I was suckling the barrel
of my grandpa's favorite gun,
when Gloria strolled in,
head held high,
like a 12-story *****.

"What the **** are you doing?"

"Nothin', sweets, I was just wondering about the taste."

Gloria mixed herself a Mt. Vesuvius,
unplugged the telephone,
turned on the tv,
dug her nails into my weary couch,
over and over.

I didn't ask how her day went,
she didn't call me babycakes,
we didn't touch,
I just watched as she changed channels,
sunk further into oblivion,
I traced my kneecap with
grandpa's gun,
it was something to do, I suppose.

"You know you got to get out," she finally said.

I looked like a suicidal *******, baptized in cobwebs,
and every word I threw at every guest teemed parasitic.
I hadn't left the apartment for awhile,
it seemed like every time I did, I would collide with
some enemy, and my bloodlust was subsiding.
I didn't like it to be so awfully one-sided.
"Hey, look at me," she demanded.

Maybe the neurons are crippled,
can't cross the synapse,
or perhaps it's this culture that
listens only to the false priest in its head,
but when no one else around you is living,
it makes the whole gig seem a bit pointless.
"Gloria, sometimes it's better just to die."

"Boy toy
or girl
toy! Don't
make me tell
you again, Pedro!"

I have committed a felony
within the land of the Golden Arches.

I have gone through
another patient's order
and forgotten which gender
to assign to the child
standing right next to them,
as if in need of another
fresh new coat in
traditional roleplay,
as if these little ones
were the cattle of tradition.

How foolish of me to assume
that the tiny calf in pigtails
would enjoy the strong-willed,
goal-setting, leadership-evoking
action figure instead of the sanitized,
goal-admonishing, vapidity-provoking
fashion doll.

I wouldn't want to lose
another valuable customer.

Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountain yields.

There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

I saw my toes the other day.
I hadn't looked at them for months.
Indeed, they might have passed away.
And yet they were my best friends once.
When I was small, I knew them well.
I counted on them up to ten
And put them in my mouth to tell
The larger from the lesser. Then
I loved them better than my ears,
My elbows, adenoids, and heart.
But with the swelling of the years
We drifted, toes and I, apart.
Now, gnarled and pale, each said, j'accuse!--
I hid them quickly in my shoes.

I

I held a Lily in my palm,
Extended it out to you and
Dared you to love me.

And you did.

We built a brick wall around our souls
And our hearts; slightly suffocating
But flowers grew out of the cracks nonetheless
And we felt beautiful.
Beautiful enough to
spill love across our skin
in red acrylic paint
and show our hearts off to the world.
We were always the artsy type,
But I suppose our love of beauty
Was never quite enough to
Keep the promises we wrapped around our pinkies
From falling apart.

It seems as if the torrential storm of
Unspoken words and
Holding on too tight
May have been the cause of all this.
Our safe and secure wall was only
Sand in the end and

I can’t help but think of the flowers;
they never had a chance to bloom.

See, the things that seem so bright and
promising in the light of summer
still succumb to winter; freezing our
Roots and making them brittle enough to
break off into shooting stars that
crash somewhere in the Bermuda triangle


                                  II

Adieu love
I wish we could wash our hands of this but
my soul is stained with your red lipstick,
pierced with the twilight of your eyes
and a wish that the frayed ends of
this story could be woven back together into
the friendship bracelet we connected our souls
with so many months ago.
But I imagine you cut it off when you cut
these heartstrings
and I'll writhe upon the ground with the broken pieces;
according to you I've always been a snake
so it seems fitting.
My tongue is sharp
but the vision of your halo and wings
still jade my irises.

Just please believe me when I say
that this was unintentional.
The crescent moon that shone against your cheek
was just sharp enough to
severe our ties
and set too low beneath your pupils
to grow this garden.

Time with its second hands are clasped tight
and jagged...
in the end
our pieces were too frayed to fit.

I still wrote poetry of you,
but it was never quite as wonderful
as when you spoke it
and now I write poetry of you
and it’s not nearly as painful as
your silence. So
I would say this is an apology;
A hope that perhaps on a day that
you’re remembering how our blood
flowed together with laughter
you’d stumble upon this cry of desperation
and forgive me
or at least let me explain.

But I don’t even know you anymore

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

i know what i am,
to you.
an embarrasment,
don't let the ladies from the church,
hear that i dont believe in god.
you have dragged me,
to shrinks,
to priests,
convinced i am of the devil,
convinced i was molested.
convinced that there is something to be fixed.

all the while,
i had known,
that my disease was not of the mind.
i was not diseased at all!

i was wearing black,
because i liked it.
i loved a woman,
because she made me happy.
i have ink on my skin,
because its beautifull.
i have steel in my flesh,
because it appeals to me.
i am an atheist,
because it makes sense.

but lo!
shield your gaze from me.
cover your children's ears.
suspect that they are gay,
while you are at it,
it rubs off you know.

push your head into that hole,
stick your fingers in your ears,
and sing a ditty to drown me out.

cut me off.
frankly, i dont care.
i am done explaining.
no longer,
can i fake a placid demeanor,
around the dinner table,
to encourage your beliefs.

i know you think,
its all attention seeking.

equipped with this,
my mother,
my sister,
i will not squirm under your gaze any more.
i cannot conform,
to your ideas,
of a daughter,
of a sister,
of a wife,
of a woman.

i fly proudly in the face of your disaproval,
because i know,
every step i take towards your shackles,
is a step away from my destiny.