Here I was,
pheromones **** in the chilly fall air,
tumbling about among the atoms and molecules of
oxygen and nitrogen and methane and gas
for any to stop and smell and--
Please just grab my ***.
The truest of lights
streams into my eyes,
blinds me and unclothes me,
throws off all of my lies and false feelings
and turns me into the soppy mess I am.
I stumble down the street,
tears blurring my vision;
"I'm going for a walk,"
I tell them,
"I'm going to find my friends."
They've all left me behind,
I tell myself.
I'm alone and trailing them
on this road of
***** and
tears.
I had wrapped up my hair,
worn the shortest of shorts,
drank until I couldn't think
and still--
and still I walked alone.
The lights of Columbus and
the crisp air of an
old country route
haunt my heart,
play hopscotch and
dress it up all
nice and tidy.
Whether a **** and
pulsating body
were against me or not,
would I be happy?
My body is fighting to break free
but my drunken mind
can't even manage that.
Here I am,
world,
take me for all my
sloppy iniquities,
I think, stumbling back to the house
from an adventure poorly spent.
He had gone
and so had him,
boy was done with
my foolish whims.
True love is hard to find
and true like is even harder
but sometimes it helps to just
sit back and think and
ignore the thunder
of thousands of people pushing down
on your weary, little head--
platonic attraction
just doesn't cut it, sometimes.
The mounties rear up and back
and I walk around;
a girl pukes her heart out and
I crush it into the dirt.
The door slams open and
all eyes rest upon me,
those drunken
and
judgmental
eyes.
Their gaze burns me,
catches me alight
in the unwavering flames
of social curiosity.
"Are you all right?"
they ask me.
I fall down instantly,
sink into the old oak floorboard,
melt into the grain and
become a vague pattern among
millions and millions of black and brown circles and lines--
"Yes,"
I answer,
"I'm perfectly fine."
Here I was,
sloppy and seeping onto the cold, hardwood floor.

Shaking the fur
off the holes in my skin,
microscopic, little dens
for every fox that comes my way.
They release,
instantly,
and I stand in the room,
bare and naked and bleeding and screaming
for the whole ******* world to
hear and hurt and hug and help and
love
me.
I'm crying and laughing and singing and dreaming
for the whole ******* school to
stop and see and sting and string
me
up
into the jewelry
wrapping their pretty,
little necks.
I am
inexpensive jewelry
to give to your
finest French *****.
Read me like
one of your nudey books,
I'm just a spreadshotted eagling on the
bareskin rug,
bearbottomed with the brutish blues
of the bruises and the bites.
And maybe I
want to hide,
to run and whisper myself
into the secret,
hidden spots behind every
shadowy curtain--
but when you're up and out
and over and through
and wrapped around their evil,
little eyes,
there's nowhere to go.
You're trapped in
every word they say,
the kind,
the cruel;
you're trapped like a rat
stuck inside a cat
stuck inside a dog
which was eaten by
a North Korean man last Kim Jong-il day.
You know,
they call that day
the
Day of the Shining Star--
and maybe the man
plastered on every poster,
draped carelessly on the street signs
and erotically fixating a nation
didn't want to be the Star, either;
maybe he never wanted to
be the constant, single thought
on each of their hateful,
dreadful little minds,
dredged into the
swamps and mires
of their moist
and
sweaty
dreams.
Maybe,
he, too,
didn't want to be the
*****,
drunken,
distasteful
STAR
of their hate.

I've been
worried
lately
every time
the wind begins to blow.
The force of
that invisible
force
pulls me up
in its strong embrace,
sweeps me off my feet
and into its
unseen hands.
I become a
strange warmth
to it
as it becomes my
bedrock,
my bottom and
my base.
I've been
wondering
lately
if I might be caught up
in the gentle breezes,
swayed and
shoved around in the
upper reaches
of the atmosphere,
chilled in the
highest heights.
I've been
welcomed
lately
in the breezes upon my back,
the feel of the cold
stinging the nape
of my neck,
nestling its
strength
into my own weakness.
Maybe I
might collapse into it
one of these days,
and my feet will stop
their walking
and my hands will stop
their tumbling
and maybe I
might just become
like the wind.
I've been
winking
lately
at the thought that
I might be a dandelion,
seeds sprouting up
from my skin,
escaping pores
filled with the toxins
of 300 cartons of cigarettes
and the esteem
of a crippled chimera.
Should the wind
ever blow so hard,
be belligerent,
shove me around,
I shall scatter and disperse,
blown off in different directions--
I shall plant myself in
foreign lands
and allow my legacy
to be carried by the wind.

