upon my cheek.
Feathers from heavens danced
into my bed
where I was still, but imps played in twilight.
Cursed be the fool that brought me here,
into madness,
out of love.
I'll wait no longer for another to cleanse me,
and if one should try
they shall be naught but a dunce.
Perhaps it was the drought that brought upon this rain,
where I am the ground and he the God
that pulls winds my way.
I cannot say with certainty that my soul will rest this night.