So many people
So few friends
Everyone, preoccupied
With nothing

Nothing but themselves
Their stupid lives
Their stupid issues
Their vanities

I grasp at nothing
And try to find
Something
And come up short

Maddening
Sickening
The nature of
All these people

**** 'em all

Sitting naked in the jump seat
My last shower over a week ago
I let my legs fall open
In the humid warmth
My ***** smells strong
And fills the stuffy cab
With the scent of prehistory
That would bring males
In a distant time
To drag me violently
And fill me with seed
But now
We wash our *******
Or else
We certainly should
So that males can't be driven
To madness by the scent
Of pheromones unwashed
For days or weeks or years
Or ever
Before Summer's Eve
Perfumed our taints
With lavender and rose
And before an unwashed *****
Was an unsightly thing
That prehistoric draw
Was how we persisted
I dip a finger in
And hold it beneath my nose
I am a woman
Albeit unclean

¡ I want to get pregnant
With a ******* daughter
And run away
To the south

I would carry her
First in my belly
Then to my breast
Then on my back

Through mountains
Where the language
Flows like rivers and streams
Con tildes y acentos

We would eat with our hands
And bathe under moonlight
Singing to the gods
Howling with the wolves

Our home would be Earth
Savages to money
And billboards
And national pride

Me and my ******* daughter
Anathema to the world
That sings praises
To purity and capital

Me and my ******* daughter
Weaving through time
And happiness and sorrow
Like the river

Maybe she would run
From that life
That would seem to me so full
In search of más

Perhaps she would fly away
To learn inglés
And meet her father
And cousin and grandma

To live in a house
And eat with forks and knives
Drive a car
And have an office job

I can only hope that in my twilight
She would return to me
To sing again
Con los lobos !

"I don't want you to think I'm racist. I love black people! I just hate *******."
Now, you will not believe how many people have said this to my face.
That they smile, thinking themselves so eloquent and clever,
Illustrates a problem to me much larger than the hatred of a race.

My tongue stays. I wouldn't want my "angry ******" to show her teeth.
She would ask if the color or the speech or the level of poverty made the black,
Or the ****** or the ***** or the **** or monkey or beast.
She may be eloquent and clever herself, but those white ears would never hear that.

We are conditioned to be blind and deaf and loudly ignorant to reality.
The rich and powerful have made us starkly numb to our own folly and pride,
So that we may believe ourselves to be indignant most righteously,
While we unconsciously hate all that is different, opposed, other, outside.

But I will be the same human with all my eloquence and cleverness, pride and folly,
Whether I am seen as "black" or "******" or maybe simply just "Cydney"

He says:

"The trouble with a mask is that it never changes."

And I think of you.
I think of your mask
And how it hasn't changed
And how it never will
According to Bukowski.

I wonder if you are real.
Really, actually, truly real.
I wonder if you are just a mask.
I wonder if you are hollow.

The most addictive things
Are the poisons we create ourselves.
You, then, must be man-made.
You are shoddily me-made.

Every sweet word and sensation
Was created in my fantasy.
I projected complex emotions
Onto your lifeless mask.

You will never change.
You will never change.
You will never change.
You are just a mask

And Bukowski is warning me from his grave.

There are certain things
That are constant
At every truck stop:

The **** bottles,
never far from the trash cans
The diesel rivers,
perfuming the air like iridescent, poisoned flowers
The old men,
casting their eyes down as they walk
The idling engines,
singing lullabies to those in "sleeper"
The dog,
whining, waiting, or watching
The cat,
pretending not to care at all
The noisy reefers,
The bluetooth headsets,
The IFTA stickers,
The overpriced everything

And for me,
The hope that it will all go away

She can feel the hands
Searching my waist and back
She can hear the low growl
Of voracious beasts

She wakes to the smell
Of sweat and shower soap
She waits impatiently
To be handled, tasted, ******

I am but a subject
To a hysterical queen
It is my job
To satisfy her

She loves me, but
She wants more,
New hands and tongues and *****
To placate her colossal lust

Her voice is loudest
Her reign, supreme
Her demanded sacrifices
Are always slaughtered promptly

How many will be
Her victim?
The queen
Shall be overthrown!

