My father
My dad
My rock
The foundation of our family
You are in so much pain
I can feel your broken spirit
I see the yearning for peace in your soul when I look you in the eyes
Which is not as often as i'd like anymore
The sickness gave you an excuse and a good shake and now you don't realize the bonds you might break
I am angry at every cell
Those mother ******* cells.
I am so angry
And my heart hurts all hours of the day or night
I can't stop it and I don't know what to do
I cry alone and smile at the people who melt on by
But hey,
At least i have a dog and my feet have ten toes, my clothes have no holes and my underwear is clean.
At least most of the time
And my love is grand
At night I have trouble sleeping still.
My chest above my breast gets harder and deeper every day.
I am drowning in it.
It's full of rubble and dust,  fire and gasoline
I am choking on the heat of the smoke and the sut is traveling down and settling in my lungs painting a new picture in my body
My father couldn't teach me enough to understand until I experienced it,  that one thing everyone knows to hate.. cancer
The deafening rise of smoke consumes every thought in my mind

When I was 13, my father sat me down and told me that getting drunk was like kissing the devil on the lips and my naive little head didn't understand that it was meant more for him than for me
Growing up I never saw him drink
But ultimately he found that the drink paired nicely with his diagnosis and that he was always thirsty
This man who calls himself my dad,  is someone I've never known.
I choke on the words to tell him I miss him, but the smoke is too thick and I can't see him anymore
He is not my dad when he drinks
He was my coach
My biggest fan
My most favorite comedian
My best friend
He doesn't see the bonds he's broken and cancer gave him a good shake
But now he's blinded with a bottle and he's bound to the bar
He's gone, I cannot find him.

I wish I could breath underwater to put out this fire
I am choking and my chest is heavy
My lungs are green and molded over now and the carpet ***** up my feelings of regret and apathy
It grows up my throat to my tongue and speaks for me
Another drink please

I am young..
I am young and I am Embarrassed and I am Hopeless
and I am Discouraged.
We are a torn and bruised country. Dogs and wolves with frothing mouths represent and repress the bays of mass flocks.  
I am embarrassed to be so privileged, because when drowned children wash up on our shores, we do not take to the streets in furious rage. I cannot be the only one who feels this way. It is sticky and feverish.. My palms are chronically clammy.
I cannot be the only on here who sees this and feels the yearning for justified outrage and conscious righteousness.
Do not misinterpret me. I do not want revenge.
I am young. And I am sad and I am angry.
And I am ashamed. I am ashamed for the terrible things in this world. I am ashamed that I have not done more to make it right. I am ashamed that I am perpetuating this cycle of apathy.  
I am nauseated.. when an animal gets shot at the zoo, people will remember his name and how he died.
I am angry that we do not know the names of men and women who died for our country with no thanks.. No parade. Soldiers who; bloodied bruised and broken, carried their sister's and brothers through the pit of hell and over the Devil’s rosy cheeks.  
But now, I am not as young.  And still I am seeing more and more that my rage turns to sorrow and my sorrow into hopelessness and hopelessness into indifference. It is a writhing desperate wale. It is the sound of all of the mothers who watched their children grow up only in their imaginations, and the fathers whose daughters and sons were ripped from their calloused fingers. It is a writhing desperate wale.
And still, I do not know what to do. Instead, I am weeping inside and choking on selfie sticks and Sephora perfume.

How do I feel? How do I feel? How do I feel?
I feel like someone who thinks too much and cares too much.
I feel terrible for feeling terrible. I want to feel good.
I feel selfish for standing up for me.
I feel narcissistic writing this because it’s about me.
I feel scared because I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But I do. Tomorrow will be like yesterday and today: Full of worry, apathy and a headache.

