He drinks his medicine
in public, People's Voice hidden under
poetical works of someone
whom he will never meet.
Napkins and wrappers of a muffin's
top what he has been looking for,
maybe under the backpack.
Shoulder slung leather brown
Past. He drinks
his medicine in the early
"Morning."

John Keats
John Keats
John
Please put your scarf on.

you are a complex circuitry of veins and arteries
a compendium of extremities and intimacies

you are either a trillion accidents or a single success
a whisper of life or a shattering of precedents

your structure is art
your conception a masterpiece
mechanically, you are beautiful

the core of this existence is uncertainty
does your rib cage shiver around the catechisms?

at your worst, you are
the part that can not be cut open
the part that can die before the body

your existence is a war
a perennial blooming and crumbling
your mind and body's slow destruction
flinging themselves together and apart

It's like when you have the stomach flu,
and the first thing you toss up is your favorite,
homemade, blueberry muffins. How after that,
even though you've eaten them for 19 years,
just the thought of violet-speckled, baked goods
makes you want to hunch over the nearest toilet.

I don't remember when I stopped being able
to stomach irony.

All I know is I spend every morning gargling
minty antiseptics, trying to rid my mouth from
the aftertaste of dreams, but still its ghost lingers
in the back of my throat. I try to wash it down with the
taste of his ****, and the smell of his cologne. Thinking,
I guess, that one day I'll be able to love him like he deserves.

As opposed to wondering what happened between us.

Your catchphrase was," There's nothing to say."
It wasn't until now that I understood.  I wanted so
badly to find the right words. Wanted so bad to mend
what was  irreparably broken.  But you knew that every
time you opened your mouth, you were in danger
of coughing out your heart. Of spewing out a ******
mess of feelings that I didn't yet understand.

Now, as you come to me with olive branches, all I can
do is choke on my own aorta. So understand when I sound
like your broken record, that I'm just trying to hold it together.

I'm in a corner
minimizing wasted space
huffing particles of dust
if you leave me in the rain
I will surely rust
in the corner
in the dark of
the silent hours

Don't recite to me an other metaphor about your heart beat or a sonnet about my eyes
I'm gonna *****
Miss my mouth again
Like we're kissing for the first time
Fumble in the dark
Like you don't have my skin memorized
I admire you even when you're awkward
And honest and weird
Please tell me when you're scared
I wanna trust you
You can be a perfect poet with a pen
When you're reflecting on this later
But right now, if your words all fade
clumsily into each other, it's okay
Because, my darling angel,
I swear on every vowel of this messy piece
That I love you anyway
Lalala I love you always

.                          



                                                                                    fuckable






                 the





                                          haireyes





                                          morning roll



                                          her pinched





                                         cleft

                                        wafts hard
                                        smelling of seagirls; i splitting
                                        wet
                                        crack
                                        stiffly her the


                                        fingers

                                        ENTeringleAVE
                                        dewed
                                        in
                                        A
                                        Shout "yes"
                                        (ok again
                                          i will)

                                         push her up
                                         me to
                                        
                                         sighing wider
                                         apart
                                         yawing
                                         thighs
                                         extremely
                                         taste


                                         li(ke
                                         brine tastes sweetly sour
                                         )marching through
                                         mouth across
                                         tongue

                                         throat and hand
                                         "please"
                                          tightly
                                          "hert me"
                                           and
                                           "ok" i'll

There was an old man in a Marsh,
Whose manners were futile and harsh;
He sate on a log,
And sang songs to a frog,
That instructive old man in a Marsh.

My fingers tangle and trip
over sloppy knitting
like a deer
learning to walk on crooked
pencil legs.
Like a song I don't quite
know the words to.
I move unsteadily,
uncertain, with short shaky breaths.
Remember when I taught my lungs
to breathe again in August?
After so many mistakes that
I didn't know how to
reconcile.
I wanted to die out back
of a hotel in Montana, dramatic
in the weeds and grasshoppers.
Needles fighting, I
spread a mess of mustard yarn
across my fingers like
I need a napkin.
Has anything changed?
Dropped stitches, weary knots leaving
gaping holes.
I think of how I ran away
from it all.
There are days I still look back.
But I look straight into the sky
as if demanding an explanation from
God himself.
I have to shade my eyes
sometimes,
seeing blinding brilliance
in the sun now.
I can't live any longer only
by the light it sheds
everywhere else.
No, in births of light and bursts
of truth and slow, overdue breaths
is a song I'm finally learning
the words to.
You will not defeat me.
I rip out my knots
and begin again.