Everyone
  is born pure,
    I think.
Imagine red-hot
  ****** metal.

Clay is given to two
  people. Two.

Sometimes one person leaves.
  The metal is too hot.

  Hey, this isn't for me,
he or she says.
  Shame if it's the mom.
Push it out. Check out
  of the heartbreak motel.

  But it's all the same,
I suppose:
  Mom or dad.

Red-hot ****** metal,
  sitting at the playground.
Teacher says,
  Play with the other kids.
Teacher says,
  Does the world seem big
    because it's so scary?
Teacher says,
  What is your nature?
Teacher says,
  Play with the other kids--
    think of it as
      networking.

  Time to graduate.

You ******* queer,
  said the news.
Yeah you,
  said the news.
Look over here,
  said the news.
Bombs, ****, *******,
*******, *****, spics,
******, school shootings,
drugs, suicide, famine,
STDs, rap music, Jews,
Obama, Putin, North Korea,
Ferguson,
  said the news.
By the way,
  said the news.
Have you seen
  Miley Cyrus'
nip slip,
  said the news.

Graduation night.

  Rumbling 'round the
warm, bath water
  city lights.
Her hand in his.
  She looks over,
What is your nature?

I had a teacher
  ask me that,
he said.

They ****** underneath
  an apple tree.

This is what the rain is for.
  What?
This is what the rain is for.
  To get us wet?
No, *******.
  Because I already
    had you wet.
Ha-ha. Very funny...
    No, it's for washing away
      memories of ***
        under a tree.

Birth.

Two people. Two.
  Let's name him,
she said.
  Let's fail him,
he said.

You're my favorite
  ****** cover.
Sing for paint drizzle.
  Kick me in the leaf
    stuffed gutter.
Put me aside. Pull me aside.
  Tell me you've kinda lied.
Tell me you're kinda sad.
  Tell me you don't
    have a future
  and that you're
    kinda glad.

I love you--I want you dead.
  I want you dead. Why'd you
gotta me feel free
  and pretty?

You're my favorite
  failed abortion--
pure shock value, baby.
  Your past is a ****.
I want you to be a
  plastic bag
so I can suffocate myself
  with you--
pure shock value, baby.

I love you. I love you.
  I love you.
Welcome to getting wet.
  *******. *******.
I want to ******* like
  I have cancer--
pure shock value, baby.

La, La, La
  Go **** yourself.
La, La, La
  Go **** yourself.
La, La, La
  Everyone is a drum solo
by a numb drummer.

On, Dancer!
  On, Cupid!
*** is fun!
  No violence?
Stupid!

Eloise in a Christmas tree,
swinging a straight razor
at the children below.
  Never held enough
as a baby.
  Never in love
just a maybe.

Eloise's father
in the living room,
drinking the news.
  Those *******
******* and *****,
  he screams.
Never held enough
  as a baby.
His mother smelled of
  a late night and
pineapple blend *****.

Eloise popping Prozac
like Tic-Tacs.
  Fantasizing about
shooting the school body.
You sonuvabitch,
her father screamed.
He penetrated--
She screamed
  and writhed.
Wrists held.
Body pressed.

Beans and toast
  for dinner.
Mom left dad because dad
  isn't big enough
or makes enough money.
Enough. Enough. Enough.

Eloise was supposed to be
a miscarriage.
Her dad lost some toes
when he missed a log.
  Chop, the axe said.

The world is a swinging place.
Whispering in the dark.
A hushed frenzy.
  Mix and **** out,
her gun let out a shout.
Eloise, queen of the
  student mass grave.

Eloise's father turns on
the news.
He drinks liquor instead.
Eloise on the t-v.
Oh, woe is me.
He went to the shed
  and blew his head
clean off.

The world is a swinging place.
The world in a frenzy.

It's raining.
And people are dying.
Somewhere. Everywhere.
Nowhere. On television.
And I don't care.
And their life is static
stuck in the waistband
of some dude's underwear.
And he scratches his *****.
He's shocked and ****.
He calls himself a "God".
He sent his son to die
as a guilt trip
and to spike book sales.
But he's scratching his *****.
And his wrist brushes
against his waistband.
He's pinched by the shock
of electic death.

It's raining.
I'm sitting on the edge
of my bed.
Closing my eyes
and pretending
my feet are hanging off
a shopping cart.
My parents are pushing me
and I'm facing my mother.
She looks young enough
to avoid
   every thing.

I don't care. I don't care.
There are snares
  hitting the cymbals.
And there's
a jazz musician. He's
nodding his
   head
back and
   forth.
   Back
and forth.

I don't care. I don't care.

It's raining.
And we zoom in on God.
And, clearly, I have a vendetta.
Have I been subtle?
He answers, "No."
Did I meet a jazz musician?
He shrugs, "Yeah, I guess."
And the room slows down
to a jumbled vibration.
And he smiles. Smiling.
Smiley-smile smiles.
There is no ******
like the second hand.

