I can feel it down to my knees.
It terrifies me to fidgets.  
Not like that serial-killer-
chasing-my-pure-as-the-wind-driven-snow-***-
aroun­d-some-secluded-farmhouse-
in-the-middle-of-the-night-
when-I-hav­e-the-least-possible-chance-of-survival
kind of “terrify.”

I compare this kind of “terrify” to
the first time I set eyes on the Atlantic.
A hushed minute—
my eyes straining to see the end
of that blue on blue horizon.
And I’m
so filled with wonderment
at the thought of such a treacherous beauty—
I think, without question,
the idea of it all will surely swallow me whole.

Truth is
I'd jump right down that throat
without a single hesitation
if I knew the feeling would stick.
Truth is
I stay put—
because I know
that just because you plant a seed
doesn't mean it wants to grow.

Inspiration becomes a **** suckled dry.
Inspiration was
all of this brilliance, exuded at once.
Awe-striking productions
left stone-washed and faded.
Inspiration became a crumpled up genius,
thrown to the side and
pressed into the cracked concrete
by busy pedestrians.
The same bodies
who only think to look
in one dismal direction.

In a matter of weeks,
Inspiration disintegrates and
leaves its creator with
no reward—
just ******* at some dry ****
that will never come to fruition.

Just ******* at some hopeless dissatisfaction.

Just *******.

This is fact:
The pig is a filthy animal.
Stewing in a self-created defecation so foul,
the stench will turn your stomach
and stick to your clean, human skin for hours.

Now consider:
A sow's ****** can last up to 30 minutes.

The conclusion:
Filthy sounds good to me.

To be the object
of someone's fresh jealousy
seems so delicious.

When a colleague's name
could suit that of a **** star's,
smirks are on the house.

With a single breath,
I set you free one thousand times—
dancing in every direction.
An untouched fate,
with nothing to call you back home.

I'm the kind of girl
who converts heartache into
premium whoop ***.

Start with a tin box guitar—
plucking tortured notes like
he’s known this kind of agony all his life.
Stretching bluesy licks
that bend and overlap—
braiding every bunch of heart strings.
We listen.
Tune into something that seems to be
cooing fluently in a language
only the involuntary celibate can speak.

No, we’re not getting any.
But at least we get this.

Out of wine.
So alone in my white girl pain.

No cure for a ***** mind.
Ain't that a shame.

Hundreds of reasons
to smile today. Hundreds.
I'd like to be yours.

Jealousy.
I don’t like to say the word.
I dislike the shape of her.
The way she dips and curves—
she ends on a self-assured slant
as if to imply that you’ll be back for more.
 
Nothing sweet to offset her bitter bite
as her slimy saltiness rolls over your tongue.
She seeps into each and every open crevice.
To resist her is useless—
she’s designed to commandeer.
Your mouth will only produce words
soaked with her disdain. 
 
It's no secret you're at her mercy
as you watch another’s fingers
run through his hair.
If you have teeth, grit them.
If you have fists, clench them.
Narrow your gaze until  
her green vines uncoil and twist through
your arms, your legs.
A cartographer crafting
a brand new map of veins
pumping something stronger than blood.

Your misery is her victory,
and she makes no promise
to quiet her celebration.

Some call them *******.
Smart girls will call them weapons...
...of mass seduction.

Never thought I'd have
such an addict's persona.
Never say never.

It's a weird feeling.
I sneezed so hard I think I
popped an *****.

******* may love it,
but I'd rather not know when
I'm being ignored.

Boy's hand works last hook.
Bra flies. Girl grins. Ain't no shame
in coming undone.

Grumpy, middle-aged woman at work,
I wonder if you see me staring in your direction.
I, once again, notice your big hair,
tousled and littered with springy grays.
I, once again, notice your blouse,
dribbled with escapees of your breakfast and lunch.

You’re tapping your foot
to an eighties ballad on the radio—
the same one that we hear twelve times a day,
and each time, I grit my teeth and
begrudgingly swallow the godfather of all expletives.
But you? You love it, don’t you?

No qualms with the world
as you grip that vending machine Klondike Bar
like it’s your only saving grace.
I can’t even manage to blink
as I watch you peel back its thin layer of foil,
exposing the poor chocolate shell
that will soon fall victim to such a savage mouth.  
I shudder at the thought of what you would do
for a Klondike Bar.