Soft skin, with even tone
freckled cheeks the sun beams toasted golden brown
lungs with power to inhale clouds
a stomach which converts energy
My body, fertile and alive, boisterous and pumping
all arms and legs and ******* and fingers.

time takes my freckles and returns to me dark moles and bags, loose skin and sagging chest
My breath is strained.
my stomach and tongue cannot convert, distill and reclaim taste ... no...
that, my dear, is heartburn..
My body aches. my heart is longing

time takes my memory
it hides my recollections away in an old film reel.
Where am i?
legs give out, brace for impact
brittle bones
time takes my aging body and lies down in a field of ageless dreams

Aluminum foil teeth
Enamel taste bud bayonets
Molars initiate waging war
On the soft pink left cheek
Gnawing away radiated flesh
Sawing off fat
Eating through layers of rotten blood
These
Metal dentures cut gums
Tonguing out iron spit

Café
tantalizing aroma
evicts every other scent from my nasal cavity
remedy for self-diagnosed cranial narcolepsy
eyelid suspenders

bittersweet paramour
empty mug,
stirs my core
caramel and dark chocolate
micro-foam, group heads and caffeine
velvet layered cappuccino
espresso parts my thoughts

come sip with me

Fishmonger's yelling--
          their tone; open, penetrating
          casting shadows with wet rubber soles
Puddles of sleet.
The first it snowed, dominoes trample, the ground shakes
        gravity forces bowing of

                             concrete ice sheets
                              that rest above raging flows
fish knew what had happened
surrounded by scales
                        weighing the blame
An addict who is crying, lashing, calling out
for an intervention

                                                               ­            finally sets a date
From here his voice still echoes in my cranial apartments
                                                      ­              spaces to rent, pets allowed under 65lbs...
$300 deposit....
the fishmongers  yelling still
                                     singing their gilled vibrato chorus
I'll learn to live by the stormy ocean
and love myself, my voices and my choices

Immature Swallows
Hungry Beaks Are My Alarm...
Time To Gather Worms

Write down.
                            seal up.
--canned jars of word preservatives
saved until years of dust pile
memory drippings into prefrontal stalagmites;
a child's curiosity.
                                         -- Reach maturity
all of the sudden it's ready to open
mild fermentation.
analytical tongues criticize and patronize that
I am not the right size
Demand and detention coincide degrees and shatter ice well long lived, layered and taught

When I started to write, I sat.
seated, leaned, balanced, distributed, coordinated
To the chair.
the stool, the bed, floor, bar stool, couch, beached log
Under my *** cheeks with one freckle on the skin of the left side
petite and friendly
I am wherever I am.
Usually in my head, sometimes nowhere at all.
Thinking of word soundings fitting into the nonsensical particles of language.
Letters cue the stage curtains of Jedi mind tricks..and mostly only in my head does it sound the way Beethoven wanted his symphony no.9 to echo in his.
Out loud is so rambunctious and persuasive.
I don't want to persuade.
I mean to convince.
You cannot read my thoughts, but I know they are beautiful.

He holds smoke in the palms of his hands while he walks,
on backwards,
lying still,
pressure pulls the follicles of hair and rust to attention.
Strands turning on his spine.
Rolls, carols and carousels, sing harmony and charity, give me my due rights! I am poor you see!
Air and breathe discover time cards punched black and blue lungs
Inhale. Inhale! INHALE!... and through a straw you'll see my struggle to exhale............ and release the stress of the world's worst boss--
life.

I have seen the blood gallop from the cracks in people's souls. It leaks with intention and covers the ground. Dams break.
**** the flies. This way, that way, everywhere at one time. Charming, landing, indecisive , squirming, churning. Fragile. So annoying. Pester and land.
Bzzzzzz zztzz zzz zztzzz...
Always moving. DON'T STOP! If you do

--
stop.
Intention will bring the crossword puzzle reaper.

Live for the off chance you get a new pair of lungs
to exhale the fears of exclusion.
Tar sticks to the **** carpet stomach
and meatloaf liver blanketed with sauteed mushrooms and onions.
It rolls like babies arms, full of fresh fat, wine and indecision.
Rest your nose.
Let him lean against the wall,
if his hair refuses to touch the ground,
let him stagger more. He will survive
No one will know, as long as his two hole face keeps from falling,
how ****** he really is.
Snorting dust bunnies
and rosary prayers,
throws his head back 75degrees after
hallelujah, grace, amen!

