if my writing is getting worse
or if I’m just trying less
to make it good

either way, it’s OK
it doesn’t need to be
anything

other than

smoke signs for other
caged reflections to breathe
transitory fragments branding screen
that felt fleeting happened indeed

and for a moment
this was me

even when it goes cold
and pushes the pull
out into undertow

I'm too much
think too much
feel too much
seen too much

there's too much
wrong

encased, lowered
sealed, oxygen-devoid
decomposing underground
dunno if I'll ever be
my oddnormal alive
again

last night I didn't eat enough
drank too much, but still
not enough
to numb this chasm
climbing on feet cracked
trying to ascend
my insides

last night I cried
in my brother's arms
shaking infantile
held close - yet
lonely still

the kind of lonely
that only sets in
after you forget
what it's like
to feel

when the trauma unit
becomes your domicile
for years on years on years

you can't even know
how ****** up you are
all comparisons lost
perpetually swept under
survival mode rug

he told me
I'm not ready

for anyone

proceeded to confess he's
writing a letter to the girl he
fell in love with ten years ago

to unburden his chest
attempt a closure
or maybe crack
back open

they had a thing
it was too much

unexpected
unerasable
haunting

love discovered
then abandoned

the day after she left
he hooked up
with his son's mother
for the first time
to escape the pain

entangling himself
in surface motions
for the better part
of a decade

too much
is there still
the connection
never severed
red strings
still tied

...

I want friendship, but maybe
that's asking too much

after making love
breaking apart, gluing back
only to shatter again
without even so much
as one pillowtalktouch

yet that, says something
so strange and rare
unto itself

...

but when your mouth shuts
my brain snorts questions marking
volatile heartstops and starts

I don't wanna be
writing a letter in 10
(or would it be 8 now?)
to shut thresheld door
never walked through

I want to know real hello
if only to get

real
goodbye

retire these lines
(hypothetically)
to open bare arms

without
fresh residue of you
emanating cold bone crush
without
searching for your diamond slivers
in another set of eyes

if I know one thing
for absolutelyfuckingsure it's:
these skeletons of truth
will keep on rattling
behind closed doors
even when we'd rather

our remains
be still

I've gotten to the point
where I can feel
grateful for

arms that held you
when I couldn't
love that found you
even if it didn't
break through

cradling my lovely
while saving me
the ache

of a try
not ready

and if you
are my future
then they are my past
and I will love them, too

or priceless, last night
when the couple at the table
next to us at this little pizzeria
unexpectedly paid for our dinner
after I was fairly sure we had been
disrupting them, being well, six -
talkie, wiggly, silly, droppy...
we thanked them and then he said
you have a really well-behaved kid
which was, like, a really big deal
as most days I feel like
an inept kitten herder
except my herd is one
or two, if you count feistypaws
think they both don’t know
I’m the legit pack leader
and are vying for alpha
against one another, but
maybe I’m not doing
so bad
after all

after that
we made penny wishes
in the fountain outside
which is something I
never do alone, because generally
way jaded re: assigning my lofties to
depreciating currency deposits
in chlorinated public fountains

his: for me to get a thousand dollars
(to share with him)
mine: for him and me to have
all the love in the world
and for everyone everywhere
to be happy, free and get what they need

decided to toss in another penny
in case that sounded greedy
to the public plumbing fairy

and still my
insecurity is processing
whether they really thought
he was well-behaved and
enjoyed watching us or just
felt sorry for me
two-top charity...

I should prolly
take out my bad brain
that made me think that thing
and put in my good brain
as my kid likes to say

pacing these
tightly coiled corners
dipping, rising
saddling neurons
bucking then
purring

the vacant
is my best friend
reflect ricocheting
in echoes

the longer
I simmer solo
the more I drown
in things I’d rather
keep down

and all the
bottom residue
gets a little excited

it may just get
hacked up yet

yeehaw

inside of me
because

you were already
there

fathoms
deep

I will love you
past the brackish fits
of irreverent split rifts

I will love you
through bruised indigo blues
stalking shadowed ceiling stares
down to your pulverizing pupils

