Is horse blinders:
All I can look towards
Is the ****** race's
end.

I hope the significant being
growing inside me
can't sense how
insignificant its host is.

Feeling important--
That feeling you get when you
look at pictures of your not-husband
with his family who don't know
you exist.

Feeling inspired--
Watching videos of people doing things
I'll never have enough motivation
to achieve.

Feeling enlightened--
My cat is cuddling me the more I stay in bed
and don't do anything,
while everyone I know thinks
I'm a successful busy body.

Feeling empowered--
That feeling you get when you
can see the workplace political web weaving itself
into knots, only because people
don't give a **** enough to not tell you.

Feeling loved--
So many people are asking for my company
now, which makes it easier to give people
just enough time to have a taste,
but not quite enough time to
actually swallow me.

Feeling fulfilled--
That moment when you realize
nothing you do matters,
so why not get obliterated to
Justin Bieber?

In your slumber, I find you
wandering deciduous Dreamland forests
under a harvest moon

waiting for me to arrive.

Your chocolate eyes melt
when we embrace,
bubbling forth your soul--

molten lava,
cooling in briny blue oceans
to create new earth.

Upon it,
my green eyes lay lichen and
bury the seeds

we've fertilized,

so that they may
mature into sequoias
from our

Love,
forever present.


Oh, how they'll reminisce about
the worlds we've created.

When we get to play together,
we have ropes around our necks,

and as dogs those ropes are
tied to the poles;

however, we’ve placed those poles
and tied those ropes,

hoisting the noose around each other’s
necks.

How long are we to go on like this
before we run beyond our diameters

and end our lives
as we know them,

change the knot so that our play
won’t be lethal,

or slip off what bounds us
and run together free?

Bite into me
with those white,
vampiric teeth

Please--

convert me to
what you are,

so, together,
we can forget
the meaning of
time.

If we’re all actually
in the hands of a
Christian God—
His tight grip has melted me like
chocolate,
and I’ve slipped through
His mighty fingers—
a puddle of delicious
rejuvenation.
I spread everywhere,
molding to all of the
bumps and
cracks
in the floor.
Sweet, sweet freedom.
His son can never
mop me up
and remold me into
His image.

The desert air was
stealing water
from the children’s skin.

Their German Shepherd
sprinted along the rusting fence,
her paws flinging dust storms and
leaving a foot-deep moat in their path.

The children’s mother filled the *****’s trench to its brim
with water from the plastic hose.
It almost melted in her hands--

its oily rubber stench

gave her a headache and she went to rest in the
air-conditioned kitchen, leaving
her ******* son in the care of the middle child,
the daughter from the same father.

Her ******* daughter sat waiting for her,
quivering in a wooden chair.

As her mother rested, her
tears pooled on the table, and she
stuttered to Mother about what their father
stole from her body.

Their mother’s blood became bile,
realizing the man she married
was a monster.

The mother stood up from her splintered chair
to gaze through the murky window
at the children she bore with the beast.

They skidded on their tummies across the only wetland
in the lowly desert town, giggling and
splashing their limbs in the filthy yard.

She wondered how she would tell her son
that they were moving far away, without daddy.

She frowned at the daughter of the *******;
could she have at least
one stable child?

Consume speed,
rid auxiliary weight—

no love handles,
no fat from rearview—

just frame,
pumping heart,
place where man can sit.

Muffin-top women watch me
quiver under skin,

unshakable desire
to chew fat from their bodies—

never know if I’d
swallow or spit.

Red, flushed lips and
green, lush eyes,
my pearly white teeth
and ripe, wet licks:

we're ready to strike
with soft, sweet bites,
the slow, great pressure
will break your ****

and you'll flow into me.

But soon, the gray will come and
I
will be lost in its fog,
and you,
well,
you better **** yourself
back in
and run

before you, too,
come near to drowning
on my chemical sadness.



It always happens soon after;
my burgundy heart
suckles on passion
and returns to its crimson ways,

and all I'll want to do
is play.

If you think you can wait.

Crooked, brick teeth behind
a curled, silly smile

Brown, glazed irises swimming in
blood-shot eyes

Smoky hair, thick on top,
more wispy as it descends

but dense as a forest the hair
that hides your sycamore

when you're not using it
to haunt the young.

Betraying your lusts,
you mixed your sycamore

with a full-bloom *****
and brought me to be--

The white skin and purple hues
of my mother

cannot hide that I am
of the monster.

Dare I, half-*****, half-sycamonster
in my full bloom,

become pollinated by
the quaking aspen,

so we may risk bringing to be
another haunter of child's dreams,

or return to the earth,
never knowing who could be?

She has swollen red thoughts
bursting at the themes,

spherical, lustrous logic,
eager to be seen.

