Bronze belly burnt from sun kisses;
Yesterday afternoon when I dreamt
we were at the beach and
you were numb from being heated by the microscope light
and I was drowning in the pools of your eyes -
tsunami tides, killer wail -
No matter who comes to save me, I'll always wish it was you.
So I wait and let the cold sea salt gurgle in my lungs.
But you are still,
you are warm and bothered.

I'm afraid of contradictions
more importantly the space
between them
Aching with this carnal
blessing of your voice in my ear
"She resonates" I say I scream "she Resonates" never even heard the words
before
I wanted to call your name -
the way it lives in my throat
clenching at the letters, I in the middle
with a delicate hum at the end

Greet the sun-kissed smile
and amicably recognize that her eyes change color
in the shadows of night and day.

Fool me once;
I know in days time
we will entwist as yearning cannot's always do.

The saddest day of my life was the day you told me you weren't going anywhere.

I often live in those moments of smeared eyeliner and shaking hands
lost beyond all belief
and found in the crevices of your warming knuckles.
If you ever wonder why
I was crying so hard into your neck

think about the thoughts that tell stories
think about how I couldn't tell where your body ended and my began
think about this
unconditioning
that had to be known
that had to be hush.

All the times i told you "more" ran through my mind
as i was fixing the tufts in your hair.
You told me I was beautiful with mascara washing down my cheeks
bare with this envy
for the passenger seat in your sedan.

And as the words left your lips
my hand clasped mine
to prevent me from revealing
you're the definition.

The saddest day of my life was the day you told me you weren't going anywhere
because I always knew you would.

An involved grace of thought
cannot blend the right thoughts
of kissbones at the right -
Time is so very crucial to
the womb of your basket.
And I keep telling you
"I'll bring you bread.
  I'll bring you loaves and loaves."
And you smile in caught headlights.
But you forgot to rewind the VHS
You forgot to, and you returned the rental anyway.

fear strikes the heavens sturdy gait at the first mention of silence.
we live in a town of crook-eyed opposites,
a crinkle-cut reminder of which song belongs to who.
in the winding trails of the moon i see the face of a woman
destined to be clear
of all fate had to offer.
but, i wish i knew none the less.

my hips next to hers and we could have the Universe.
her rolling thumbs pressed against my blushed cheeks.
her fire light piercing through all of my -

i don't care
if the moon chokes me.
these throbbing increments of time
are wasting away like musk rose.
and the smell of her spirits are lingering.

her shoulders are galaxies
i'm tied to their crevices
i'm tied to the souls
of her shoes.

i want to know all your ghostly habits
do you cross
yourfingers
yourlegs
youreyes
                 my planets orb.

maybe one day
25 years from now
when my mind isn't so dull
and my trees aren't so bare
and my throat isn't so numb
I'll conjure up enough words
free from disfluency and stutter
that capture moments
like the ******* model 20.
Efflorescence or
Chatoyance or
Gossamer
will coin it all,
And I'll write them on parched paper
with solid gold ink and
seal it
so the words never escape me again.
But until then, let's just go with love.

Can you sing me to sleep again?
No dear my voice is hoarse.
I would massage it if I could.

I want to crawl deep inside your pocket
and live next to the quarters and
gum wrappers.
You will never feel empty again

Springtime is my favorite
because I can see that white
outline of yours
more clearly.

You are so fresh.
You are a berry.
Yes. That is what you are.

The finest of them all.

I remember taking the twenty out of the drawer so effortlessly.
It didn't bother me
that it was the money
my grandmother gave me
to put in the bank
for college.

I can't be free of the river dread
that has consumed me whole.
But, I am trying to learn how to swim
again.
They keep throwing me life jackets
and oars,
but it's a sinking ship.
Don't worry, I tell them.
Don't worry, I love you
and I'll be back soon.
Maybe later if not sooner.

It tastes like fire.
I've been run over by crickity
subway carts
one too many times
and now my deformed fingers
can't pick up pencils.
On the way back from
Manhattan
I was tied to rusted train tracks
and left to drown
in the salty August rain.

Old man with cane,
let's call him Michael,
prods at my sockets
picks at my skin.
Rope burn stings almost as much as an
infected
sore
from all the laps around
my head
is filled with
maggots
and being
last year's leftovers
again
and again

Maybe one day I'll make finger sandwiches
for classy luncheons
in a pagoda in my backyard.
We all will be jolly
and have balloon laughs
as we sip our aged merlot.
  And my young children will waltz in
  with their curtsies and bows and then
  go off again to be with their nanny.
And I will be occupied
with the things in my pocket
so I won't know what the dark is anymore.