I will rule in her place
And she shall serve

So, why does this feeling
Excite me so?
This breathlessness
That threatens me

I'm pretty sure
It's killing me
To feel
This way

In the whole of our human experience,
We can only fully trust
What we perceive in dreams

For days past
For touch
For your fingers
And lips
And all the things
Out of my reach
For steak
And potatoes
And strong drink
For God's sake
For tomorrow
For us to exist together
And cease
The games
For life
For death
For salt
And sugar
And blood
And sweat
And tears

For you <3

Speak to me
Say something
Let me breathe

But you stay
All quiet
"Unaware"

Never there
When asked for
Elusive

Little boy
Little girl
Great big world

It eats us
Spits us out
We are weak

But we look
As if we
Might be strong

Speak to me
Say something
Let me breathe

I
Just
Want
This
Story
To
End.

Let's bail on the film during intermission <3

The floor is above the ceiling
In a two-story house

The ones we thought looked so cool
When we walked through the models

The desert landscape
In the background

Everything was dead
And we hated it

But the two-story houses
They were cool

You made noise on the floor
And it sounded like the ceiling

Reminded us
Of Grammy's basement

The adults
Made the ceiling thud

As we kids
Played games downstairs

The floor
Is above the ceiling

In a
Two-story house

I find myself
Running fingertips
Over the places on my neck
That you've tasted

Dreaming up those times
As solid as I can make them
To feel the rush again
Of your weight against me

Do you remember
How I taste?
Do you lie awake at night
Sweating out the details?

Does your heart still pound
Heavy and strong in your chest
For that love
You still don't comprehend?

I'll tease myself
The way you do
Only touching
For fleeting seconds

I'll think of you
And find release
Faster than you'd think
And it's like a drug

When I
Think about you
I touch
Myself

It's over now,
And I don't wanna talk about it

It's been almost a month. Not one drop of alcohol, not one puff of ****, not one moment outside of sobriety. Over two months without ****. The tiny, bright-eyed black girl with the halo who hangs out on my left shoulder is the happiest she's been since Mormonism. The ***** with the horns- my righthand gal- scowls and shouts "WHAT'S THE POINT!?"
Some days go by without much bitterness, but none without any at all. Am I an alcoholic? Probably not. Am I a nymphomaniac? Probably not. Am I severely affected by my choice to remain sober and celibate? Bet your ***.
The truck keeps me sober. The memories keep me celibate. I'm responsible enough to stay off the bottle and pipe while driving this rig, and I'm angry enough about my luck with men to stay off ****. Inebriation suited me well, even when it was Jesus who held the lighter. Now, I'm sober once again, with my thoughts, with my *******.
Jesus is a hell of a drug, though. When you believe that this life gives way to something beautiful, and that angels can hear you, and that a good heart is rewarded, you get pretty high. Lifted, some might say.
I was easily dissuaded. Not by the truth, but by the hands of Satan himself. Snakes are thin and clever, and have a deliberate way of moving. He slithered over my body, slowly, starting at my waist. We danced to swing music, and He didn't follow the steps. He was loose with drink, and grabbed my ***. Now, I don't know if you've ever had your *** grabbed by Satan, but it leaves a mark. I'm still not sure if it ever fades. Probably not.
Every part of me that He touched, kissed, pulled, licked, grabbed, bit, all scorched and filthy. If Jesus is a drug, Satan is strong drink. He is liquid fire, drowning every pore in poisonous bliss. Jesus wants no part of it. Jesus warned me that Satan never satisfies, only teases. He warned me that I would become Satan's slave if I let Him touch me. Worse than that, I let Him **** my face. I let Him ****** His burning **** down my throat with its heat intoxicating me beyond any drug or poison I'd had before or since. I let Him bury His face between my thighs and send me into a fit of hysterical giggling after ******. He sat His throne and observed me writhing on the floor before Him. I no longer belonged to Jesus, and He knew it. This pleased him greatly.
I gave myself to drink shortly after, for Satan stopped giving me pleasure. I gave myself to petty, unfulfilling *** with many strangers. I gave myself to wickedness that never tasted as good as his **** or felt as good as his tongue. He silently laughed and watched from a distance, admiring His handiwork. I would plead at His altar frequently, touch me, **** me, take me, please! and he would only laugh, stroking his **** to tease me. He needed not my body. My desperation was His only goal.
I am now in a state of wretchedness, hoping for redemption. Satan has me still, but I long to be free of him. Jesus would have me back, I know it, but I may not want a master. I have many chains yet to shed. The pleasure I once felt in the Hell I mistook for a game room haunts my resolve. I fear that Satan will tempt me again once He sees the burns healing, but I know His face now. I know His hands. I know His voice, and heat, and music. I know the pain of leaving Jesus for a devil who feeds on my hysteria.
I'm longing to be free woman, but ****, do I need a drink...

