if marriage is the                              fulcrum  

of your existence,


all i have for you is desperate disinterest.

what is there to talk about?
how you clean your kitchen and have submissive, dull *** once in a while?

here's a secret: he probably asked you so that he could get down your pants legally. you said yes thinking of a pretty white dress and that feeling you get watching Disney movies.



i asked a suburban woman this question:

                                                      ­   who are you living for?

hollow eyes as she laundry listed Jesus, God and every one of her family members.

no concept of self.

are you satisfied?

                                                     ­    yes. she said. i am satisfied.

how can you look at the state of the world and feel complacency? the longer i  live the more i realize

                                                        ­ that static is not an option.


girls, ladies, women

                                                            you don't need the validation.

Can I trust the eyes seeking mine?
I want to
Because they look like home
Through sepia tones
A bittersweet nostalgia before
We learned how easily people break

I want to trust your arms
They look just big enough to hold me
When I know the only way I feel safe
Is in the shape of a ball

And if you were any more beautiful
I’d be *******
Much like the ten beers I should’a
Said no to
Before you
And they
Had me sycophantic and stumbling
And already
just a little bit
*******

I want the smell of you to linger on my clothes
The same way fire does
After a book burning
Just a little bit shameful

I want you to stop my stammering
With a kiss
To preoccupy my mouth
Long enough to subdue my stupid

I want to let go
Of the fever that makes my back sweat
When I see you
And the worry
That your eyes might lose their shine someday

I want you
In all the ways that
I am probably not supposed to want you
But I do

I want our wrinkles to one day fit
Like ****** up Ziploc bags
It’s that bad
So kiss me
Before I tell you that

And maybe
keep your eyes closed
Until I can trust them
Because I want to

Crusty *****
           scuttle through
                        the tide pools.

Fish dart among
                 undulating
                         sea-**** forests.

Salted breezes
             push waves
                       on to shore.

Seagulls
         surf the ocean
                           rhythm.

Tides rise and fall.
                 Waves roll in.
                               Peace abides.

this is not a poem.
this is not a senten--

sometimes i ponder like
a young girl swathed in grey film,
earnest eyes bent to world's phrase.

sometimes i write like
a peering boy, letters of letters
and paper cut fingers
waiting to cause her lips to
crease while she waits at her locker

once i dreamed i was
suffocating in my cherry wood coffin,
preacher's voice scribbling
psalms on to his note cards,
even though my Bible died
by hiccoughing moths.

i will imagine my eyes
tracing the back of midnight afternoon,
a word scrawled, fractions of
letters gathering like sickened ants
anticipating pools of honey.

this is not a poem,
i told myself

this was not a poem,
and will never be;

unless everything is
a poem.

Better to die on my feet...

         than on my knees.