                                                       ­                I'd rather live in the dark though.
                                                         ­                   In a raunchy studio apartment
                                                       ­                          with a semi-attractive but
                                                             ­                  the most beautiful woman
                                                           ­                                who is educated
                                                        ­                   and still knows how to color.
                                                           My children will understand what it means
                                                           ­              to be alive and I'll let them decide
                                                          ­                               if they appreciate it or not.
                                                                ­   We will feed the ducks every Sunday.
                                                                ­    I want to be among spirits not bodies.

She kept up with her housekeeping.
Typically. Very Neat. Shelves everywhere.

Today, the melon baller was out of place
and she was busy batting flies.

Actually, there was only one fly.
Senses deceived.

The humming was too loud to go undisturbed.
Attention becomes focused digitally

on enhanced minute wrecks.
Hours spent trying to get the flies.

Illusion.
One fly.

She didn't know. Suspected worst.
Kept at it.

The sexless man walked in with a tophat. Brimmed.
Asks why the dishes weren't done.

Too Busy.

Why the floor not swept.

Too Busy.

Vacuum.

There's flies to get. I'm busy.


The house is a mess. The house is a wreck.

I took this with me on my journey to the top of the world.
I thought I needed something
sweet to remind me of our summers
when you still had your long hair and still liked to
climb trees.

I remember how afraid I was
that I'd fall or trip
on hidden roots
only meant to throw off
the nocturnal rodents.

But, you always thought my thinking was silly.

We picked up rocks that were particularly
dull and *****. Ordinary miracles
hold a special meaning in carved hearts.

I craved roasted turkey and cranberry sauce.
The kind my grandmother used to make on Saturday evenings.
I wanted to go home.
But I realized, the path I was on only lead to you.

The love of my life has caution tape wrapped around her like a mink stole.
And I don't know how to break it to her,
but I happen to know a thing or two
about the sort of wind she carries.
Sweet, Serene,
But, when it comes
Oh it comes.

maybe next time
when I
pick enough
blackberries
they'll be
ripe.

The face of a sorrowful man
can't compare to the
tear bottles of whiskey
spent on stale bread.

She doesn't know a thing
about the immense strength
Her teeth have over my
attention
Or how I would rather have my  eyes fall out
of their sockets,
from lack of blinking,
than to miss even a single moment
of her grin.

The forgotten tale of a young girl
with bloodshot eyes and traces of
broken wishbones.
Death on doorsteps and
tails-end pennies
scattered beneath her feet.
The garden of good and evil has not existed
for a long while since it hasn't stopped
raining,
and by now,
the fields of purity are drenched
in melon-cholia.
Maybe next time.

How desperately I cling to the image of a lost cause
with a side of despair,
tomorrow I will be a blithering fool,
but today I am content with
just being
next to the furnace
with the radio on.

Her face suddenly turns to me with Exite -
you're glittering again, you're full of warmth.
Was I cold before, I ask her.
No, but I couldn't put my hands in your pockets
the same way
I used to.
Come here.
I am back.

Somehow
in my conceived perception of
glitter
I desperately try to latch-on
to another
beauty.

Somehow
in my blurred realization of
time
I think that not being
alone
will make me not
lonely.

Somehow
in my outrageous menacing
skin
I thought that
She
could be replaced.

Let's go on a Journey. She said.

The problem that lies within my raisin-swelled brain is that I do not like to speed on open highways
or smoke behind chipped bathroom doors.

I vomited in the kitchen sink once
because I couldn't make it
to the trash.
Now
when I dye my hair and
rinse it out
under that faucet
I get extremely uncomfortable.

So maybe,
one day
we can travel again.

I have always thought that if
you can touch someone's hand
without them
cringing
and
if they can drink
out of the same bottle as you,
then,
you are close.

Age is an illusion (to me),
and time is made up.
I love to indulge in philosophical conversations
and decadent flavors of people.

When I was six I spilled
a gallon of milk
down the stairs
and I cried and cried for days.

I still don't know my lefts from my rights
but
I sure as hell know my wrongs.

I have always tried my best to
sweep myself under the rug
out of fear
of running into
that Fiery Unearthly Woman
and the green-eyed man.
Who doesn’t know art
without a fist.

I am often told I have an old soul,
but my conjoined twin
lingers
in the aroma of incense and
tequila sunrises.

I grew up in slummy pubs
with scruffy men
chomping on tomato guts
who reflect on their
******* visits and complain
about their payroll.
To this day,
people watching
will always be my favorite sport.

Bludgeons to the head are not
self-inflicted,
Everything's a choice.
Only,
I have been influenced by
crooked bodies who don't
know the meaning of
a little something I call
Peace
and
Love
are all you need in a world
where the people
are too busy tying their shoes.

Reincarnation is one of my many beliefs,
however,
I Refuse
to tie myself down,
I like to say I'm a
“free spirit”,
whatever that is.

And
if I were a cat
with nine lives,
I'd be pushing number seven
by now.