If you aren't living,
You're dying

If you aren't loving,
You're losing

If you aren't eating,
You're starving

If you aren't living,
You're dying!

Shove a spout in my abdomen
And I will give you
All of my syrupy sadness
All of my sugary sweetness

Dripping, slowly, s l o w l y
Onto the floor
Dark, thick maroon
For you to admire

I won't pull it out
This thing which bleeds me
This is how I prefer
To have my life end

Sometimes
I wish to keep you
Like a bug
In a jar
With holes in the lid
And a thin layer of soil
And sticks and leaves
For you to climb on
But then I remember
How all
My childhood bugs
Died within hours
And I change my mind

I'm too fast
And too forward
For most people
And most places

Too honest
And too crazy
For your liking
And your spaces

I'm still trying
And still hoping
That you'll adjust
And you'll take me

But too hopeful
And too desperate
Is all you see
And all they see

I'm the bad guy
Because my words
Aren't pretty

And you decide
Who the
Bad guy is

All I know
Is how
I feel

And sometimes I
Wish I
Knew nothing

Words and words and words
And not a single one
Fits

Ineffable

But neither does that one
Because it's a word
And you're a vision
And I'm pathetic

Ineffable

As if you meant it
But you run and hide
When the lights come on
You were never there

Ineffable

I'll shut up for now
I don't think
You'll mind

You remember
So many things
I wonder
If you remember

How

I

Taste

A woman has a certain right to her delusions. Her dolls come to life, and they talk to her. They tell her that there is a world of unending beauty. They tell her that there is a prince there, and that he loves her. This prince is her lover.
She has a certain right to choose her lover. To choose that prince to place beside her in the dollhouse, on the never-empty throne. She has a certain right to love him in her Candyland.
The prince has no flaws that would offend the spirit of a woman. The prince is unapologetically sensual. The prince is to be made a king by the power of a lover's inspiration. She is that lover who will make him king, in her dollhouse. In her Neverland.
She knows he isn't real, deep down. He is a reflection of a human man on the pure water's surface. Perfect for a dollhouse. The human man is danger. The sensual human man is death. She can only hold her breath so long, and she will never come up for air if he keeps her. She dies happily-ever-after in her mind, but is often left a bitter specter. Let her have her mind, her garden, her delusion.
Let her have the visions of an unending, beautiful together. Let her have the dreams of making love underwater. Let her stare through him to the shiny king on the throne. Let there be much hot blood spilled.
He is no prince, but a king already. He reigns over a kingdom of hidden things. They would burn her hands and thighs with volatile reactions, she can never know them. She sees them, and longs to place them in her lap and admire their heat. She would scar herself for the beautiful pain of the fire of his passions.

And so, I'm not so much silly as I am female. I'm not so much crazy as I am woman. I am plagued by my need for fire and my lust for pain. How could I ever be expected to sit and stare at walls? There is no oxygen in this box, and so there can be no fire!
The little throne in my dollhouse was burned to ashes. I wanted no king, nor did I wish to rule. I only longed to be touched and handled. No queen can rule in a state of hysterics. What would the people make of my hands and thighs?
I have a certain right to choose my lover. I have a certain right to burn down room after room in the dollhouse with the flames of my momentary hysteria. I **** the marrow of my lover's passion and leave him a husk, for he often hasn't much. I am a witch, draining the blood from him with every movement of my hips, using his essence in rituals much too taboo for discussion, eating whatever remains. I do it all in my dollhouse.

