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em Jul 2021
some guy on the corner, living like his third world relative, wearing a shirt that says “the only cure is kindness”

a woman on the subway, fattened up on consumerism, flipping through the pages of her first read in three years-

“you are enough: and other ways to avoid overeating”

the shocks come in the form of niceties

bloodied, invisible war faces dishing out the l-word

drying up the n-word with their own iodized vocabulary.

places to go never served much for me save for the literal change of scenery

something else for my eyes to melt onto.

Columbine High School right off Pierce

If you squint hard enough,

I bet you could still see the linoleum sticky with blood and

feel, not hear, the primal screams bashing themselves against the walls

Fear smells potent enough that most of us can recognize it, and some of us crave it,

like a shark.

miles of ocean is nothing when your life wavers in the heat-

survival becomes nutrient-rich

don’t let me catch you salivating over it

I might just destroy you too.

Hope Cemetery

eat the rich

**** the dead

pass by the living in all their

sun-******* glory.

Dithers attempt to wrestle the silence cast out by a thousand stones

inscriptions lost all purpose, dates scuffed away by wind.

at night, each night past the full, bleeding moon,

he gets on his two bad knees and prays to God that his unloved family might become lovable,

that his mind may be forever closed to the idea of sin,

and that his throat may never feel the hot rush of alcohol again.

because who could judge the people who were victims of life’s potential?

who was to blame?

not the kind-men

not the prayers not the seekers

not the midnight drinkers

it was only the ones whose anger arrested them

and then the law

and then their own guilt.

summer was a severance

some time to grow too warm in the sun

disregard the ******* who leaned on faith with all their weight and pointed their skinny fingers at every disobedient child.

**** the cookie jar.

if it wasn’t me, it was the Noah’s ark worth of people that shuffled up and down that spiraled staircase each summer.

last full memory i was there

i saw some blue birds with balding spots, tethered in their concrete cage

which i opened silently as silent as my own breathing

as my rage.

and as i was scolded

the scorch of hot breath against my gooseflesh neck

i smiled, a fluttering one

because that freed one was kissing my eleventh winter.
em Jul 2021
i whimper and struggle underneath the weight
of a full-scale massacre
won’t my world ever be the same?
won’t my consciousness refuse to wake in the face of such…
cross-hatch the heavens
seal shut the gate as he looks out upon me, out past the closing door
his eyelid like a tiny boat.
it is with a ballad in its might
that i both see and feel this
to my others, it bolsters itself to the light of the sun
and the grief that tears through me
is another entity.
it has outweighed the sound of nails against board
it has outweighed illness, and the tiresome conversation of hope
it has outweighed many days lost at sea
outweighed the great loss of a person
outweighed the equal and greater gain of another
outweighed the potential of life
it has outweighed its shortcomings
as it is,
has been diminished as an ember.
yet the fire rages on,
embellished and doted and needed
labored upon.
and i, i do not dream of labor.
em Jun 2021
thirteen claw-marks from that cat on the shaky marble floor

who knows, as it etches itself into a rich mans immaculate masculinity

wiping away my helplessness before it too makes its mark.

i wish they would put their shoes together

left toe touches right toe

thats the only way it can be,

just right in the invisible space in the carbon dioxide collection.

twenty-seven pennies

bitter smelling in the jar which has just reached its peak in age and dust

they are the majority within their glass prison

dignified despite their rust

meaningless in their respite,

soon to be obsolete, as he points out constantly.

oh, how the world changes.

and i have only been conscious for a tiny tick on the clock.

now, this old man, with his inflexible spectacles

lacks the view in his birds eye and peripheral

but probably considers my shadow a bad omen.

he shivers in the wake of such an evil.

my teeth click against each other, electrified with the being of that evil.

the setting is white,

or rather, a version of it, decrepit with the plaque of a pattern all too familiar.

this is my dream room.