But I still stick by the fact that
I was born to the wrong place
at the wrong time.

I know that if I were a speck of cosmic dust
I would be content,
but until then
I fill the void with
unrequited love and chocolate milkshakes.

I have an obsession with dying my hair,
but I'm too chicken to do anything drastic.

I am a
non-meat-eating-
soul-searching-
animal-rights-digging-
bit-of-­a-hippie-
pacifist -
with a coexist bumper sticker tattooed on my forehead.
Yes, I am that girl
who writes letters to Congress
regarding the cruel treatment of chimpanzees in circuses
and the brutality of foie gras.

If I could
I would save all the polar bears
and clean up all the
littered gum wrappers,
but I am fatigued by the
immorality
of it all.

I hate horror,
thriller,
and gore,
but,
that doesn't stop me from
watching documentaries on Anne Frank
and mental asylums in the 1950s.

According to white lab coats and
shattered spectacles-
My capacity for durability is dwindling
and it's only a matter of time before
I collapse like an abandoned building.
I suppose it's much too difficult
for a “disturbed” “young” “lady”
“like” “myself”.

When I was 7 I drew a picture of a family
and a white picket fence
for my mother,
who never truly understood
how hard it was for me
to color in the lines,
and,
who didn't think twice
as she shredded it
into fourths
in front of my face.

I still remember that day
when she locked the door and
tried to close her eyes,
and I still remember the day
I tried to do the same.
There's this prepreprenatal desire
for little beings
I can sing “Danny's Song” to
in a rocking chair.  

Despite all my goals in this life,
they will always come first.

I chew on my nails when I'm nervous
and I pace when I'm scared.
Fear will always be my strong.point.

I'm an artist
in that
I'm an actor
in that
I'm a person.
Even though,
I'm not
exactly sure
what any of those are
yet.

I have a horrible habit of biting my lip
and re-washing every piece of silverware
before I use it.

I'm all about the classics.
There is beauty
in the
skipped
heartbeats of vinyl
and I don't mind the
crackling sound
one bit.

When I was 8 I would give
the night sky
“moon cookies”.
I thought that She must get hungry,
having to fold in and out
by dusk.  

I love the smell of garages and old books,
but I wouldn't want to make a habit
of living in either.
Being stuck in the residue of past instances
is not my cup of tea,
I prefer chamomile,
and I prefer to keep moving.

I drink my coffee black with extra ice
while my therapist drinks it
light and sweet.
I think that says a lot about our personalities.

In the rare times when
my neutered temper gets the best of me,
my eyes turn a disgusting
shade of green.

The movie “Grease” gives me
melancholia. And I often feel
like I'm wasting my
“youth”
on perpetual thinking patterns
and preparing for christmas in mid-July.

I really wish I could be a
“beauty school drop-out”,
but it's much too unstable.....
which is why I'm going to be an actor.

Selective memory causes me strife;
I don't recall
the distributive property of division,
but I sure as hell can tell you every
word you've ever said to me.

Bittersweet nostalgia
makes me gag now-a-days
because I can't relive
those tender moments
quite as often
as I need to.

I am terribly
afraid
that I cling
too much
to the saviors
I deem dear
to my existence.

I get attached
way
too easily,
and I fear
I stifle wings.

It has taken me an insane amount of time
to value the breath
that flows in and out of my
stale lungs.

Luckily,  
angelic spirits
got my back.

Tape doesn't hold everything together,
but band-aids do help.
And
It bothers me that in ten years
I probably won't speak
to any of the people
who have ever meant
something

and
eventually
everything will
drift away
into unattainable
oblivion.

If I could I would live on a bus
and drive around the country
like a silly gypsy child,
but I don't have the energy
or desire
to
leave it all behind.

In the end,
I am completely aware
that I'll always be
a decomposing mess,
but,


I don't mind existence.

she was silent
on the other line.
and i thought,
if i cant hear her
anymore,
then i must not
be listening
hard enough.
and if i'm not
listening
than it must be
.

i dont have the energy
to care about wilting daisies
on rainy days
or broken cds stuffed into my
pockets.
i dont have the time to
try to fit in with your hands
anymore

The crisp nature of her breath
reminds me very much
of closet kisses
on cold winter days.
There's laundry to be done
but
I'd rather drink expired milk.

I only started to travel
after I lost you in my
suitcase. I went through
all my laundry and
wallet, but I never
saw you again.

And when I play Candyland I still feel you next to me
singing "Danny's Song" faintly
under your breath.
And in that moment I remember when we went to
San Francisco and you kept
all your money with your passport in a pouch
inside your bra And you thought you were
genius, even though
we lived there three years and
never go out of state.

I'm a pack rat
with a furless tail
and red
raspberry
eyes
and I will never
get rid of
(that envelope)
you
gave me
on Xmas eve
with the
crooked tree
on the back-side.
It was carelessly done,
but I am acutely
aware that you did
your best.

