This man I don't know
stopped me in a room full of paintings,
asked me if I knew that
Helonias was having an ******

as she clutched the head
of John the Baptist
and pierced the tongue
that spoke against her-

I had always thought
the woman was mourning.

Her face seemed contorted
in statuesque grief,
but, no -

She was *******
as she mutilated
the first cousin of Christ.

How, strange, how brutal
a thing to know.

I described myself as a writer to my new therapist today.

That was cool

and it made me want to start making art again.

I'm aware that our drinking might be damaging
to our livers, but
there's something amazing about seeing ourselves
without filters.

The pull you described-
I thought it was imaginary
as I'm not the best judge of my own character
and when you met me, I thought I was a *******.

Sometimes, I still think I'm a *******.

But you've molded me
into something far better,
a form I am proud to inhabit,
a soul I enjoy feeding
and feeling inside me.

Yes, you're an inspiration
and yes, your form and mind keep me awake
at night, imagining
possibilities-

ways to kiss you, adore you, be a better man for you -

(and yes,
I gendered myself

partially because you've made me realize
that my Self is a canon
of hope for others like me
and that I should cherish it)

There's nothing more precious to me
than waking up next to you,
feeling your eyelashes flutter
against my cheek as we rise,
procrastinating leaving our bed
because it's warm and inviting-

or feeling your breath in my ear
as you tell me your stories,
secrets
that I won't ever mention
to anyone-

You'll have everything I can give
in my emotional reserve.

You'll have my joy, pain, oblivion
and all in between.

You'll have time, love, patience, faith,
whatever you need,
my love,
ask
and it shall be granted

I’m a journalist but I hate people. I can’t stand when disingenuous words fall out of my mouth, it makes me feel evil,
but I lie all the time.

The content of my ciphers is not to be discussed or deciphered.
The pain in my logic is not to be altered or justified.
The reason for my appearance is not to be questioned or speculated.
The light in my eyes is not for you to touch.

I am mine-
so *******.

When I was younger my daddy told me writers didn’t need to swear.
Find a better word, he said, but
I’ve come to learn that everything is about choice.
All art is the product of a series of conscious choices.
So, if I need to say *******-
I will. *******.

You are in no place to discern my face from others.
My identity is not to to be discussed in any room, public or private, without my consent.

Prophecy: In due time, all this will be self-explanatory.

Your bruises fail me.
Your clinics and doctors fail me.
Your out-dated policies, lack of tribunal protocols
fail me.
Your guidelines, endless forms, paper guzzling rituals
fail me.

I owe you nothing. You will receive whatever it is that I choose to bestow upon you with either love or discomfort.
You have no choice.
The time has come for a systemic revolution, starting with the Self.
I owe you nothing. You cannot change me nor hinder these evolutionary processes.

Your scalpels fail me.
Your nip-and tuck, ****** relocations
fails me.
Your aesthetics fail me.

Make room for me in this ocean, or I will drown you all alive.

Your triumphs fail me, too.

I absorb
each of your sounds
like the listener I am,
relishing them

Committing them to memory,
stored inside a vault
I dip a finger into
when I am feeling cold
or lonely -

and when I do recall
the contours of your face
or the cadence
of your nighttime whispers
I sit awhile
and feel no pain

The crimes of my heart are swift and brutal.

Tell me again
you find masochism attractive,
and I’ll show you
true devotion

We are hiding things.

Secrets looped around the roots of our teeth,
nestled under our tongues,
sliding down our esophagus

Winding their way throughout our rib cage,
inching towards our hearts

We met in a way
I am compelled to lie about,
simply for its lack of romance
but when I told you this,
you refused to recant
our original story.

I met you, unbridled, unassuming,
heart brimming with fear and eyes wide.
My hands shook as I offered you a drink.

Something in the room’s energy shifted when you entered,
a cosmic thing, I guess-
for a moment everything seemed to be meandering
instead of racing.

But now, all my body does is speed,
yearn to stretch itself beyond its bounds

Every now and again I feel compelled to take my pulse
out of fear of my heart’s reaction
to seeing you.

I don’t regret the frantic gasps
that lept from my chest as you touched me,
pulled me into your vortex,
no-

I won’t recant the breathlessness of my sudden, intimate confession
in the midst of our friend’s birthday-party

Sure, I was emboldened by the liquor,
but my decision was motivated
by far more than the headiness of wine-

Your eyes were the catalyst.
The way they peered at me with longing,
yet somehow expecting nothing,
just interested in what lay before them

And I remember
your sudden shift,
you propped yourself up on my chest and said it,
a declaration that stopped time once more -
or, at least, for me

So much blood rushed to my head that I feared you’d killed me
for a moment

I remember too, the brief seconds I spent
floundering in terror
before I made a statement of my own,
and tossed myself willingly into the potential killing-fields,
a sacrifice of sorts,
marred by recent pain, but still ascending.

I used to think
that I was unqualified
to say such things.

But then,
a professor of mine
encouraged the seething hum
within me
to boil to a roar
and so-

These are the facts
I’ve uncovered.

Our country’s countrymen
were not from the West.

They were here,
on this patch of land,
making their own.

When the others arrived,
led by the witchery
they seized what they could find,
butchered,
murdered,
brought the land to its knees with war
and feasted on its flesh.

Our big ol’ U.S. of A stands on the bones and weary shoulders
of an indigenous people
we have been made to ignore
or mislabel as “savage”
almost unwittingly-

Prey, all of us
in the jaws of a Capitalist agenda

When I was young,
they took me to a beach
more pristine than the handprints of a god.

I regretted each of my footprints
upon the pearly sand,
my touches seemed to taint
its flesh.

The whispers of the air forbade me
to leap into the steely ocean
and shed my skin-

The waving of the pirate’s trees
kept me grounded.

There’s not much more we could have done.
Stack the chairs up to the ceiling,
brace ourselves for a revolution.

This indecision is nothing new.

Agree, oppose

For better or for worse- et tu?

Nothing feels the way it should.
Drifting between protests,
unsure of what to believe in
with different fists
raised at these young demons.

I’m unsure of why everyone is here.

I’ve always wanted to see Louisiana,
with its cobwebs and crawfish,
the distant yells of Marlon Brando
Still throbbing faintly in the night

I feel it boil in my belly
as these fingers grip the flask

it was a birthday-present
from an old, old friend…

I wonder how long it will take
before they order an intervention.

I have spent so long
honing my craft, I cannot afford
to have my choices compromised.

Go on, ****** me back into that hell
of plastic chairs and unlocked doors,
headboards bolted to the floor,
dead names carved in windows.

I will not go gentle;
allow this debauchery to go on.

I can see the canopies,
the gentle shades of foliage
disguise crumbling facades.

Leave me with my drink and willow trees,
after all, whom do I harm?

We retreat into the same spaces,
hands in our hair,
blood in our laps.

Curtained by terror in our respective rooms
waiting to soothe the aches in our bones.

We say that we’re warriors,
that no one under this sun can touch us

But what about unions,
what about others?