where i find myself often

and where often i am a stranger

my letters of wonder which i design on the walls, on the solar filled floor to ceiling glass

backwards of course, in hopes that someone might read them,

have turned tired and cold,

no longer illustrate their longing

nor their greed for adrenaline

nor their want for the world.

black and chicken scratch

stationed among the randomized pauses and the seemingly infinite crack in the wallpaper

might it widen its mouth for me

as it did so slowly

so lustfully

for her?

how possible is the other side,

when the world that you breathe in suffocates you only long enough until you remind yourself in silence

to breathe again.

imprisonment feels kinder when you can see out,

even though they can see in.

shuttered away, i build upon my layers until my mind can multiply itself

sneak out its smoky tendrils and climb along the terrace,

and wail

and scream

and scream until you could hear it down the street

until each person ceased their hearts

in between beats they meet the sound of a consciousness so distinctively torn they can’t help but reconcile with their own.

but i will never reach them that way

as i did not reach her

as i did not reach you.

i wear the glass, a translucent suit of sea green and nursery blue

each time they touch me, allow their fingers to feel my life

to feel my death

to feel the imperfect atoms which make up my aloneness, the invisible filth-

they are pricked and sliced open

the way grass does on bare skin only to be noticed hours later

in me, they see themselves

and the hatred only

em Jun 2021
there was a fire between you
a passion, some kind of lust
and you called it a miracle.
a split ashtray and broken seatbelts and
a flat tire and a screaming baby
you called it a miracle.
dead romance, techno music,
afro picks and spilled beer.
you called it a miracle.
boxes lined with insulation,
IV drip and nurses pressed for life.
you called it a miracle.
happiness, hopelessness,
hurried love, first homes, small toes.
then and there and back again,
hospital bed, open head, runny eggs and
is it still a miracle?
im just me,
and theres no cure for that.
and you *******
you twisted sick-suckled *******
crash with the street kids
ruffle up the birdies
who grow seedlings out
their ribcage
only they need to be dead
for that kind of beauty.
and shes shithoused drunk by 3pm
forgot the toothpaste but
not the alprazolam
whats better than a swig out
the ol’ medicine cabinet
and half a cigarette?
thought she might’ve stomped it out
had she not had that metaphor
sharp as glass in her left hand.
men with mottled skin and
charred faces mar and del mar
locks up them up with only
a nose through the bars
i meant to stay hid beneath
that misconception
hear that monster coming?
with his rusted bayonette,
alcohol on his breath?
whats it to you
but the game of life?
of life
which player am i?
the wound or the knife?
and i spent my days treading
barefoot on the beaten earth
radiator burning holes through
the socks she gave me one Christmas eve
which player am i now?
or am i a pawn, relinquished in black
in the lack of light accompanied by foolery
of favoritism?
the heat never did them any good.
so i like to think of it
like a terrorist sympathizer
the constantish reminder of
nothing good
between those blue walls
lives still a desecrated ghost
with a shut off brain
and no reason to
let go.
and all the things which once were simple
***** themselves in the draining effort
of simply being.
there should be places to hide
instead of wide open skies
shall i surrender now
afloat on this hill,
or wait until i am surrendered?
i do it for this agony
a nightly presence
a friend if it weren’t for her
gnashing and talons and rust metal teeth
leaves and grass screaming
in the wind
another part of me
they cannot see
and do not want to.
why is pain so welcome?
why is infliction so
the slow fade of a hesitant smile
to eyes which cry and a face that
contorts in the sweltering sun of rage -
is it sinful, shameful greed of hurt or is Godless,
as they say?
somewhere there is something
left to say
you go to shake my hand
and realize i dont have any
cut off and bled
like they do to the cows
and the pigs who are ******* smart
enough to know
because stone cold
said so
so you hug me instead.
its easier to cut butter
with that small fancy knife.
what more do i need,
when i’ve got me,
a body to break and a mind to feed
so when i feel that harsh note
of morality gone and an ego in tow
that nihilism crawling its way back up my throat
all i can think of is God
the Leviathan
to better my chance of living
but not really
just dying,

em Apr 2021
my mother used to dress me up

with pink and baby blue

she used to sit and scowl at me

for using too much glue.

