god is a woman
and she is angry.

her tongue is a serpent,
medusas mouth,
and her fists are vultures.

seven eyes,
seven horns,
seven doors.

the angels are women too
because only a woman
can weep so much.
someone unfurl her wings,
break the lock.
she is a dove and this
is her olive branch.

in the catholic church only men
can be priests.
but this church,
this gold and silver church,
was built from the bones
of sleek coated mares,
of birthing cows,
of cream skinned ladies in
veils and jewels and wine stains.

ask delilah of samson.
ask jezebel of ahab.
salome of john,
mary of joseph
and magdalene of jesus.

ask the moon of the sun.

ask god about her daughter,
the one still nailed to the cross,
still awaiting birth in bethlehem.
the carpenters daughter
with a wooden stake at her neck.

ask god about her other daughter,
the one in nazareth
still breathing desert air.

ask god about her sons,
sweet lazarus and wild lucifer,
stepping on hot coals
like summer asphalt.

ask god about the forget me nots
pressed to gravestones
in the heat of august.
ask god about the magnolias
wilted against gravestones
in the bite of december.

ask god about the lions,
the goats,
and the lambs.

ask about yourself,
if youd like.

god is a woman
and hell hath no fury
like a goddess scorned.

my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams* / my mother never weeps. she is a woman of hard marble, veins flushing blue across the white of her hands; her hands which are not unlike tree branches, long and elegant. i wish i inherited her hands. my mother is good at bending the bow back, i am good at bending the beautiful / my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams / my sister is immune to plot twist. she twists the truth out of the thing before it has a chance to deceive her. she does not have the luxury of ignorance. when i speak of fallacy and fable, she speaks of eyes wide open / my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams / my fathers mouth has never known a cave in. all his teeth are where they should be, lodged into a fist, tearing at the skin scraping over knuckle bone and finger joint. my father can talk a lot. history, politics, the old man in the monitor room of a casino in a dead and dying ghost town. my father never stops / *my brother always rips the wings off butterflies in my dreams

i.
To the angel of the church in Ephesus,
Write this:
The one who holds the seven stars
In her right hand and
Walks in the midst of the seven gold lampstands
Says this:
Wickedness drips from the fangs
Of faeries.
A mystical hurt wounds
Its way around your spine.
Revel in the snapping of vertabrae.
Suffer for my name.
Repent for me, my lover.

ii.
To the angel of the church in Smyrna,
Write this:
The first and the last,
Who once died but came to life,
Says this:
You are rich in tribulation.
Bathe in the slander
Of those who came before you.
For ten days we will be faithful.

iii.
To the angel of the church in Pergamum,
Write this:
The one with the sharp two-edged sword
Says this:
The throne is yours.
Hold fast to my name.
Let the gold consume.
You martyred me amongst the rest.
Eat the feast sacrificed to the idols
And I will play the ******.
We will wage war with
The sword of my mouth.

iv.
To the angel of the church in Thyatira,
Write this:
The daughter of a goddess,
Whose eyes are like a fiery flame
And whose feet are like polished brass,
Says this:
I am Jezebel.
Condemned for harlotry,
The ***** and I will crawl on ****** knees,
Broken by mens will,
To the city on seven hills.
It is fire we want

v.
To the angel of the church in Sardis,
Write this:
The one who has seven spirits
Of god and
Seven stars
Says this:
We will wear white.
We will walk with our heads held high.
We are worthy of the divine.

vi.
To the angel of the church in Philadelphia,
Write this:
The holy one,
The true,
Who holds the key of David,
Who opens and no one shall close,
Who closes and no one shall open,
Says this:
They will realize I love you
With a bleeding heart.
The altar will drip red and
I will keep you safe
During the trial.

vii.
To the angel of the church in Laodicea,
Write this:
The amen,
The faithful and true witness,
The source of creation,
Says this:
You are neither.
Neither loved nor hated,
But certainly not loved.
Not loved with the inferno of my heart.
I am rich in wretchedness
And you do not realize
You are naked and blind
Like the lamb with seven horns,
Seven eyes.