Your eyes are wide, black, and merciless
as you crunch into that innocent little square.
Flecks of dark brown fly in every direction,
as you writhe in some sort of hokey ecstasy
straight out of a grocery store mom-erotica.
I can just hear you grunt, “Waste not, want not!”
as you individually finger up
each tiny piece off your keyboard.
I hear your lips smack with every satisfying victory—
and I cringe.

I want to tell you your ice cream is melting,
but I’m too busy watching it drip
down the sides of your hand.
In no time, this Klondike Bar
becomes your own personal rescue mission.
You must desperately save each and every sticky streak
with your unforgiving tongue.
Now and then you’ll slip in a satiated moan
and I can’t help but feel bad for your imprisoned dessert.
Unfortunately, this vicious cycle continues with each bite,
until you become the resident hot mess of Cubicleville,
smeared with melted chocolate and covered in a sugary sheen.

Despite the spectacle, it’s nice to see you happy for once.

It ends when you finally notice my gawk.
That quickly, you’re grumpy again
and demand to know what I’m staring at.

“Nothing,” I reply,
but not without a smile so coy
it gives me away.

I wouldn't mind it—
being the crayon color
that no one could name.

Sugar daddies? No.
I'll make my own **** sugar –
and plenty of it.

Oh conference calls,
I've named you something better:
“Haiku-Writing Hour.”

Adulthood seems like
this constant battle to find
the silver lining.

It's laundry day.
All ******* and bras in queue.
Hey there, bathing suit.

It can't be helped—
I'm groomed to recognize rhythms
to slink and roll to synthetic beats,
to melt and form to that tight snare,
and find pure bliss in a groove.

So pay no mind
as I give my hips free reign.
This music makes a satisfying breeze,
and my freak flag needs to fly.

I heard somewhere that
public schools are going to stop
teaching kids how to write
in cursive.

Guess that means we the dying breed of fancy, huh?

But seriously, America, let's get real.
Cursive is the unspoken *** of penmanship.
Its stops and starts are infrequent;
one neverending pleasure stroke of
ups and downs,
comely curves,
delectable edges,
all made in one fluid motion.
It's always somewhat satisfying to pen...
                   ...no matter how sloppy the technique.

See, children need to learn
how to make love on paper
before they grow up
and slip between the sheets.

It's important to teach them
that it's not a crime to take the time
to practice a little patience and appreciation.

After all, that's how love is maintained, right?

Forget e-signatures.
Forget convenience.
But don't forget the simple fact that
everyone needs a little John Hancock.

They say we need things
like calcium and sunshine;
I think I'd survive

without all that stuff.
Though I may wither away
without pretty words.

There was a time before
lies passed through our lips—
before the world tossed us
in all of its muck and mess;
a time when we found redemption
in a bowl of sugary breakfast cereal
and when we thought we were
always one step ahead
of a coyote and his dynamite.
 
There was a time before we
knew how to take advantage of hearts—
when we hid our secrets in glass jars
and buried them in the backyard;
a time when we wouldn’t mind
making the climb, if only to enjoy
the breeze on our way to a crashing halt;
when we thought that sleep
was a punishment
and not a cure for a problem.

There was a time
when living was second nature;
when feeling was as easy
as taking a breath, and
risk was down right,
**** straight,
******* ****.

That time?
It's a figment of a younger imagination.
But that time just may be
my metaphor for you.

Thought maybe I'd stop
writing haiku for awhile.
April Fools, *******.

When you have a second,
I can show you what happens
after you take something meant
to be so deliciously singular
and trick it into becoming
part of a collection.

Just let me see if I can
fit under this microscope.
I'm sure the findings
will be worth writing down.

Oh, I see—you liked it when I used that big word, huh?
You want me to use some more?
Mm, let me just grab my pocket Thesaurus.
Yeah, that's right baby, I take it everywhere with me—
I find it quite useful in these… situations.

Right now, I could give you seven variations
of the word “****.”
Seductive
         Arousing
                Provocative
                          Se­nsuous
                 Mmhm, you liked that one, didn't you?
                    Libidinous
           Suggestive
Titillating…
You'd like more, I can tell,
but I need you to want it.

Let's go somewhere quiet
and thumb through
my college style manuals for a few hours.
We could talk about sentence variety,
the Oxford comma, some syntax,
and mm, if you're feeling real good,
maybe even discuss the proper usage of a semi-colon.

Just know, I've been saving semi-colons
for, you know, that special someone.

If things get a little steamy, we can go down to the basement
and I'll show you my Scrabble board.
I'll set you up for a triple-word score,
and you can put together some of those high-scoring,
two-letter words that really get me going.
Oh yeah, I think I'd be into your strategy.

