In the aftermath, I lay across my adolescent
comforter in the faded spot, hoping to soak up any
remnants of a sun that refuses
to show its face today.

Raindrops stick to my window,
spattered from juvenile tyranny,
born out of temperamental
tempests that literally manifest
from nowhere. These are the tears

I wish I could cry, for even the sky
prays it could hide from the tumult.

But what of warm winter,
where the grass hasn't a chance
to whiter and die,
like the rest of us,
where a single meadow wildflower,
grows with wavering courage beneath
the thin, fretting frost.

Not yet cold enough
for it to finally go along,
with the birds and my father,
yet suffering so that the chill,
Oh, that frightful chill,
penetrates the very cells that
allow it to carry on.

And what of the wayward wanderer
Treading without direction,
with spirit breaking and
eyes heavy with knowing,
mind numb as their fingers,
lumbering (and) without knowing,
crushing its perseverance.

her gravity, that next morning, was one heaping demitasse
of swirling dense nebula ebbed-not-yet. we drank coffee
in silly mugs together while looking at the sun
as it came up for us,
bathed in freezing cold blues. she stretched. yawned.
she struggled to wipe a sleeper from her eye.
her kimono opened,
showing a cascading ledger of ribs behind vampirewhite skin -
my namesake was now scribbled on its rounded surface;
hers, on the inside of my femur, calligraphic.
she was too young for me, i know that.
no worries though,
her soul was older. it was sacred stone. megalith glyphed.
we held each other and
downing that bitter morning brew
watched the sky flick on.
then we picked up our heavy bodies
and went back to bed,
and ****** so hard i got a cramp in my left foot when i came.

chew your thoughts with your mouth open

i want to see
all of you
teeth, tongue, throat, synapse, neuron
stammers and spasms and
flashes of crippling vulnerability
streams of lucid genius
speechlessness' met with
one single look that utters sunsets
giddy ****** kid

i want it
glitch and all

Donald Trump
will never make America great again.
The American dream is dead.
You are the one who killed it.
Dead with Lennie and the rabbits.
George is probably gone now too.
Depression. Couldn't live with himself.
Curley's wife never made it to Hollywood.
Still stuck in the bedroom,
with red ostrich feathers and ***** husband's
vaseline-filled glove.
His breath still reeks of rotten eggs;
only a matter of time before he gets sick - affluenza. Incurable.
Crooks isn't a man. Been diminished to nothing
but a shell. Hollow, and he believes it.
Candy and Slim, worked to death for minimum wage.
The American dream is dead.
******* by deluded denial.
Time to wake up and smell the rotting corpse of reality.

.
Her eyes,
Sunken, blue
With edges of ruddy green,
Of olive, kelp, fatigue,
A certain muddy camouflage,
Bright with purpose,
Ambition and fierce urgency,
Set their twin star sights
On me and I learned a new
Word that day—
Surrender.

I fell into formation,
Saluting her stars in the fullest light
Of the falling day.
I learned how to survive
Under such searing heat
And became intimate
With sneak attacks,
Friendly fire, sudden blitzkrieg
And the nuclear winter,
The dark sheet,
Of sorrows unveiling.