I will love you
beyond my known limits
pushing my pulse over
the wall to hear beats
echo through you

and I will love you
from afar

if I have to

my tongue
could strip you bare

the way the doorslam
and sound of my steps
dissipating

seem to
so effectively

I'm not in love
with your words

I'm in love with
the way you think

not just
delighted,
entertained,
endlessly curious,
sufficiently bewildered
and longing to climb inside
the gears tick-tocking your mind

but that your brain takes me
into a state of utter awe
blissing me still

it's looking into
this distorted hologram
mirror where I'm seeing
more of me, but from
different perspectives
than the usual 2D
similar to me, yet,
inversely intriguing

it's live and undulate
reflective truth serum
rooting me in now

that's why I slid
right down your throat -
I speak your language
and apparently intuitively
know how to crack you
allkindsa open

(even if it takes a
white-hot light year
and unprecedented doses)

it's like with you
I'm the me-est me
I can be
it's so

magically delicious
I don't try to escape
inside me anywhere

you make me want to
be more here
with you

on the outside

share all the parts
I learned it best to hide
on the in

though I know
it's a wee bit ******,
if these treatises become
merely the sheer prologue
to The Most Unbelievable Tale
of Mystical Love Perhaps Ever Spun

the fact that
seeing you is
seeing me
means

loving you is
loving me too

this could be
- so -
healthy

like shots of
marine phytoplankton
chased with green smoothie

and my ponderings
keep meandering
around this one thing:

what happens when
it gets to the point where
your pictures painted of me
completely override
my false stories

- forevermore -

when I eat
so much of the mirror
I become - fully -
the me I see
through your
Windexed eyes

I daresay
that’s levitating off
the porch of full potential
outside our diamond-cut pyramid
with the gold-engraved signage
hanging in front of our
intergalactic portal

where one
might have
once

looked for a door

that now seems
completely archaic
and unnecessary

lithe on corridors
insidewalk

slink up and down
sliding hollows underground
outstretched on the edge
underscoring ley lines

I cuddle the crevice
ear pressing the cold
awaiting your gait
tick talk

our primordial
past chisels hum
verbing part lips

howhowhow
to bridge these walls

so I can
taste myself
on your mouth

I miss it like hell

I can't figure out
if I'm supposed to be
an oddball Eros-laced
poetic artist of sorts

this revolutionary
evolution redesigner
with wake-the-****-up
typographic punches

or a sower of seedlings
via silly rhymes scheming
with wacked-out visualizations
for story-time imaginations
to mold future generations

ideally,
I want to do all three...

praying for the mind
time and energy
to manifest all
I can
Be

(including
rocking the ****
outta this day job
that's molding me
into a better model
who knows how to float
merrily upon her dreams
obsoleting false me)

*happythankUmoreplease

made by inserting line breaks into the top chunk of my 8.0k words*

know like
just thing inside
**** maybe
life things think
soul time real love
day lines **** mind eyes

got feel
want words trying
left matter
tongue feet hands
door cold

space holy
bones way wanna *******
we're walked walls
truth open
end line best
years ***** ink heart
little moments stories says
dust hand
free hope trust

sad wish
hell rising past inner fingers
night white teeth sit deep
dunno tell crystal
sure wanted make pull sky
remember dropped felt knees
brimming poetry

******* air seen
lips palms spin
lonely black mouth  
hard page
really dreams ready

fear other's crack  
corner survival broken
hollow home
clear tears coming
edge high pain
thought bubbles wet

push imperfect bloom  
breaking skin motions
mystical flow say lost
direct warm red
use having meant  
there's floor shaking
friendship grey  
arms wrong cracked

ride doubt escape
knew look
bare right girl
wonder feeling
finger days

it's real easy to feel like
we've done it all
wrong

phenomenal fuckyes then
phantasmagoric fear ragers
perpetual pity *******
blood middle knuckle crush
regretful bets hedged
hunched frozen tongues
and pointy unsaids

but sometimes
with mind wide-eyed
and heart roots writhing

I've seen it
way differently

a vantage point
where pushpull face-plants
are winning lotto tickets

because maybe
we were kindling of yes
unable to keep it burning yet
and we would have fumbled it
far beyond repair

I'm fairly certain
our heartfelt invites
to instant cohabitation
would have ended
painfully
badly

traumas tripping
over hair triggers
in a 3-legged race
two smoking pistols
and four red feet

even Hello
seems too intense
to mouth

and from this
particular perspective
I can see how
every decision made in fear
led to whinging karmarang
tied with two strings

