i cut up my apple then read a few
documents to sign my life away right
back where it came from,
notwithstanding the foregoing.

i am my own dog that
licks the peanut butter off the
spoon now.

i looked up what it meant to share
a traumatic bond and found myself in a
cyclical state between two resentful
mannequins strung against
time and other insatiable
responsibilities.

there was always an emptiness inside.

i put the knife down and think of
all the green onions i've minced in my entire life
to serve dinners in a home that felt like
a coffin.

we will have to try again later.

live a life like a little black disc
and rotate. warmly and popping.
i think a memory of this;

i know something eclipses your lips.

it wont ever sound as good as
a fist
being thrown against your
chest and so
that's how i know
the vibrational touch is just
static.

can you tell me
if we should
keep waiting for the system to
stay on the automatic
replay of the public
domain?

and
if so, this would include,
but not be limited to:
the never ending burden
of wiring between a disconnect;
laughing at some kind of understated
joke; or slight reference of culture.

i think of a memory of the impending.

it's sweet and bubbly, sticky and stupid; and
secretly selfish.
i think we would taste like pink icing.

but when we listen to the
lyrical content and dance around the
constructive ideology of a sunrise
within a glowing rectangle,
plugged into a wall, it’s
spewing syrupy sewage
through bluetooth airwaves, and
you stall.

that’s how i know you
won’t even tell me that, with
words, fragmented phrases;
or some unreliable catchy melody.

and
if so, i'll just have to tell
you it wasn't meant to end well.

i can't think of anything profound to say
other than everything is an allegory
and when you go to sleep at night,
do you think of jumping off of a
building of at least ten stories

like i once did?

i told my mother
the other night about how
i've never really felt a sense of
accomplishment whenever i
really do accomplish something,
because i have this unending burdening
inside me that bids my brain, and other
extremities around me to be obligated to do such things,
and extraneous tasks at all costs.

or else.

and she just looked at me with
sad vacant eyes,  and then i said i also have
experienced very little joy in life, which
i think my father can relate to if he would
actually talk about it, or his feelings, or anything
at all, really.

i still find myself wondering if living with
myself has been punishment enough for the times
i have done wrong in the eyes of others. i don't want to but
then i go back to a place when i was just a girl, trying to be the
right amount of “just enough” for an approving
smile, or nodding gesture. it didn't stop there, obviously. it carried on, into my current chapter, i keep grasping the pages of each day and rip them from the spine of my own flawed
little life story just to keep it from
unraveling completely.

but that's how it's supposed to be, you
keep waking up, even when something truly
terrible happens. even when you are devalued,
drained of your former self, and possibly brainwashed,
maybe. strangers will say that they can't believe your
so-called strength, or whatever, while you exist in pure disgust and
shame that this is really happening. you want to manually
unhinge your own jaw and crack open your head about it. this is really happening.

in the meantime, i think forgiveness is a weapon.
however, it's best used against its perpetrator. at least that's
my take on the subject at hand. and i know it's not
the most karmic way of looking at it but my finger is
definitely on the trigger,

and all my friends and family are asking me

"for what?"

here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs

stooping by the coffinlid
waiting for something to rise
as the other somethings did—
you imagine His surprise

bellowing through the general noise
Where is Effie who was dead?
—to God in a tiny voice,
i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five
crumbs chuckled as if they were alive
and number two took up the song,
might i’m called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb,i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would
don’t punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame
whispered unto God,my name
is must and with the others i’ve
been Effie who isn’t alive

just imagine it I say
God amid a monstrous din
watch your step and follow me
stooping by Effie’s little, in

(want a match or can you see?)
which the six subjunctive crumbs
twitch like mutilated thumbs:
picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown
puzzles, but I know the way—
(nervously Whose eyes approve
the blessed while His ears are crammed

with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering ******)
—staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day

cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way.
here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread

i am made of venom and sea foam and false hope -

i am a series of "connect the dots" that never really seemed to make the full picture........

i am momentarily momentous -
a monster of my craft.

i am the seconds before
you take the lid off of a shaken up
bottle of coke, or some other similar generic soft drink.

i am unescapable, and
i am going to be a big deal from now on.

i am not sorry.

i am everywhere, gliding into senses, talking the way i want to, barely living, but
i am living.
i am freaking out in my very own stupid gutter.

i am never going to be the same.

i am everywhere,
everything,
and nowhere.