She wiggles her cerebrum
at your skull’s front door,

you invite her in,
looking for more.

She smiles at your neurons
that pulse to ***** her tight,

but she whispers to them softy,
“Oh, I’m in charge tonight.”

Logic ruptures from her mind,
your neurons grappling in vain,

her thoughts swallow your world,
so hard it brings you pain.



When she comes once,
you’ll never let her outside—

she’s now your reasoning concubine.

His teeth were ochre pebbles
From the smoking of His pipe—
He bowed down to my bleeding feet
And sang God-awful tripe
“Life is but an odyssey,
  Can’t you open your eyes and see?
  A lot of it is smoke and mirrors
  But the rest is truly ecstasy!”
He tapped my crimson, gushing foot and got up from His knees
To sit down in His musk-rose bed where He settled His old head.

My face began to boil red until I could no longer contain my head and I burst out
at my Old Man hoping it’d make blood flood from His hands!

“Just who the **** do you think you are, God?
How can you say you see?
You know nothing of the Earth
And the nightmares that it breeds!
Did you notice Abu Ghraib,
the torturers’ many ways?
How theft is easy for gangsters
While children starve for days?
Puh!
You just sit here on your musk-rose
Cuddling its soft, fuzzy petals,
You’re nothing but a spoiled child
Who has never desired to run wild!”

And at this, Father whispered from his bed,
“Capricious, I have been
  But I cannot be blamed.
  People choose their lots in life
  For free will is their fame.
  If I gave them acres of land and
  a home that doesn’t weather,
  their bones would turn to tether.
  You think I owe everyone the world,
  And all the fruit it grows,
  But the sweetest peach you reach yourself,
  And this you already know.”

When my Father’s words had stopped
My eyes caught the throbbing wounds;
The skin blanketed the open flesh
And Dad said, “The infection won’t heal soon.”

If home is
merely a place
where you sleep,

shower,
keep your clothes
for the next day,

then, yeah,
I've got one of those.

But if home is
a place where you are loved,
accepted in your totality,

able to express yourself
wholeheartedly
without words of doubt

and decisions that
crush you,
concluding your fate,

then, certainly,
I've not had

one.

Swallow hard
the food that congeals
under your skin
to divert the gazes
of perverted men

and hangs you closer
to your death bed
where calloused man hands
can’t ***** you,

your memories,
poor girl.

Your exclamations of love
are a reflex when you've
done something wrong

which isn't very often,
but I am the leader
of all mistakes.

I suppose you could call me
Captain **** Up --

how can I be of assistance
to ruin your day?


My "I love you"s are more frequent,
like gusts of wind
that come in with the sea --

you've become so used to them,
but wouldn't mind
if they stopped.

You're adaptable like that.

Me?

Well--
I'm still waiting eagerly
for the wind
to wash over my face

even if it means
you have to knock me down
with it.

Tattooed and holding cleavers,
we chop off our limbs
to give as random gifts
and lop off each other’s
to sew onto ourselves

between rotting brown brick towers
on infinitely numbered streets
in dim drywall suites
all along the gray, hazy horizon

hanging rusting lamps
flicker incandescent light and

swing above our pill heads
whose floating eyes
dilate
to watch drops of blood
mix
as the needle and thread
yank us closer to becoming
clones.

in a dim lit bar,
where orange hues
soften our brains,

our pathetic pulsing hearts
spout whiskey blood
into our muscles

and we flip quarters
into each other’s creased hands,
waiting for the other to

drop the game,
our eyelashes flashing
distracting cravings.

but

your eyes aren’t chocolate pools
until rye sets flame
to your inhibitions.

i won’t take the invitation
for a sticky dip.

Funny
how we animals can set a time to gather,
and gather we do,
to imbibe keystone poison
made in some factory,
we don’t know,
we don’t care to know,
as it fuses with our blood
and makes us careless to the talking and dancing and flirting and fighting
we claim to enjoy,
if we can remember
through the two-way mirrors that
our stiff blood glazes over our eyes,
reflecting in on ourselves our own incomprehensible
madness,
revealing to others our all too comprehensible
likeness,
making them laugh warily if they haven’t recognized that
they can’t stand the sight of us all
trying to claw our ways back
down the fractals of our lives
to childhoods we’re always
forgetting.

Like geese in the north,
I must flee from you when,
in your face,
I see the temperature cool,
your cheeks crinkle and turn the bright red
of an old maple’s dying leaves.

For soon your heart will be cold,
and the wind chill of your thoughts
will bring necrosis to
the most hot-flowing limbs:

I, who tends to run chilled,
will be dead in the day
with eyes frozen open,
the green of my irises
frostbitten to a dull gray.