I daresay
one day we might
look back with a smile
that it went down this way

because the initial who
were not strong enough
to shoulder the immensity
nor surrendered enough
to float the fragility
of newborn carbon
gossamer whorl

in fact
I push all my chips
toward that

maybe there is
fortune in false starts
we make plans
but I bet The One
has better ones

so I'm pretty sure
we should sit down
and listen

for that breeze
to whisper

the moon
rises me

I'm more home

locking eyes
with you

than anywhere
on Earth

how many times
have we about-faced
and walked away?

I mean,
here I am
pt. IV

because every time
I think it's the end

there he is

with something
to blow my mind
and leave my jaw
on the floor

even though
I so can’t wait
to **** this town
I know I’m supposed to
Be Here Now

I often detest
knowing everyone
and everyone also
knowing each other
craving the anonymity
of unfamiliar places
new spaces, discovery
coasting below radar
of expectations
of history
of who I
used to
be

every day
every drive
every place I go by
is dusted in memories
or rote routine
either yanking on
my heart strings
or lulling me into
monotonous sleep

but maybe
those two things
are just what I need

an ever-present challenge
to stay alert and in heart
remember the who
I was before
while becoming
the who I am
going to be

and if I can stay awake
clear, centered, grateful
to the new-now me
here, where it’s all so
seemingly same-old

I can do it
anywhere

so maybe
my problem is really
a perfect opportunity

when I'm five
next time

we'll skip
hand-in-hand
to the head of
each other's
lines

share some
psychedelic ice cream
before we know quite what
is happening on our tongues

no reason to fear
this mystical flight
OS fresh messless

and we will
like each other
before we know
how

or why

boring saucer eyes
through the other's skull
no drywall, no cement
no mortared bricks
just

staring straight in
and into

the place in the wires
where pulse currents
traverse higher than
power grid switches
flipped lit

messy hair
summer grass
skinned knees

laughing until
we can't breathe
at every nothing

and we run
into the woods
build a fort on the moon
brew lunar rock stew

you carve our names
on the side of our dome
with an asteroid
misspelling mine

and I decide
to write it
that way
forever

TLDR

Posted up on a bar stool, I noticed the instant he walked in.
Blue eyes beckoning. I was listening. Hard.

Liquidly courageous, delightfully obscure and entertaining,
I bewitched him in conversation.
Filled his empty pint with my pitcher of Yuengling.
Stealing and donning his sweaty hat.
He had just finished art school.
I was studying journalism.

He kept finding reasons to touch me.
Blocking me from human traffic.
Keeping me close and safe physically.
At one point, some drunken, oblivious, d-bag tried to holler.
He moved between, cockblocking.
Unwavering in eye contact and speech with me.
I can’t remember what we talked about, only how it felt.

He got my number, and we stayed until the bar closed.
And as all the carbon contents poured into the back alley,
he grabbed my hand.
I remember the sweat and energy on his slender fingers.
He was pushing past palpable trepidation.
And in the midst of a hundred swarming,
he yanked my hand toward him and kissed me.
People started cheering.
It was perfect.

Except, I freaked.
Froze. Stopped breathing.
Pulled away as far as his hand would allow.
He reeled me back in for another try.
When I brushed his lips, the panic devoured.
So I pulled away harder, breaking free from his fingers.
Fleeing, scurrying through a sea of drunken bodies.
I shimmied like a silver lure dangling in his face.
Then shot him the-****-down. Twice.
Instinctively.

He never called me. But pocket-dialed me the next day.
Left an unintended voicemail. Heard him bemoaning, *I felt SO stupid…
Called him back a few minutes later. Didn’t leave a message.
I could have called again. I didn’t. Ever.

I thought about him every day for months,
inspiring one of my better poems of that era:
A Roller Coaster Ride Ending in Derailment.
Years later, I friended him on MySpace, sent a generic message.
He didn’t recognize me. And I never said anything.
Like a ******* coward.

How is it possible to excitedly charge in a cardinal direction,
only to smack abruptly into:
I-gotta-get-the-****-outta-here-NOWWWW?!