on all the projects i failed in school

cuz i never saw my daddy’s face

he was always off to work somewhere

in a cold and lonely place.

and as he cuddled with his cash

the four of us would sing

the songs of gospel and a dying man

who rose again and was called king.

and when my daddy was away

i would come across the paper men

who knew they’d float higher than me

and said i looked a certain way and then,

they smacked their lips and tongued their teeth

and smoked their cigarettes

and without fail they always gunned me down

with a stare and beads of sweat.

thats a fine looking high-horse you got there

in the hollow of this hot and southern drum

theres not a lot of girls like you

that would kneel for a pack of gum.

i used to think i owned the world

because i made my dolls queens and kings

but soon enough i realized

that those were nothing more than things.

and i was one as well to them

a thing to hate like daddy’s bills

they liked to break my arms and legs

and hunt me for the ****.

but after all the fun and games

and smoke that burned your eyes

i came to know that i was sin

with a kept secret between my thighs.

and plastic jesus only sat

on his high and mighty shelf

and despite my prayers or

shut-eyes confessions

he never moved himself.

and what could help me more than that man?

certainly not mother in her cool dark room

and not my daddy raking cash

in some business ridden flume.

here i reside in this truman show life

smoking cigarettes of my own

suffocating memories and

ignoring the phone.

one day there might be someone new

whose teeth are white and straight.

whose hair is neat and eyes are kind

whose clothes don’t spill their


but till that day i sit and feel and

keep my head down on the floor

because theres nothing more that i can do

but drown in metaphors
em Mar 2021
has it been kind? i should be a fool to think it has. and i'm not sure i want it to. at least not to me. perhaps others, other souls which serve true purpose and meet needs of each other, bouncing around and need-meeting and hard-loving, instead of crossing every line that is thinkable and failing, undeniably, at each little obstacle and challenge. its true that we meet many people over the course of our lives, hollowed-out and thin, hearty and honey-like, thick and sweet. sometimes these people candy-coat our existence. sometimes they **** it over. sometimes they simply sit, limp and lifeless, like a dead ballerina. serving no purpose other than for us to spit upon them, curse them out, regard and disregard. often they come and go, allowing us to live on, just living it out like a Greenland shark. but despite these people, despite these purpose-driven minds, i still stand around with this empty head of mine. and yes, i have no doubt i can create beautiful things. but i am certainly not one of them.
to me, it is interesting how being alive is so unacceptable, seemingly only it becomes so in the wee hours of the morning, like four am, right before the coffee and right after you've awoken from your most recent nightmarish fever dream. when the disintegration of your soul has yet to become entirely apparent. when you've yet to look in that ****** mirror and see yourself looking like death warmed over; ready to take on a new day, yeah right. and often, things, people, places, smells and sights and sounds and textures and tastes and simply cogs of our lives take it all back to those moments. telling myself to forget them, push them away like i always do when things get too close, too much. remembering anyways. that first touch, the blankness that follows. the feeling of being split open. being broken. thinking i would die. living anyways.
looking at people. remembering. like the way things tasted so good before. and the way they taste now. the lions at the zoo. pacing, hungry, fantasizing about ripping the fat white man's head off, feeling the bones crumble between their teeth, licking up the blood and ruling the world. how bad i felt for them. the time i turned too fast, too tight on my old bicycle. more blood. laughing. shaking. bandaids and a dark bathroom. the smell of chocolate cake and the scent of wine on my mothers lips as she came close. go to bed. the deadpan thump of the kitten against the wall. an empty kitchen table. summer nights that drifted through the windows, ate you up and calmed you down. black shoes that clacked against white linoleum. ******'s army. discovery channel and broken televisions. racism. mud fights in the river behind the small brick house, grass for miles and nowhere to go. thick honey people whose touch felt lighter than feathers. belly laughs, beer drinkers and thin paper-weight women. hospitals and IV drips, sunburns and stars you could actually see. tranquilizers and sickdays and scalding showers. obliviousness. neutrality.
happy childhood, sad childhood.
crazy talking teeth.what more could you ask from a primordial life?
i should be a fool to think it's been kind. whether i feel sorry for myself, that's another question. sometimes i am like the three-legged dog, dragging a leftover stump behind itself, buzzing with flies, whining and cowering and sitting in its own ****. ugly and dejected, victim to helplessness. a street-walker, a tired-talker.
then, i get filled up. with some insanity, a mix of molten rage, and that dangerous thing called hope. break the glass ceiling and you'll make it in life. or drown in it, and you become identical to every other human being that every lived and didn't end up in a book. a nuisance. an addict to all the small things life has to offer, never willing, never ballsy enough to allow themselves to get hooked in the cheek by some life-changing ****.

