how deep is deep enough?
how far will I sink?
will i touch the bottom before my lungs
have no oxygen left to drink?
will i just dissipate into the water?
they say 70% of the earth is made up of the ocean
and I too have 70%
I think I'll blend in nicely

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

i.

do you ever think
that maybe the sun
gets sick

of smiling
down at strangers
in an audience

that
never
even
bothers
to look
up?

and yet still, each morning
the spectacle continues to rise

shining, singing
to deaf ears
blind minds—

silent applause.

ii.

i feel the wind's breath
creeping up my spine
and can't help but wonder

if maybe the only reason
he whistles is to be heard.

maybe
the wind is just as lonely
as the next passer-by

he tries to hug
but gets lost in translation:

soft skin kisses
transform into blows

this power
he cannot control—

he calls it
love.

but others only ever see
destruction.

and maybe now they
both mean the same thing anyway.


iii.

perhaps trees
only sway
as an attempt

to unchain themselves
from the roots that
shackle them to the ground

confined by the soil
that anchors them
to a cage

they're convinced
is called

"home."

they say
every tree
has a story to be told:

the squirrel
who hollowed out its heart

and made a life out of
the rotting rings inside;

dead voices
carved into peeling skin

arms outstretched
only ever greeted by air

and the occasional bird
that comes to sit
on a broken-***** bridge
that once led to somewhere.

it's true.

every tree
does have a story
to be told

and if a tree falls in a forest
and someone is around to hear it,
it does make a sound.

but the real question

is would anyone
be listening
anyway?

iv.**

i think
in a way

humans
can be a lot like nature too.

i used to think you were the first thornless rose to ever exist
until i accidentally pricked myself on you
and haven’t stopped bleeding since.

that was the day i learned that
sometimes it’s the beautiful things in life
that can hurt you the most.

you swear that you know that he
was wrong, but his hands were the
closest thing that ever felt like love,
and if he tried again, you wouldn't
tell him to stop

Another morning I’ve been sentenced,
feeling verb-less,
incomplete,
with my darling noun
I only let down,
when I feel like a child with a numb grip,
dragging him against the ground.

I watch him sleep, my sweet,
shimmering sun against the periwinkle morning
and all glows quiet . . .

but my muck of thoughts smell of rot,
with shadows of vicious vultures—
their black feathers buzzing with dooming vibrations—
smearing their gray against it all.

They’ve grown bored with the feed of palatable pity.
Their cravings threaten to gulp his gushing, golden heart,
bury it in the muck that wishes to swallow my temple.

I think of his holy water and bathe in it;
Thinking in his tears keeps me strong
and carries me down stream.

Each salty orb
wipes the grim and the grime
and refracts the light from his treasure,
his heart, casting
the rainbows that fire
arrows at the shadows.

I find my purpose in the thought of your wailings and weepings,
and I promise I’ll never lose your heart to grief.

Sorry the pillow is wet.
I’ve been crying in your sleep.