I can still feel each place you've ever touched me
because you left bittersweet bruises that can't be erased.

I know white-out is your best friend
and you tend to buy too many pens,
but that's ok for someone who understands
the danger of lead poisoning.

Your gums are uneven,
but I think this is what makes you
the portrait of perfection.

If I could paint,
I would paint you
Like an angelic sun with a celestial birth of freedom.

You speak to me at night when the fan's on too high
and I'm too low and sunken to resist
the chill in my bones.

Baby's breath
is my favorite
flower
because they are subtle
and remind me of
your
serene sense of humor.

I only write in black ink because it reminds me of conformity and
I have a loose comprehension of unsaid secrets.
Maybe a year from now we can sit down
together like civil warriors
and you can tell me why you drank
so many Blood Mary's and received so many Black Eye's.

I wish I could live in people's brains
like solid tumors that are far from cancerous
so that I can feel their thoughts rush past my
skin so that I can
remember how it feels to be alive

the girl that lives inside my eyelids
is tapping on my brain
pacing around my thoughts
spilling hot tea over and over
again

and i think about how giving
the world seems to be
when i'm next to your shadow

and i am reminded that
you need light too

and i think
my god
she's the sun
and i'm the moon
and it was never meant to be

fate is an uneven sword,
but time is the real enemy here
because i am no longer
among love
because i am no longer
among you

i can feel her. nails digging into my skin
.and her lips. pressed against my heart
like soft rose daggers
but. i am holding her. hand.
clutching on
when i know that she needs to be free.

It is quite dignifying to imagine
one's self to be invincible, but
at the end of the day
we are all submissive to nightmares
mirrors can't help but reflect despair
in bloodshot eyes.
I have lived on this planted for
3 years and 20 centuries
and I can tell you that
sleeping pills don't work and
buttering burns makes the suffering
more savory.
Fire will always be enticing
and smoke will seem like clouds after a while
you can **** as many mosquitos as you want, but your blood will always belong
to the earth
and when you are drained like sandy bath water you will understand
what it feels like to be curious

I am convinced that bodies are walking trees
and I am consisted of moss
if we stand still maybe we'll
grow right back into the ground again.

First stone skipped.
I think about who invented hardhats
and why trees have rings swirled inside their bodies
I decide that mother nature knows best.
Preparation is contentment.
Satisfaction is preparation.
I suddenly crave scrambled eggs with A1 sauce
then I remember
I don't like eggs at all.

Second stone skipped.
I think about where I should go for vacation and why I always lick off my lipstick.
I tend to run late
(in the mornings)
because I always go for coffee
at this dive in the opposite side of town
and end up chatting with the
waitress about why I don't like sugar

Third stone skipped.
I think about the blister on my ankle and the callus on my thumb
I never learned how to work a lighter
properly.
Simplicity is a ***** job
and I'd rather have my finger nails
ripped out than be ordinary.

Fourth stone skipped.
Sinks.

I'm not going to be a teenage wasteland forever
Someday I'm going to stop polluting my body and hating my mother
I have an addiction to those
toxic remedies
like hair dye
nutmeg
and bleach.
I'll be taking calcium supplements
for dwindling marow
and for once I'll actually care about politics.
Daddy had a habit of calling me a
super-feminist
just because I wouldn't bring him his slippers
when he got home
from retrieving the mail.
I've always hated dogs in the house
so I became vegetarian.

My subscription to Cosmopolitan has long
been expired.
Instead I stick my fingers inbetween the crevices
of the fan

There's a secret to resentment:
Hang it up in the closet
on the hanger
next to the apron.
It's wanting to pour wasabi down pants
so they feel the kick
so they can hear

The color of wilted daisies is a dark shade of regrets
Take me back to my wild years
when I always had big hair and seemingly small hands
each finger has a heartbeat you know
I swear every extremity has a pulse
Pieces put together
that's what it is
a puzzle gone wrong

I am stuck in this whirlpool of euphenisms.
Everything is more than it's allotted value.
Imbalanced by coincidences and lost chances.
I can't chew my food anymore because I have no gums.
Skin is excess.
So are bones.
There is an art to being nonexistent.
Dissatisfaction is suffering
and to free myself
is to not desire no longer
to the point where there is no
want for life's ticking.

There's a bruise on my knee
from last weeks' repention
when you kicked me down the stairs
and told me to be thankful
I have food
on the floor
and a roof
over my scars, and
I must be forgiven for each tear
because drama runs deep in my veins
so that I have become
the boy who cried wolf
and you told me to apologize
for ever word
I've ever written
because it is
a waste of time
and time is precious
so we lay down on the floor
and say grace
and I try not to look at you
but I can't help but see your reflection
glaring off the knife in your hand