yeah, cuz that's it. that's the thing.

everyone is just absolutely
em Mar 2021
stuck in the wheel between
living and dying
rage between teeth
and words beneath tongue,
that fear will get ya.
lying under the vaulting
of the technicolor sky
smiling among the white-bellied
rotting creatures
smiling because there's not another
thing to do which lets you show
your teeth
besides a scream.
and scream you must if you hope to ever
make it out of this beast.
the fear will get ya and
all you can do is bare those pearly whites
and hope your head and heart coexist
and oh please tell me again
why i cannot hear the sound
no matter how hard i try and remember
shut up i said, or did i?
here they are inside of me,
these evils, these souls who so willingly
ecstatically employ their wrath,
upload their anger
******* on the hard-drive with a golden
and here i am
drowning in the noise when i'd rather be
extending the possibilities of a working realism
mathematizing my existence
because it was nothing to you
and you hurt ME
and you don't know it but you've colored it all
blood-red beet-red battle-scar-red
and you don't know it but that's all i can say
and that's all i have said
because if i say more then i'd have to be dead
no way i'd let those suckers see me
finished by a simple three-letter
i love you
oh really? you do?
**** me again then.
and the worst part about it is the hands.
that sickly warm skin,
i can feel your sweat and your
sin, all mixed in with that under-the-breath
promise as long as i give
time is reckless in this fever-dream
live all day and die all night
become talented at suffering
so when someone asks you if you are okay,
without looking away
you can say
its just another day.
you, so talented at suffering
so skillful in your right to yearn for death
like that wire-tailed cat
in the gossamer green,
so fit to claw your way up and lose a bit
live a bit
love a bit
and see with your shuttered soul
the entire ******* thing come
crashing down before you.
so when my eyes meet yours
i do not know you, i know
the hands that took
it all away.
so **** me over again and again
even though you’re dead
again and again,
in my head you’re dead in that bed,
where you left me the last time
turned inside out and rotting-white belly up in the air
dead fish cant breathe on land
and a child cant breathe on need.
the fear will get ya
worse when the control is blood-letting itself to the exit
they’re hunting now, im trapped, all sides cave in
hot breath and cigarettes
its too much to take in when
we surround ourselves with birds of a feather and act like we don’t want to pluck them.
take away the things that make us human, things we can glue on ourselves, decorate our faces like the places we’ve had our first firsts.
the heart is 5/8ths of a pound so why did it take me so long to
tear it to pieces?
each tick of the tock reminds me of how birds count a lot for not knowing how
and van gogh cut off his ear and gave it to some *****,
appreciate that *******.
at least he chose a sacrifice instead of suicide, twice.
so im stuck in that wheel, going crazy
waving that S.O.S, shredding that white
flag to ****** pieces because i know now
that not a single person cares unless
they're on that wheel too
turning blue
turning to
the only thing they know and that
is this.
life isn't what you make it,
life makes you.
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