I kept my thoughts
always to me--
no,
no,
I didn't need nobody else.
I never needed nobody else.
I kept my thoughts
locked by key--
yes,
yes,
I could've kept it in myself.
I always kept it in myself.
They don't ever
need to know,
there's no reason;
and maybe my
moodiness is just the
season.
But we never keep on fighting
when everything just
throws us back down--
and it gets so rough
when one has to keep biting
just to keep you around.
I'll never say these words
outside of my head,
they'll never be caught
and spilled above your bed.
I kept my thoughts
always to me--
no,
no,
no, no, no, no,
no, there ain't no key.
Your heart is in your head
but your head is torn apart,
and maybe sadness is
really art.
I mean you see me
struttin down that street,
smoky,
smoky,
smoky me
with a body that
looks so beat.
And maybe I'm tired
and maybe I'm trapped,
but that don't mean
you can be up in me.
You can never
be inside me,
I will always
try to hide the key.
If unlocked
I will be
a firecracker
rising up in the night,
going up,
up,
up and away,
burning brilliantly on my
chariot of smoke,
sparks,
and stars.
I'm sorry,
I have to keep my thoughts
always to me--
no,
no,
no--
not yet ready to fall.

I'm tired.
Some nights,
I don't even sleep, anymore.
Spending hours with eyes staring blank,
spacing out into my own empty spaces.
Sometimes, in the darkness
of the midnight,
I explore these places,
these hidden nooks and crannies
of the inner stores of my deepest selves,
spending hours upon single places;
my own empty spaces.
I've grown tired
of this waking stupor
and the life that surrounds it,
the reality that permeates everything
like the patterns in deja vu,
the trends in dreams.
I walk blindly,
aimlessly throughout
hallways boobytrapped with people,
emotions that lie in wait to jump out, to pounce.
They want to jump out and jump in
to all my nooks and crannies;
these same special places,
my empty spaces.
I don't recognize people,
anymore, don't connect, don't relate.
My brain has been fried from late nights and days
that asked too much of my fragile selves,
looked too hard for places to shove
their doubt; their special places,
my empty spaces.
I feel tired
of this mortality, this flesh
and blood and bones that only assemble
due to the random collections of particles,
the creation of bonds and repulsion,
electrical tugs with not pattern.
I shove my being into
these places,
my special places,
my vain spaces.
They don't know about their
lack of existence, so we can wait,
we can watch and resume this trend of
using and being used, of assuming
and guessing all the answers
to basic behaviors,
the layout
of people and words
meant to trap me within my
own mind, my own paranoid insomnia
and my gaps of humanity,
rushing to be filled
with imaginary
electricity.

I haven't slept
in far too long.

"I love you."
My fingers froze:
dark eyes on a list
as long nails clacked
on gray keys which
stuck with age and use.
I dreamed of love,
sweet hordes of
doves escorting me
to my desire of
love, love, love.
Such dreaming flags
floated in my mind,
wishing to be a hot ***,
body made of rag,
a delicious mess
of hearty gags.
I wanted promiscuity,
in all its forms,
shed of all its innuendo
and flimsy disguises.
I wanted hard action,
man on man,
cheap rides and
cheaper thrills.
I wanted to be a little
pornographic princess,
a tiny-dicked seductress,
big ***** conductress
of all his passions.
My flag flew up as a
hormonal reaction,
attraction,
smooth bodied and
tight lipped action
running up and down
my jaded cadaver.
He wanted a **** *****,
a promiscuous witch,
casting love spells and
**** glances to make him
itch.
He entered my love nest,
the back seat of a car,
to destroy my frame,
to rid me of my childishness.
My folly melted away
in sexyhot sways
of my hips as
my lips would say
lust filled nothings
that would be filled by
empty sighs and
****** filled
"I love you's."
My fingers froze:
as brown turned to white,
my body turned to snow
and rained down around
his swollen flagpole.
He was incompetent,
inept at the deed
and unable to satisfy,
but it was my ego that needed
this gratification, not my
libido.
I laid in the aftermath of the attack,
calm,
demure,
sad but
ultimately relieved
Finally,
I am ravaged.
I have soiled my nation
and salted my own fields,
laying waste to my youth,
my innocence.
I wanted to be conquered
and so did I receive,
being taken and
yet somewhat untaken.
I remember his voice,
that dumb accent.
I remember his preconceptions
of what this was supposed to be.
"I love you."
My fingers froze:
as lungs filled with air,
and brain filled with contempt,
my jaded body grew
to desire--
God, I really wish I had a cigarette.
I remember how he thought
I cared,
how he though that
anybody did.
I remember how,
I thought I had, too.
"I love you."**
No, you don't.

I need movement,
I need action.
I called you up
For a quick ****,
Wanted sweet fluids
To run over my skin,
To flow into my pores
And pass through my veins.
I wanted to bleed experience,
To think in sensory images.
So
I called you up
For a quick ****.
Wished for heavy pounding
To drown out my paranoia
And all my insecurity.
I realize that this bed
Can not hold
All of my being,
For I extend
Far past my
Dermal prison.
I am the mind's
****** aura,
Reaching out with
Many feathered tentacles
To tickle your chin,
your chest,
under your belly,
between the thighs.
So
I called you up
For a quick ****.
I hope you realize
That you need to use protection,
as **** can not hold
All of your being,
Extending far out
And into me,
To soak
Into my skin,
Sink through
My pores,
And run
Inside of my veins,
Your sanguine fluids
Like solid,
Salty tears
Pumping throughout
My body and
Coming back
To my heart.