i was awake, in the dark,
floating over leaves, as the rain
began. or, at least i wished i
were. instead, i was fumbling under
orange light, dark
patches slowly adorning the
asphalt passing below. i was
free, but only within the
confines of a cage i'd crafted
for myself, as long ago as
organic advent, and as soon as
perpetual. stuck in a reverie,
further down the coastline, i
discovered i could no longer
feel. awake and distanced, i felt
the claws within
                             my ribcage
instead simply pass through,
and couldn't decide if
i'd been cheated, or stumbled
onto the trail of fretless
existence. thus arose my worry,
and, all fears confirmed, is set
out to find something that dug
in. hurt or elate or panic or
wonder hid, behind the curtains
of cold swathing me, though.

       the sky is just a sky.

                                     nothing
builds up, just spreads at my
feet. grass is just a series of
fibre and proteins. a long wait is
just a clock's hands.

down some road, the days
while away in the same or
different places. i am
predominantly the same,
indifferent.

Elizabeth and God exist in a sunflower grave. Her mother and father slit her stomach open and watched the contents pour out like
spaghetti confetti.

Tommy, Elizabeth's boyfriend, rode his ocean blue Huffy, until the tread on his tires grew bald and until the grips were blanketed by dead skin. Looking for her, panoramic views of the horizon leapt beside him. Silhouettes of his legs, churned and kissed the orange and caramel dusk. With every tear in his hamstrings and calves, the **** in his sky grew and swallowed the memory of Elizabeth Mendenhall, Honor Student.

Margot, Elizabeth's twelve year-old sister, was an idealistic soul. Taking a Sharpie, she wrote on her sister's wall, "Liz, there is no death greater than the loss of self, and no life greater than one where we continuously search for what self is." Margot struggled with concentrating and frying eggs - but focused on the sunflower garden, dangerously and perfectly.

Hilary and Brendan were thirty-five and thirty-six years-old. They stabbed their daughter thirty-seven times. They don't know why they did it, they just couldn't think of a reason not to do it.

She begged for her life. The yellow petals of the sunflowers caught blood-drops and, after enough struggle, floated down to kiss and lay on Elizabeth's slow-twitch body. Hilary looked at Brendan and said, "What does this mean?" Brendan shrugged and said, "This is new to me."

The garden was an oven, and digging her grave was like pulling back on a cheap, plastic latch. Elizabeth had pale, pre-cooked pie crust skin. The slits in her stomach looked like peeks into a cherry stuffed filling. Crinkled lips looked indented by a stainless steel fork, back and forth, side to side. And the soil rained upon her like the reversal of hot vapor, returning home.

Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden.

It's November, I feel the war is almost over,
Poland will find peace again. But the war has taken me,
for I only feel the blackness of sorrow,
all of my strength is falling apart.

Oh, my spirit is falling, falling like the purple sunset,
My beloved,  
   I'm fading in the cradle of your prayers
All my soul is hungry for strength,
   the sweat under my side
and the thorns of confusion and heaviness
are only growing stronger.

Keep me awake, dear.
   Tell me about when we met,  when you
smiled with curiosity  when you first saw me.
  Tell me about the time when we hid and laughed
behind the schoolyard,
   right by the flower fields where we played hide and seek.
The time when our souls  only sung with power and laughter.

Now beneath our old house, our home, I can't hide anymore.
I can't hide the hurt, the pain, the sorrow, but I do know
the flames of grace burns over and over, so don't you cry.
The psalms we use to sing, they also heal, yes, they also heal.

So remember me,

   and the star I gave you, for then I'll be with you,  

near the altar of your heart,
by the silver rivers of memories and love, because then

I'll always be your hero and heart,
your wildfire within.

rest for now this day
                                     my mind told me
                                     to remain locked
                                     inside these sheets
and let the world remain
unto itself; everything moves too slow
but fast enough to move itself
without me needing
                                     to give it a push

and i am not holding onto any
of the things and promises that once drove me
                             now i am holding onto
a box of memories and everything good
today i do not move for myself
but the earth is moving underneath my feet
                              though i feel stationary
                              i will no longer feel the urge
                              of moving unless it's
                              something good
                like you, or the beach
                this liquor bottle in my palm
                but i will be resting the whole time
                and let the world move me along
                with it

We were lukewarm hearts and cups of coffee
Breakfast in bed on Sunday morning
Videos of laughter and short-lived occurrences
Late night drives with the radio too loud
Saturday afternoon movies and naps
And a box of letters that ended in
P.S. I love you

this cracking open
ripped sail
widespread fingertips, broken nails
inside an effort is intention
inside intention is a story, experience
& all these lessons I've learned
are getting used up forcefully
is this the way it's supposed to be?
cause it feels strange
when do Ravens sleep
& what does that feel like?
where did I go?
I think I know something.
wild nights, bending and stretching
bending & bleeding
I'm tired of feeding on this word

eating syllables
I am not hungry for

constantly
unconsciously
incessant counting consonants
four letter words
for poor pleasured girls

honestly

we're all crawling sideways
a billion different sidewalks
searching for what -
leftover organs, trace-lines
another time, some other life
another night

keeping quiet