Some say that the prettiest flowers bloom in the
light of day.
But I would dare to argue,
for I have seen many a moonflower surpass them in beauty
by being rooted in the dark.

l.r.

The moon is a charring ember
Dying into the dark;
Off in the crouching mountains
Coyotes bark.

The stars are heavy in heaven,
Too great for the sky to hold —
What if they fell and shattered
The earth with gold?

No lights are over the mesa,
The wind is hard and wild,
I stand at the darkened window
And cry like a child.

My mind has always been an intricate maze.
It often feels  like
What do you call it?
That offspring of pasiphaë ?
Ah the
Minotaur.
Somewhat dwells in the deep dark shadows of my mind
Feeding on my misery and brewing hatred among the tiny neurons
Resulting me to feel numbness towards your affection.
Every minute the agony of feeling
It feeding
And consuming me
From within
Is pushing me towards the edge of falling into this insanity .

My heart is a grey sky
storm clouds forming in
the corners, in the blink of
an eye

I can touch tree tops
with rain drops, watering
green leaves when I am
a naked branch

I sit, solid body,
side by side with Heaven,
a black and white God

I consume stars,
their fire burning in the
pit of my stomach,

a warmth that has
replaced the heat
of your hand

in mine

It was one of those crisp, clear nights
when the moon begs you to run away,
and the wind whispers,
"you should never look back."

I was born with fists clenched
And full of contradiction.
I was born teeth first
And mouth last, which is to say
I knew how to bite back
Long before I knew how to open.
I was born with an umbillical noose
And blue skin.
Sometimes I forget that
There was, in fact, a revival.
I was born into a family
Of magicians.
Maybe thats why
I find comfort in the empty rooms.
I was born there.
Sometimes I think about
The sins I have not yet commited
And can't remember
Anything about Eve in a wedding dress.
Sometimes I think about the sins
I am actively committing
And relive the Leviticus stoning of
my own Mother
when I was seven
And she made my father disappear.
I was born hearing folklore
Of a hare that was too tired
to finish the race.
I was born being the tree that it napped against,
And also the hare
And also the finish line
And also the unfinished line
And never the tortoise.
I was born on Noahs Ark. 
I have always been
The 39th night.
Always close to the sun returning in the morning
But never and closer,
Though I have been a rainbow
And I have held concrete.  
I have gone swimming in the mud.  
I **** the panic with smoke.  
I know all three states of god
Because I was born the
god of something.  
I was born the God of my body
And that's something
That's never going to change.

dreams and ideations are
weaved into gold laurels,
tight circles of serpentine as they fall,

carelessly flung against railroad
tracks and burnt bridges
to be smothered by black smoke

you’ve got a habit of leaving
people behind– don’t you?
you laugh into the rings of ash

there’s a melecholy taste to
running away; it sticks against
the roof of your mouth,

past sharp teeth and soft flesh
and buries itself in your unyielding
throat like a parasite

you’ve become a host to these
horrors, shuffling day by day,
wondering, horribly, if this is all life is:

to be Atlas, and to hold the Heavens
prostrate against your back,
burdened by gods you do not believe in