it's a low-grade panic
lurking in the soul
simmering in silence

i distract
my restless hands
coat my neck in talismans
each layer, a clear gloss
but cracked

reflecting back
what i have lost

i have trained
my train of thoughts
to avoid things that cause
maladies

but something deep
inside of me
rebels against
what i've been taught
seeks out the stops
that ******* me
twists around my limbic tree
so i am left in knots

she runs a blade
along the side of truth
tearing seams to separate
the situation from semantics

tossing context
so I am nothing more
than a consequence
of bad behaviour,
an example of pain’s twisted path

reduced from a person
to a speed bump,
slowing her life plan

a hangnail on the hand
that feeds

i.

phillip

our love was
a wild dog
hungry for trust

you buried your bones
while I slept

ii.

there was a small
black spot on your
heart

you told me it was ink
but you were wrong

iii.

you're not going to make it
to midnight,
they said

you smiled and
played until dawn

iv.

your life was a prelude
to the storm
it rained for days

v.

it rained
for days

i am near my moment
of open language
watch
as i hold these quiet words
like hearts regarding god

i.
I feel like my legs have been stamped
and sent around the globe -
perhaps one flew to Austria to hear
the string quartet that stole my heart,
and the other walked to Amsterdam in
hopes of finding the soul I sold,
now stored on a shelf in a mason jar.

ii.
There is no metaphor,
only mileage -
a life lived long enough to realize
that love speaks louder than language,
and all an artist can do is strive to
describe the strangled kiss with
hit and miss letters,
myself no exception.

iii.
I remember tearing a photograph in two
and trying to stitch a half of each of
our faces together - forcing them to fit.
When I looked upon the product, the monster
I'd created, my legs began to shake.

I have always been
absentminded
and semi-organized,
a mistress of the incessant
and cluttered,
a keeper of legends
and a maker of myths

I scrawl my lists
on the back of bill-stuffed envelopes,
chuck pill sleeves and prescriptions
into the china drawer,
systematically rotate
unstapled papers
so I know the order of stories

There are impressions
on my chopping block
from the times I've abused vegetables
while pretending to sever
the heads' of my enemies
or cut their carrot fingers
clean in half

I do my thinking in the bath,
lay flat in the womb of water
and watch my ideas
get ****** down the drain

It's insane to save
'the good ones'
for rainy days;
if there's anything I've learned,
it's that those who make
blanket statements
have nothing else to say.