I’ve had a little time, say 14 years,
to reflect on what made me me run,
and I think it was this:
as soon as he was facing me,
with unadulterated adoration,
all I could feel was terrified and ugly.
It was so good. Far too good for me.

I was afraid. Afraid he would eventually see.
That I was hideous. He wouldn’t want the real me.
I didn’t think I could live up to the look in his eyes.
When he saw I was only a spunky, confident model on the cover,
and an insecure shitshow amidst contents inside, he would leave.
A fragile little girl so afraid she is unlovable, unworthy, ugly.
When he saw how uncomfortable I could be in my own skin,
he would let go.
I didn’t like me, so why the **** should he?
I ran from connection that night, after tilling it for hours.
Hauling *** with windows down,
I slammed the brakes and careened. End scene.
He reeked of bliss and impending heartbreak.
So I abandoned him before he could leave.

I’m frightened of anyone who truly stirs me.
It makes me feel big, scary feelings. They straitjacket hug me.
Skewing all my outward signals. I come off standoffish.
Pushing away the very thing I want and need.
I’m not good at expressing intense feelings in real time.
Except in ink. And bed.

I get locked up inside. Feels like I’m gonna die.
A fight-or-flight ignition by erroneous head triggers.
I project my unlovable feelings onto others,
in the face of blatant evidence to the contrary.

I’ve done LTRs, just not with the required equipment.
I know the gears are sabotaged out the gate,
but I go for it anyway. It’s safe (or so it seems). And empty.
I crave intimacy, but I’m terrified of showing up entirely.
In front of someone with eyes that can see.
I quickly sense who is capable of meeting me,
and thoroughly **** it up for myself,
by not feeling free. Not authentic. Not open. Hiding.
Editing. Hot fish, cold fish. Rotating masks. Blockades. Running.
Constantly scanning the environment for signs of rejection,
that I’m not enough, indeed. To validate my own self-worthlessness.
I wanna be right.
I’ve only done long terms where I can remain alone, bored and/or dead.
No real intimacy. No full disclosure. No BAMF duo status.
No seeing to the back of each other’s skulls.
No blasting through the cosmos.

I freeze and evade in the face of what I crave.
Shunning delicious plates I’ve just ordered and ravenously drooled over.
I have more examples, but this is the most concise and blatant...

Except, this one time:

I told my gut to shut the **** up,
while I cosigned utter inner *******.
Denied the eyes of my own soul,
as it floated into my periphery.
It took all of my focus just to breathe.

He didn’t turn around,
just looked over his shoulder.
At me. Up, then down.
And drifted away.
Electrocuting my cosmic antennae.
Leaving me reeling. Still tingling.

I almost called your name,
but doubt surrounded fear mountain.
Plus, I thought I was jus straight trippin, err, trollin.
Going crazy. Weaving my own alteration atop reality.
Pretty pro @ that yuh know...

We push and pull and run and chase,
because it feels safer pursuing what’s out of reach.
Until it turns around.
Or looks over its shoulder...

With eyes that can see.

it's weird how
you're not here

yet I feel you
- still -

reverbs tingling
post-disengage

like you always
******* do

like clockwork
metronome headboard
tapping the wall from below

sometimes it wakes me
others I'm already up
with weird energy peaks
in the middle of the night
can't go back to sleep...

not only because
I know what they look like

it's the exact same
every. single. time.

I get a little happy for them
when they're about to ***

but kinda wanna be like,
don't you know any other songs?!

smell like my Mags -
mad puppyish

steeped in sweet
unconditionals

I should probably
wash them
and her
soon

but I really
kinda like it

and also,
procrastinating

when I feel like
you’re here with me
and that you will be, it
in some odd way star form
gives me this focus and clarity
to face the world that I never have
like hardly, ever, shrinking away into
this no one knows no one gets place
where I hang out and nod my head
at the rest who I don’t know how
they can’t see I’m pretending
this whole scheme is OK
but somehow it’s all
so much better
when I think
you’re with me
-really-
even just
in my head
you go closer
than anyone has
on physical planes
and I feel like my chest
gets less heavy and I can
breathe deep and not think
about my regular plagues
and it all seems so doable
like I can play the game
in order to get out of it
eventually
like I can be a better
everything
when I think we are OK
it’s dumb in a way but I swear
when I think you are mad at me
or don’t understand me or
confuse where I’m at
it’s like my own limb
giving me the finger
filing papers to sever
it feels so lost awkward
and I’m like, ahem, get over here
stop being silly
we don’t always have choices
as to what feels like home
because if we did
we’d have been there long before
we stumbled into it, my dear
at the first cozy thing, as if
one could stick a welcome mat at
another’s feet and make it feel right
we surely would have before now
but I won’t forget
and I won’t let you
forget who
the **** I am
namely, you