When the game is over, I'll lean you back,
come in real close, and whisper some Neruda,
some Cummings,
some Dickinson
softly into your ear.
Afterward, I’ll trace lines of Hughes and Whitman
down your naked spine with my fingers.

I'm sure you know it's only polite
to return the favor.

It's just an idea.
I know it sounds good.
Trust me, I'll be gentle—
But baby, believe me—
I could punctuate you in all the right places.

I don’t find it odd
to enjoy giving pleasure.
Here, let me prove it.

Too many layers.
Peel them off of me slowly.
Don’t worry. You’re next.

Surrounded by watercolor sunsets,
I'm left with fifty slow miles
of untamed back road.

A half smile stays fixed
on my lips
and tilts slightly to the right.

Cracked pavement makes wheels
tremble in fine rhythms
and the heavy pulse
in my inner thighs
beats to match.

I'm on my way home
and in love
with the single notion
that I've been somewhere.

While I drive,
there's a gentle devil
who sits on my shoulder.
He croons satisfying tones
as he kisses my earlobe
and breathes this message
sensually down
the side of my neck:

“Mmm, baby,
consider this
your first lesson
in survival
on Pleasure Island.”

We cannot call it my "mind" today.

It's better defined as
a malfunctioning mess
of kaleidoscopic hiccups—
untimed bursts of glitter,
and mismatched shapes.

Curves clash with angles,
overlap, transform, repeat,
until the nonsense makes sense;
until the noise becomes
a soothing hum.

Without warning,
the improper becomes
the most mouthwatering idea
we've had the pleasure to rouse.

Composed of little
ten-second films of us,
bare-skinned in low light,
shifting in tempting tessellations
that bump and spiral
in heightening rhythms
just behind my eyes.

Such thoughts
were never meant
for a box—
rather a shape
more taunted and tantric.  

These.
My wax-dipped daydreams
that do not beg
a single sip of permission.

I don't dig digits,
but all folks love 'em some pi(e).
Food math is the best.

He dipped his fingertips in the birth bath—
mesmerized by the ripples he created.

"When we were kids," he said,
"I remember we'd try to see
how long we could hold our breath
under the water."

"It's funny, isn't it?" she asked.

"What is?"

"How we just try
to keep our heads
above it now."

The little boy unclenched
his sticky fist,
freeing his blue balloon
into the wide open sky.
"If you can fly,
then I shouldn't stop you,"
he said to the balloon
as it floated
                           out
                          ­           of
                                            sight.

hashtagsarepointless
#imissthespacebarsomuch                                            
#trendthisyouassholes

When I bite my lip,
it signals that I wanna              
*bowchickawowwow.

Fail to cop a feel?
Sorry my bra is like the
Spanish Armada.

One circle
says to another circle,
"Hey baby,
let's overlap."

If you often have
great *** and are good with words,
pen that **** for all.

At work, I pretend
to be that bright red balloon
freed in open skies.

Can't help it— when I
see ink sink into paper,
I think: me on you.

Boy mentions chapped lips.
She's willing to share her own.
Hands need not apply.

I don't twerk, but see,
I'm pretty sure my soul does
when you say my name.

If it's a sin
to keep things interesting,
let's misbehave.

Texting gloves? Useless.
Stubby fingers fall short of
those heat-sensing tips.

So they say I’m a quiet one.

[Insert stint of dramatic silence here.]

It’s true.
This little mouth does not say much.
I chew on my opinions until they've lost their flavor.
I only own up to feelings if I get them down on paper.
What goes in, you see,
doesn't always need to come out.  

But just because my lips aren't constantly quivering with
quips and quotes
                       and qualms  
                                        and questions
about this world and everything in it,
doesn't mean
that these lips
can’t.

See, my psyche, she’s like an organic centrifuge—
Spinning so fast—she only appears to be standing still.
Spinning so fast—she doesn't have time
to make the connection from mind to mouth.
Spinning so fast—she’s silently grateful
that those hovering thought bubbles
can’t exist in reality.

Honestly, if they could,
she’d be royally ******.

I’d love to slow her down.
I’d love to turn her off.
But the power switch has been broken since 1988,
when all of the muddled beauty in this world
came barreling toward her all at once,
and the switch snapped.

She’s been turned on ever since.

[Insert stint of dramatic silence here.]

There’s just not enough time
for me to flesh out everything on my mind.
Oxygen is precious,
and they keep cutting down trees.
I won’t waste my breath—
I’m okay with keeping quiet.

I've found that
just because they can hear you
                                  *doesn't mean they’re listening.