she’s sweet like wasabi
and wicked like cinnamon.
she sleeps alone and she lives alone,
but she has the trees and the dirt and the birds,
so she isn’t really alone.
there’s ivy vining its way up her legs,
and cobwebs collecting around her chest,
but she holds hope like an amulet,
like someday someone will brush them away.
breathing isn't always easy for her
because she still carries the moon in her chest,
so she's got a heartbeat like a hex.
she’ll spider her way into your heart,
but before you know it she’ll disappear.  
she’ll be here as long as she can,
but she’s dangerously human.

near the surface,
just beneath the sounds of our feet
among the bones, are arrowheads
maybe a spent cartridge from the bluecoats
who brought a strange thunder,
disturbing the a cappella birdsong,
deeper
hidden in eons of darkness, unperturbed,
until now, by the shallow, scratching efforts
of the creatures above,  
a black organic soup, remnants of plants
and animals who once breathed  
like we, we who now voraciously drill
through the tired but tenacious skin  
to reach a rich marrow, one we resurrect
to blaspheme in our mobile ovens
and scatter ashes
on a deaf and dying rock  

Post Script:
The earth never forgets.
Whatever we do to ****** it is recorded, often in ways undecipherable to man, but etched  permanently somehow, somewhere.
Does the earth seek revenge?
Or is it retribution, or a reckoning?
Anything that has the power to recall every act in infinite detail and in perpetuity has the potential to respond.
Maybe a propensity to respond?  
Is the earth an angry god?
I do not know, but
the earth never forgets.

you listened to
Ricky Gervais
podcasts and
harry potter
audio books
to help you
sleep. I
remember
when your
hair was
brown.

She moves like poetry in the mornings.
Soft pink and gold kisses her all over
to wakefulness, to dream.
soft turns and breath music
enough to release me
from these moonbeam eyes
in a trance
the feel of her breath on my skin
hands undulate
beneath feather sheets
the feel of warm silk
on my own-
glorious.
Stirrings, small circles on my chest
the feel of her lips smiling
beneath closed eyes.
I cannot resist
running my finger down her spine
as the mad scent of her
engorges my brain.
I can watch her like this
for all eternity.
Butterflies flutter open
at the sound of my name.
The faintest trace of whirlwinds
at her fingertips
tracing my lips.
One kiss.
One smile.
And she is forever out of my life.

I imagined we’d grow gray together
and take winter sun holidays
somewhere we could warm our bones

cut out coupons from newspapers
stacking up in a jam jar
next to the fruit bowl

you’d rent guidebooks out of the library
and I’d take evening classes
so that I could understand
black tied waiters

you’d find it cute and impressive
and you would hold my hand tightly
during take off

the plan was that we’d walk around
foreign supermarkets and guess
the contents of the cans

they’d be faded beach towels
and the sticky scent of tanning lotion

our antiquated skin would burn easily
if we didn't smother it

but I’m not sure it matters
anymore, fretting over factors

we already have tumors
growing like doubts in our chests

we have nurtured them,
tended to their hungers and thirst
until we have none of
our own

you are the tiniest of scattered things
remembered in the cloudiest of dreams
so vivid when i sleep, sink deep, or
fly high into my head,
you are the characters in the books i have read,
the heroes, both living, and dead,
you are among the greatest of my ambitions,
you are a man, and to become one like you were is my mission,
but you are missing,
you were father, healer of hurts, great counselor,
confidante,
you were there when i was in the room,
but i was not,
when i broke into two,
a shell of me, and i,
wishfully, blissfully,
irridescent moon,
you are, silver-hair, scattered through the many rooms,
the sudden, unexpected trill of an old familiar tune,
you are sometimes the songs you sang,
sometimes the silences
sometimes the gentle rain
sometimes my tears, or violences,
the woods we walked, the talks we talked
the cluttered house,
faded graphite, scribbled in the corners of notebooks, on walls,
in phonebooks, and on all
of my cards,
you are often here
when i am gone
and i am often gone
when you are near
it is the reuniting that i long for,
it is the forgetting that i fear.
you are all around me, but fading,
you are a pencil drawing,
losing its shading.
a perfect snapshot, on aging paper
once and only once a perfect snapshot, later
smeared, torn, lost, or forgotten,
burned, replaced with another, eaten by moths,
found wet, molded, yellowed, or rotten.
Returned to earth, or dust, or ash,
and though i long  to hold you in a perfect memory..
time...
must pass.
i miss you.

i used to think my body would look prettier in a casket
but i spent hours looking at it in a mirror anyway.
sometimes I feel like my body doesn’t want me in it anymore,
or like my mind is trying to trick me into leaving.
my aching limbs and tired heart make me feel like
my body has been around for longer than I’ve been in it.
it's only just now starting to feel like it's mine
because when enough grown men yell at you from their pickup trucks
and enough frat boys shout at you from their porches,
you start to learn that your body isn’t really yours,
and it took me too long to be upset about that.
because when i stopped eating, i was the only one
who could feel that pit in my stomach,
and the only one who had to live in my exhausted body.
and i’m still not sure if i liked that or not,
but i do know that it made me feel strong.
and it took me too long to unlearn that feeling.
that safe feeling i’d get when i was all wrapped up in my hip bones and clavicles
and the waist i was always so scared to spill out of.
it took me years to learn that a cold heart isn't a blessing
but my feet still haven't gotten the message
i carry worry in my teeth
and shyness in my ankles,  
i’m filled to the brim with feelings that
mix together so much, i can't tell which is which anymore,
and i overflow so often that i should be drowning in saltwater by now.
my heart races so fast,
it's a miracle i’m still alive.
but on those days when i’m held together with safety pins and good intentions
when i wear lipstick like armor and couldn't look you in the eyes if i tried
i will curl my knees against my chest
and hope that that will be enough to keep me in my body.
my body, that’s filled with endless love and cruelty
but not enough courage
it’s an argument i can’t win
it's a house i’m locked inside of,
but i’m not planning on going anywhere.

My brittle skeleton has become an abandoned motel
and you
were its last visitor.

Why didn't you enjoy your stay?

I made a trail of light kisses across your forehead
like spreading mints on your pillow in the morning.
I peeled back the curtains
to let rays of light color your cheekbones
and swept your troubles underneath the wooden sofa legs.  

A motel's only guests
are faint silhouettes of those passing through.
How did I believe you could be permanent?

I have cleaned every inch
of this haunted cottage,
but when I dust the mantel of my shoulder blades,
I only find your smudged fingerprints.

I cannot scrub you from my skin.
It flakes,
it scars,
but you are still embedded there.

How did I mistake touching for feeling?

A closed sign now dangles around my neck
This vacancy can never be filled.