Who ever has ears ought to hear.
The victor will never
Taste death from my lips.

in my family, nineteen means
a desert.
stretch and sand and thirst.
we claw at our skin,
convinced the heat is something we can ****
if we just scratch hard enough.

in my family, nineteen means
needle meets wrist.
our bodies a wasps nest
of shaking hands
and too wide eyes.
we lavish in stings and ******
and forearms of thorns.
we lap up the blood.

in my family, nineteen means
hospital stays.
bruised limbs.
heavy legs and even heavier eye lids.

in my family, nineteen means
chapped lips
and bleeding gums.
sinks stained with blood.
teeth swirling down the drain.
throats rubbed raw
with all the screams we’ve
kept under lock and key.
every agony that has
wrung itself dry and
broken our spines.

in my family, nineteen means
revolution.
somehow on both sides
of the bayonet.
never shooting until
i see the whites of my own eyes.

in my family, nineteen means
shrapnel
and sunflowers.
daggers
and daises.
life
and death.

in my family, nineteen means
a black widow
spinning its last web.

poetry is dead
which is to say

god is dead
which is to say

mankind is alive
which is to say

hello
which is to say

goodbye.
each atom splitting like

meat cleaver to skull,
teeth to wishbone.

tongue wrapped around firework
wrapped around bleeding bullet heart.

i want him to tell me
i taste like milk and honey.

like rose petal wine,
like those organic strawberries my father refuses to buy.

i want him to tell me
i feel like shrapnel.

like serpent skin,
like sand paper scrape.

i want him to tell me
loving me is hard

which is to say
i want him to tell me the truth.

the truth is dead
which is to say

‘i love you’
which is to say

'you taste like gunpowder’
which is to say

'i’d go to war for you’
which is to say

'wake up,
poetry is dead.’

i.
did you know Thomas Jefferson rewrote the bible during his presidency? he gutted the passages, crucified the scripture. he cut out the mystic, the magic. turned Jesus into a man, a mortal, a shepard who knew how to herd his words into an ordered flock at the nape of a hill.

ii.
did you know every time i speak i feel atoms splitting in my chest? i hear the crack of a whip in the croak of my voice. i swallow sharp shards of broken conversations, they leave long scratches down my throat. sometimes i like to see how long i can go without speaking. everyday the soreness grows.

iii.
did you know during the black plague people killed black cats believing they were omens, harbingers of death? as if petulance is a spell spat from the yawning mouth of Hecate. believing this they killed with claws forged from rusted steel and hisses of spit flying from tongues like unholy sling shots, the townspeople’s gums black with sickness. the line between believing and being true is a lot thinner than one is lead to think. the skeptics say there is power in sight, the blind know the ebb and flow of ghosts.

iv.
did you know i used to eat meat? i used to **** red juice from fat steak, let it run down my chin in a steady stream, used to savor the crunch of wishbone and smash of teeth, the grinding of molars. i stopped when i turned seventeen and realized i was an animal too.

v.
did you know during human sacrifice the Mayans would hold a still beating heart up to the sun? let the red turn gold in the afternoon, decay to dust in the morning while mothers mourned. there is beauty in the macabre, there is truth. there is blood and salt and heavy breath. the human heart is only the size of the human fist. a thick, heavy handed fist pushed into my mouth and used as a gag. i would gladly offer the Mayans my heart, gladly splay myself on the alter, wait for the sun, only the Mayans died in 2012 with the rest of me.

i’ve never held love.

by this i mean
my body is a switchblade.
a hornets nest.
the barrel of a warm gun.

i mean
my heart is a still born.

i mean
my teeth know too much
of bubblegum and cotton candy.
i mean
they think me sweet.

i mean
they think me bird feather.
i mean
they should think me
dead bird’s guts
splayed out like the crucifixion.
i mean
thats just who i am.

i mean
indifference is a reluctant symphony
pounding in my chest.
my heartbeat is a cacophony
of orchestra and
crashing symbols
and the conductor just doesn’t care.

i mean
there is no glimmer about me.
no glamour, no glitter.
i mean
i am just a collection of rust.

i mean
my hands are cracked, calloused.
the truth is a fickle thing
and i’ve never learned
how to get away with ******.
so i hide behind the other side of unrequited.
i reference it in poems,
pray no one will kick my feet
out from beneath me.

i mean
i’ve gotten good at this game.
this cat and mouse.
this ‘******* it why don’t you care?’
this 'you’re a real handful.’
this 'you’re pretty but you’re a *****.’

i mean
i’ve never held love
and by this i mean
i’ve always dropped it.