Two things make sense to me more than most.
1) Coasters
2) Breath mints

Coffee table stains wreak havoc on the souls of the real housewives of orange county.
Luckily enough, at least they're round.
Round means it can fit in the flea circus act we put on with our climbing, lion taming, fire-breathing...elbows.
Lean only one and the stain strains to breath, draft both into the spots and still, it will not leave.
Lines skew thresholds built on years of careful photosynthesis and the apparent relapse of lumber Jack's axe.
Breath mints ease the minds of young lovers too ignorant to realize they'll smell like dreams and ******* anyways.
Like trying to turn a used diaper into a ****** trapped inside an enormous pastry. Directions: Bake at 450degrees for 30-35 minutes, remove and frost with cream.
Altiods and tic-tac gang wars. Keep your enemies close?
Well, see who makes it on the conveyor belt to my mud-hole mouth.
I do not buy them for myself, I buy them for YOU! precious 6th grade crush, if only you loved me for my peppermint fog.
I wish I had remembered to brush my teeth this morning.

I can't write with a pen...
Like an adolescent ivory deprived walrus, he can't parade his fingernail moons that protrude from his gums.
I will not scribe with a quill.
So many times he has taken and driven, smoked and deprived the scent of your breath from touching my throat, I want those words to be yours!
I have never used a keyboard
Too many times I mistake my pink tongue for page numbers and my eyes for the backspace bar. Whiteout works just as well.
It has never crossed my mind to use a sleeve of papyrus, stale and stagnant. But, trustworthy, like old yeller before rabies and rifles.
I prefer to write in pencil. impermanent and irresponsible.
Until the eraser runs off in the rain with the ink.

Thank fearless love for a passionate life.
Throttles charge the gallows as if oddly shaped feet pour over mountains
There are things, the things no one has thought of before
Thin, thick, the golden gate plays games, give way to distrusting forgiveness
Thrusting and diving, trusting the knifing thief
Thoughts and dreams, whispers and spit
Through mediums and *******
Thinking, inking, chumming, coming
Thumbs are an evolutionary error
The taste of him, tactical and scared, afraid of the ensnared
Thrilling and drilling the president, he’s drowning in his will to represent
Threads rip at the sight of wrong and rotten thicks of ruin
Thistles lump near the top, swinging while ticks sway and swoon
Throw candles, lit fireflies, halt the stop watch knowing desire as we die
Throats bleach with boiling bills, and melodiously drown in melancholy ornaments
Theories prove insane is a thorough man with an open book of blank pages
Thwarting covers, nobody remembers, none have known his face
Thrifty as he is, they thrive on his peace and resistance
Thirty thousand cherries dropping at once, an atomic bomb
Threatening the fictitious fruit and depriving them of their dairy-free dreamscapes  
Thirsty Thursday looks at ******* Friday with a fringe of fear and inevitable fate
This feeling strives for a piece of an idea
Those thinkers, sultry like lively lace purple violet lilacs
Throttle sticks like lit dynamite to the corpses of conscious cornucopia
Thirsting crooked thatches croon about WD40, singing of slippery songs
Thespian facades, escapades and escapes, long catharsis reaction
Thumping metallic beats, drum the dents in my souls
Thermal conspiracy, heating the eggs equally hard boiled
Thin trees fragile nuances manifesting smoldering adolescent passion
Themed leaves seize Victoria’s secrets, branches boast their bulimia
Thorns are for foreign foliage fornication, induced by important imbeciles
Thumps will free theatre floors’ footsteps, and yawn gouging groans between the cracks
Thugs wail woes, worries and warts, sailors chug the tailored mug
Thongs, *** cracks and crackerjacks, sweet till the sweaty end
Thaw the swallows nest, waking feathers from their preening and unrest

Her arms folded while she danced
Around the sand covered glass sea floor
Driving away the fish bones and sediment
Ripples repelled off of her body
She gasped, looked into a mirror and fell quickly
She saw only herself that time.
Her dampened lit cigarette has become tired and lonely
Her mouth only moves to allow swallows of milky air through briny gums
Justice turns its back
Hues of voices, a vocal avalanche, taking her briskly by the ankles and toes
The grasp of clammy hands and starfish fingers hold her gently; unwillingly
Fear follows and hides away around the corner of the ocean
She moves fiercely.
Creating wake and restless sleep.
The oysters stir in their shells as she passes by.