allergens tickle in
like snorting
Pop Rocks

respiratory passages
closing up shop
relegated
to mouth-breathing

until I summon
pseudoephedrine
to bomb the ****
out of my face
Liquid Plumber
of snot

side effects may include:
scrambled brains
traces of ether
floating a foot off the ground
perhaps the sexiest poem ever written
and tmi

with walls up
distraught in a rut
wearing those moping
hopeless pants

as if something bad
is gonna come
from facing me
while you're
in them

the irony
is near lethal

it's the only thing
that may **** you

I hope it slays
all you're not

you said
I replayed

between
my ears

and legs

this is the part
where my ragged hope
and intermittent rage

give way

to mouth overrun
flooding pain

when most girls were learning
how to pose **** for pictures,
to be simultaneously ******
and innocence-baited Lolitas

I was learning (mastering)
the art of the keg stand
and jumping into pits filled
mostly with sweaty boys
at punk rock shows
how to hold my own and
not get knocked down

I had this sort of hard shell
though under the surface
I was raw yolk - so thin-skinned,
easy to spill and shatterable

we were drunken cultural rebels
sitting on front porches
of addict-strewn flophouses
******* about the state of things
but not really doing ****
about any of it

I was there, and thus
rather absent from
average female programming
and since then I guess
I've sort of mostly felt
like one of the boys,
not real ****

if I wore a short skirt
it was with combat boots -
just in case someone might
mistake me for some POA
and require a swift steel toe
to the shin, but that
never happened

though I'm sure my style did save me
from lots of ****** advances

in my senior year, I shaved my head
and the girl who sat next to me
in choir class said, oh my god,
what did your boyfriend say?!
and I laughed and told her
he's the one who did it

in all honesty, I really liked
flying under the radar of what
most people considered hot

because when I stopped dating
the guy who was basically
Jack Black from Orange County
(but less drugs, more alcoholism
and also sort of his doppelgänger)

and lost the weight I had put on
trying to keep up with his lifestyle
of perpetual malt liquor, lethargy
and terrible eating habits

and left my hometown
to attend that big name school
and experimented with identity
in a place that has a greater ratio
of young and beautiful people
than any other I've known,

and suddenly felt myself
wanting attention
particularly from a boy who
liked those hot girls

I became one

and got
way too much of it
from him, and everyone else
and I did not know
how to handle it
inside

after I started to wear pants that fit,
channeled my art onto my face,
learned to walk, run and dance
in 5-inch stilettos (like a boss)

though I know most girls
are trained to put themselves
on display from a very young age
to do and say and dress in ways
that encourage this type of
attentive objectification

it always made me feel
not quite comfortable in my skin
I didn't like walking into a club
and feeling every neck crane

I was pretty balanced as a kid,
but became a real tomboy
and then did a 180 -
making up for lost time
with a crash course
at ***** school

I sold out -
learned how to pose
**** for those photos
to contort myself
into what was
expected,
desired

but it never
felt right

and that attention I got
wasn't for what I was -
it was for becoming
a doll of sorts

the role never fit real well
even though I looked the part

and there's this vivid moment
of self-realization I can recall
where I saw it all as I stared
into the bathroom mirror of that boy
I finally won attention from,
tripping on mushrooms,
simultaneously seeing just how

stunningly beautiful I was
and this existential shame
at who and what I had become:
the plastic, the false, the trying
so hard to be pretty when I was
truly radiant underneath...
I think I cried a little
as the walls and me
both melted

and I could have let that marinate,
turned around and walked away from
that ill-fitting role-play,
but I turned my back on that vision
and returned to the living room
and my life of not being myself
with him

I wasn't the hot girl I'd become,
but I also wasn't who I was before
she was also a mask -
not one of ****** glitter
but of hard Rubbermaid
where no one could see
or hurt me