There is a Wild King. I fear him tremendously. The Wild King has the power to overthrow the pile of ashes. He is an unstoppable force, and I am merely painted as an immovable object.
In my dreams, he is a wolf, I am a lamb. He grabs my throat with determined jaws and thrashes nearly all life from me. I no longer move, yet I still breathe as he finds the softest part of my abdomen to start his feast. I feel every piece taken, and think "yes, yes..."
My fear of the Wild King is eclipsed only by my lust for him. To be a lamb for his slaughter is my only fantasy. To be his feast night after night is my only desire. The sensual human man is the sweetest death, and I can only hope  to taste it.
Wild King! I'd bet he tastes of wild strawberries, sweet with a kiss of tartness. He is passion and tenderness in tandem. He is a heat that melts the resolve slowly, like chocolate. A witch such as myself could never dream of claiming such power.
I wait for the Wild King in my scorched dollhouse. At night, I can hear him howl and sing. Sometimes I imagine he is closer than the night before. Let me have my delusion. He is not at all mine, but I pretend I could have him. My greatest fear. My only lover. The only lover I dare not choose.

There are rooms full people
Talking small with large, gaping mouths
I want to stab them, one by one
Until they notice and scream
I suppose it will take hours
For the fear of death in their bodies
To outweigh the fear
Of life in their minds
I want them to scream in panic
Scream for survival so that they might live
And tomorrow, when they meet again
I want them to speak of the frivolity of war
Of the importance of animalistic copulation
Of the stench of the blood and **** on the floor
I want them to refrain from cleaning the floor
So that they remember the hecatomb
And speak of the martyrs
Who reminded them of their ability to speak
Of more than just the ******* weather

To watch him is to hunt him
To wait for the precise moment
That I will choose
Not to pounce

To watch him is to bathe in him
To let his presence cleanse me
Of all the impurities
Found in control

To watch him is to shout to him
To yell out with my eyes and soul
Oh yes, we're fallin' down
So ******' help me up

To watch him is to devour him
To taste bits of well-aged memories
And grow mad at the flavor
And swallow them whole

To watch him is to love him
To fear him, trembling and forlorn
Never tell him, never tell him
Fearlessly watch him

Tell him anyway

If you're an
Apparition
Then why
Is your ****
So hard?

Years ago, now
Clean as a whistle
Sober as a Mormon
You poured into me

My head spun
My hands shook
My heart raced
My whole world melted

I stopped you
Because I was afraid
Of overdosing
And dying beneath you

I've been drinking since I woke
And thinking of boys
And trying to smile

But it's hard these days
To find my place
To answer "why?"

He's steady snoring now
I'm wide awake
I'm longing for more

I can't get high for a while
So I'll drink
So I'll think

Only hungover occasionally
It's really all right
It's really all wrong

Drink
Think
****
Snore
I don't like ***** anymore

So go on
Back across the water
Out of sight
Out of mind
Once again
And I'll visit
Occasionally
In my mind
In fantasy
But only
On occasion
When I'm lonely
And losing
My battle
With alcoholism

From here to there
And back
In seconds flat

You're just
A dream away
From me

And I hate
Every time
I wake up

Science can't explain
What you do to me
So it must be magic

Legendary beasts
Fabled encounters
Nonsense words

You slay me
And tame me
And break me

But I'll just drink
To your
Memory

Never too busy to think about you
Never too busy to want you
Never to busy to Jill off to your memory
But far too busy
To write poems about it

We
Are
Allowed
To
Have
Flaws

I wanted to be friends
I wanted to be lovers
But you're so insecure
And dishonest
And fickle

I wanted to be cool
I wanted to be open
But you're so ******* vain
And worrisome
And fickle

I wanted to be stellar
I wanted to be happy
But you're so preoccupied
And ****** up
And fickle

I've never been afraid
Of doin' too much
But this boy has me
Thinkin' too much

Slender frame,
Auburn hair,
Blue-grey eyes,
I'm hypnotized

Sleeve tattoos,
Cheeky smile,
Effeminate,
I'm desperate

You say my name,
You call me "sweet",
You ***** tease
I'm on my knees

I'm useless
Around boys like you
I'm *****
And wish you were, too

Greater men
Have not existed
And yet
You kinda ****