never sharp enough
to take the skin off a tomato

Let the bears run down past the murky streams!
And does stare into the sky
while the garnet moon reflects a starry green
off of lazy eyes!
I am far from home
and the countryside sweeps in grand arms around me
a usurping host,
bereft of noise or soul
but chanting an older story
more accustomed to the ears of wolves
than to mine,
trembling woman.
     The most human I feel here is standing in the cemetery
knee deep in the souls of those taken by the green.
Inescapable heath!
Will I join those locked in your peat?
And feed more than what man can dare dream of?
My god,
You wish to see me drowned in your rivers
dashed on your rocks
Oh, beat of the city, I long for you!
More than any lover's embrace.
For you, the gun
the noose
the pill bottle
very human deaths
all await me.
But here
I am tempted by the unfamiliar
and I fear that I shall die in this alien pull.
     What difference am I to a groundhog
being eaten by a coyote
beside the rive bank?
To this land, no no different.
And the only mark I can leave on this land
is perhaps the scraping marks of my feet
as I plod
back
to my dorm.

I was told to never fall in love with a writer.
But, a writer that recites his work with his hands is ten times more dangerous.
Eventually, you'll find yourself immensely fascinated by the veins that can play keys oh-so softly; soft enough to cradle an infant,
or even the aggressive way he fills your entire childhood bedroom with such impossible power and passion
in a single chord.
But, these hands are dangerous.
Just as they can hammer into the piano, his hands can rip through your heart. His hands will never just play your body simply black and white, oh no.
His hands will destroy you; each and every muscle movement will have you on edge and by the time the decrescendo drains the flood in your mind, it will be too late.

we
don't want any of your ******* sorrows
we don't want pretty frowns and lip biting sympathy
don't want a ******* protest song
no no no we don't want a hand on our back
we want one wrapped around this sledgehammer
to help us knock the walls down
and not to look at us in the pharmacies
and the grocery stores
and the waiting rooms
and the therapist chairs
whispering
a lazy generation
*******
you know what my earliest memory was?
two planes slamming into silver sticks of butter on a warm sunny day
and getting pulled out of kindergarten to watch
as pretty red and black confetti jumped out of the smoke
a lazy generation
on too many meds
where were we
when you shoved coke up your nose
in a ******* disco tech
that was gonna burn down before  1993
you were our parents
the nirvana generation
feeling so good about themselves
and shoving their music down our throats so long that we can't remember how to sing for ourselves
you had teen pregnancy and world wars
this is ours
my war is waged between my hands
one that has a wire hanger whipping my back
and the other that doesn't feel guilty
but would rather not have my roommates see and report me
that's all i got going for me is a good education
sure; people love me that's great
pick up a ******* hammer
and help me knock these walls down

I've not written since the words stopped flowing
in between the pills and the chemicals
there wasn't any blood left in my to spill on this keyboard
i have neglected friends
and built up your sorrows
clogged my arteries with the narrow disdain of stagnation

what life is this?
where i write for classes only
and draw for clicks on a website
what are can live there?
none, none, none
none save my dreary blue eyes
drinking in the rocky sodas
of dying youth
i have not been well
not been unwell
i've just been
and to the same ends
Jesus, i haven't eaten in two days
and my arms ache from playing the scissor violin
i repent for nothing!
save leaving you alone, my dear friends
what kindness did i pay you
by leaving?