It's raining.
I don't care. I don't ******* care.
My dad yelling.
You have daddy issues!!
You ******* *****!!
And the room slows down
to a jumbled vibration.
What's true is a tumor
and it grows and grows.

It's raining.
Music is the shout
in a raindrop.
The wrists we forfeit
is the church of
an eternal solitude.
And we is I
and the mixture of
animal-speak
that swallows my
   brain.

It's raining.
There are joggers
in the park.
Their feet are smashing
the cement.
Slow down.
They don't care.

Then seven billion
joggers enter the park
and smash the cement.
My family is unearthed:
the swallowed inertia
of an undying thought.

It's raining.

She dragged a steak knife
  across her forehead.
I said,
   What the **** is your--
Hey, we all have problems.
She killed herself with
the memory
   of a system.
Everyone was begging.
Beg. Beg. Beg.
   Make me a star!!
I want to be
   Kurt Cobain!!
So, they dragged blades
and did smack.
Tweeted lyrics
and took selfies
with a poster of--

But she was never alive, right?
There can't be a her
if there's a me.
But I suppose what it condensed
is bound to
  shoot out into
itty
    bitty
stars.

Good ******* Christ,
redeem the men and women
slaughtering genitals.
Grinding against
  the hole in society.

Are you ******* serious?
  Oh my god,
I will die if he takes off
   his skin!!
What a hunk.

It was all elaborate
and people were saying
  "droll".
That's a thing.
Everyone was ******* lame.

Then, the men stripped.
One, Jupiter.
One, Titan.
And what was stopped
was a hurried whisper,
traveling the confines
of the classroom.
  And the men
clothed. And the instruments
  unused.
Sketches ceased before creation.
Paint without purpose.
What a Greek tragedy.
Boo-*******-hoo.

What I could only imagine
a slurry of too many words
aiming at my brain.
The mention of us all.

You don't understand.
*******.

She dragged a steak knife
across her forehead.
I said,
   What the **** is your problem?

If you see me with this big white notebook in my arms
it's because I can't get you off my mind
and I want to write down
every stupid poem that I think of
just in case it's a masterpiece

The gray is fading into black
Clouds smudging into night
Like tar snuffing out the light

I walk in balmy weather
as I see my breath turn to wisps

The snow has begun

I feel the heft of a flake
brush, then land definitely on my skin
As I wipe it away
pastel black stains my frame

And I walk along the grid of roads
My path made, there is none
Just the cinder
The snow of bodies
Cremate

The smell of chaos lingers
here
petrified in the outlines
of ghosts on the walls
Silhouette

The air is sludge
draped in wool
stuffing my body
in between
the drifting specks
Burnt

I'm so aware it's silent
like the brief moment after eradication
A pulsing sound that
blacks out
Gasping

Shuttering eyes, I look up
Noticing the giants of the city
Steel bone, firebrick skin, glass eyes
Empty as these transparent mirrors reflect my
frozen, sweaty hands
touch the soot suffocating the street
Wondering whose footsteps are these?

My phone is my oxygen mask.
I can't breathe without it.
Every vibration and chime fills me with fresh air.

No, I am not addicted to technology.
I am addicted to you.

I wait for your messages to appear on my phone like a flower awaits rain in a desert,
Every mention of your name quenching a thirst I never knew I had.
I make up for not touching you by touching my screen, fingers outstretched over the pictures you send,
Reaching out for something beyond the glass.
The screen does not touch me back the way I wish you would.
The warmth of your skin hidden by the cold metal base.
The spaces between my fingers hold nothing more than metal and plastic,
When they long for your warm hands.
My laptop does not fit into the curves of my body the way you do.
The tablet lets you tell me about your day, but does not let me wipe the tears off your cheek.
I can look into a camera and send you pieces of me in pixels,
But you cannot caress my face when you close the image down.

I can close my eyes,
Hold my phone to my chest,
But you will not be next to me.
Your fingers not tracing figures  through my hair,
My arms do not hold your figure against mine.
Our feet will not touch in the middle of the night,
Instead I will reach out, feel the glass screen and type,
My eyes only half open,
You will not tease me for my hair in the morning,
You will not spill the glass of water on my nightstand.
You will not turn off the lights as I read,
You will not comment on the bear I embrace instead of you.

I stay up as late as my brain lets me, choosing each digital character carefully,
As if every right word brought you closer to my arms.
The gentle woo of your voice wishes me a good night and I picture your lips pressed against my neck,
Your arms around my waist.
Breathing into the back of my head,
Your intoxicating smell lingers on my nose from the last time I held you.
I close my eyes, click off the screen, and whisper that I miss you.
That the digital is not nearly enough.
That HD really just stands for highly dependent on you.