I had to pass through both
my false masculinity and
Barbie-qued femininity
to find what either
means in reality

and now I see
I wanted to be one of the boys
because I had a front-row seat
to how they viewed and spoke
about the hot girls

it's why I never
wanted to be them...
until I did

guess I felt like I was
missing out on something
and I was, but that
was not the thing

that was Sweet'N Low of feminine -
toxic, disgusting and unsatisfying

it is a very different thing
to unfurl in the balance
of fierce and fragile

it takes warrior strength
to be soft and vulnerable,
to follow your instinct when
it tells you to stalk and still
be able to melt in the safety
of another's arms
without feeling

weak

the beautiful strength
in surrendering

I would say I'm sorry
that I hid in faux masculine
and turned out my goddess
but if I hadn't done that
if I hadn't learned
what I am not

I may never have found how
heavenly beautiful and strong
I could feel when I stop trying
to be anything and allow for
my sacred F&M to flow
- authentically -
through me

and one day, I'll master it
and hold myself in balance

perhaps with help
from another's arms to steady
like a good friend supporting
an applause-worthy keg stand

we carry so many things
overflowing with memories
begging to be buried
how can I walk on this heavy
how can I let go of these suitcases
stitched to my fingers

where is the seam ripper for this baggage
where is the end of errant beginnings
when does the scene cut to diamonds
white fences and entire weekends
without tears

when can I not be tethered
to this old steel toed boot
I take a few steps forward
and it kicks me back on my ***

the heart I crave, the love I yearn
the swears I’ve sworn tongue tie and lie
and I’m back again, in your arms
wondering what is salvageable
wondering how much of me
will get to the next round

when will I be a snail
and not the shell

it's all
going
to be.

— Yoda

my poetry was trying
to be something:

pretty, deep, unique

as if cosmic recycling
can ever be solitarily
special

that’s all just
suped-up vanity
lighting one’s own face

now I just try to paint
authentic real on
my vanilla ***

with crinoline skirts
flung overhead

you were
the biggest folder
in my Evernote
labeled Prolix Ranter

because I got sick
of scrolling your ****
and wanted precise
dosages

I deleted it
then swallowed
my tongue
and for so long

no words would come

then you trickled in
iridescent thought bubbles
with minds and time
all their own

I don't know
how to pop them

but they sure as ****
know how to find me

and make my fingers
crave

the pen

you know the days
the ones where you regret
every stupid thing you’ve ever done

look back over your shoulder
wistful at wisps wilted and slipped
through numbly fumbling fingers

while you were busy tightening
your heavy cloak of unlovability
the love you longed got stuck inside
the mirror of nonsensical symmetry

we are like children
inexperienced and naive
never taught how to handle
snow globes brimming with God

disagreeing over methodologies
to get it across the finish line
self-righteously wronging
from craves crumbled
to do it right

because it’s Us in there
enshrined in white orbitals
frosted characters waiting
for whirls to still
so they can be seen
on collapsed knees

opening
to the same page
at the same line

unshattered

today
is one of those

I was
- so -
happy

just
to be

something like
a long-lost friend
incubating inside jokes
on just-pierced ****** tongues
muzzled formal flirting with hmm

more than anything else
I just want our talk

so right everything else
just left

behind

I would trade in all my *****
for more conversations
like that

it's like, there will always
be part of me that sees
and wants more

but the crux
of all that ****

why I finger locks
on fated gates
is because

our talk
is

best. thing. ever.

ranking
formerly dubbed awesome
alongside rigmarole

like, I prefer
talking at you over the wall
even if I know my airplanes
won't hit you quite when
or how I want them

that I know
those ears will hear

is better than
all comparisons
that I have
no more of

****

and often I think
we could just keep
talking forever

and I could
be happy

with
only that

they are sampling:

Infinite Loops
Shredded Fears
Sunny Bunches of Whoa
Iridescent Pebbles
& Cream of We

no obligation to buy
just satisfy that
curiosity

while supplies
are lithe

I get jacked
on the +

my habitual needle
pumping somedays
into my veins

it's how
I stonewall
this tsunami of pain

my heart is strewn
with strikethroughs
erasure marks
faded pictures
and energetic signatures

crystal visions fissured
into fragments

I sift remnants
frayed memorial squares

who we were
when stitched

into the otherwhere

I wasn't expecting
your B or your C game,
certainly not your J or K

or any other letters
in the alphabet, really,

except that one at the beginning:
looks like a pyramid with a perch,
isosceles triangle with bottom arisen,
traffic cone alerting to awesome ahead,
space shuttle tip to aerospace action,
an upside down V with a chin rest,
upward-pointing pencil tip,
2D teepee with a loft...

or your best
approximation.

with fingers for lips
he slipped underneath
deboning human skin
strung up my ribs on the ceiling
under which we dangled
femurs and phalanges
on super strings
chiming 3-part harmonics
on black galactic wind
him, me, Everything
tender clinks silencing
floored motionless flesh
I was not bones, nor skin
but oms inciting orbital dance
spinning with him invisibly
with heartlids pinned back
pounding the key of eternity

we don’t need
to be fixed.

we need to be
aware. open. owning it.

embracing
our pain, our history
our patterns, our spasms.

confession:
I've been fantasizing…

that one day you'd roll up,
like Richard Pryor at the end of Moving,
sitting atop a semi-truck of your whatnots,
war paint smeared upon your dashing,
wearing a tie bandana and bullet sash,
carrying a semi-automatic weapon,
after stalking your **** cross-country,
to the front of our gutted dream house,
after this misadventure, arriving, finally,
at home imperfect, thankful just to be,
there with delirious, Cheshire cat grin,
like a lion dragging in a carcass,
bloodied, brave and proud,
eager to greet my eyes and say:

Honey! Look what I found!
I found my ****!
I brought my **** home...
This is my ****.

and I would greet you,
with water-colored greys
inking down my dimpled peach,
in a black and white gingham apron,
heels, nylons and corseted vintage dress,
mirroring that ****-eater right back,
tray of warm hash brownies in hand,
that got nothing on my toasty sweet
lips dripping to say:

Your **** is lovely, darling.
It'll go perfect with mine!
It's up in the attic - properly labeled,
arranged and categorized.

and with that kind of
ownership, acceptance and bravery,
there is no way our stuff will ever be
more powerful than us, together,
merged and emerging,
by way of wings, soaring,
above our ****-spattered clouds.

you can't
erase the tries
outside the lines

but you can
paint over them

things never come out
quite the same
in ink
as in mouth

especially:

Thank you.
I love you.

and

I'm sorry...

riding warm wind
inside-out outside-in
mouth christenings

lost and found
inventory on skin

remembering who
forgetting where
I am

your eyes unbind
and tie

penetrating unsaids

do you think we could put aside the internal asides prattling past rapture gone rupture, table or under the table throw those scraps to the dog that's pawing in favor of what's under our noses, on the plate facing up at us smiling a reflection in a circle of ceramic glaze gazing past the imperfect ramifications crystallized in those times and bones that still do bind and also occasionally chafe when they chime, the fragmented fancies that danced behind eyelids then knocked back the whites taking unglued precedence while neurons sat back and just watched momentum pulse, so stunned to find where you stopped there I started, and the only push-pull was helixical orb tossed on linguistic winks kinking our forever-tied lines that plead underneath the jilted to stop slanty-eyeballing the looking glass crass, affixing shark fangs where one once only saw wings, though truth be told, I have both of those things, but drain you, I won't, and feed you, I will, leaving marked memoirs of my work, but it'll be your fault, really, evoking the majestic while summoning the animal that reminds me why I'm knees-grateful to be a woman

?

escort stress by the wrist
compound cravings caged
echoing faintly at hole bottom
where chalked stars summon
emotive salve revolution

my lipstick
on the mirror

stretch fingertips
toward truest feels

jar the numb

as I smear
the color me
from wrought fists
wringing heart

cheerleading
through conjoined
memoir dreamscapes
forged with helix lips

spinning ourglass
to shift the sands

while I stifle
these cries
steeped
in stab

for the
greatest good

your presence
is the biggest gift
you have to give

to anyone
ever

including
you

in those moments
I remembered

>>>   e v e r y t h i n g   <<<

I ever wanted
and was

by rollicking reminders
ringing the spine

set prior to
this life