And maybe I was born
With this feeling at home in my bones.
This weight
This constant thought
That I am not
Enough.

Or maybe it's a
Poison.
Trapped in my veins from the first time I was
Bitten
By words far sharper than my
Thick skin
Could handle.

So I am stuck.
Between the notion that I am a forest
Rooted in sorrow
Or a
Patient
Waiting for exsanguination
So that the poison is pushed out
And I can begin to
Flow
Again.

he moons his pale flesh against the hologram of my liquored tongue as my right ankle shed's red wine from my bones to my flesh, my marrow is hush-puppy-tan to the pulse, and as to the likes of you, blue satin-ed and confused, your love's blonde blunted curls crowd your cellophane lungs and you breathe in the smoke of her, pale toned and honest, just the way you fry them, quick and in hot oil. I wonder of she teases you with her soft lips like I could, but I suppose we'll never really know.

call me an architect with shaking
hands, building buildings built
to crumble --
     if that what it takes to
     keep you, so be it;
     i'll find you in the rubble

We sit three stools away and can not talk
bold enough to understand
one another.

She moves to the seat next to me and asks
if my bacon is crisp.  I say more
or less—want a bite?

There is a tattoo of a cross on her forehead.
My cousin Beryl done that to me when
I was 12, horsin’ around, he was 19
and no good.

She goes to *** or powder her tattoo; I pay
my bill and walk outside under a sky
so blue I want to cry.

I realize  that when you asked me to  feed your two calicos
while vacationing, I wasn’t given title to  pluck four large
tomatoes  from  your perfectly trained  vines.

The tomatoes were Christmas red, unbruised
and husky. It seemed criminal and unfair
to my palate not to devour them
by dusk the day I stole them;

in my shallow defense
both of your cats
repeatedly hissed
at me when fed.