There are bones in the wood;
cracking, groaning, shattering.
The skeleton of what could
Have
            Been

There are bones in the wood;
whistling, wailing, whispering.
The skeleton is not pure—not good
It
            Still
                        Has
           ­                         Flesh

i sent a leaf
down the river
it was easier than
folding paper boats
and
swimming
upstream

i watched it leave
down the river
it said goodbye
father rock
mother tree
and
cascaded
downstream

red

can be anger
                                                           ­                                             can be love
can be scathing
                                                        ­                                          can be passion
can be warning
                                                         ­                                      can be warming


it is the color of blood
                                                           ­                             it is the color of love

the words fell softly upon her skin
whether good or bad
that’s a mercy
only a touch could bring

they floated gently,
a caress.

she is numb to the pain

Mother.
My laugh is starting to
Sound like yours?

warm
you are so
warm
in my memory
warm
warm
warm on me
warm on my skin
in my memory
your blood is
warm

Soak it up,
buttercup!

It's all you're good for.

Dry,
and you die.

chilling wind
on a grim night

a single shadow
hovers over a light

oh to be such a glow
at the hands of such blight

she’s now only a soul
adds to the death toll

reap her,
Reaper.

i'll learn every constellation
to remember your eyes

for the flush upon your face
take a picture of the sky
every sunrise

i'll fall asleep in my coffee
just to see you in my dream

please-
please let me see-
please i want to see-

wet dirt
adhere to me
sand of the earth
mold me into being
your perfect being

(an inexistent being)

mother
nature
embrace me
allow me into your center
i will burn at your core
to become nothing
once more

To    ,
            
 Whom I relinquished my
     fears
     sanity
 heart, and my future for,
            soul
               being
 I beg you, please—
 harbor me once more.

 Allow my skin to touch
 your breathless whispers,
             kisses
                              caresses
 And allow my devotion
 to cradle your tender being.

 For I would whelve you—
             envelop you—
             fold you—
 unto mine,
 and we
 would become one.
            
Guilelessly,
Plainly,
With Love,

are you ready?
look around—
see the birds fly in formation?
(watch them close)
back and forth
back and forth
all on the word
of the forward bird

(a bird falls)

are you scared?
listen up—
hear the roar of the wind?
(the drum of rebellion)
feel it in your chest?
your heart?
your soul?

(get ready)

so now you're ready?
chin up—
you smell the salt?
(the tears?)
you feel the pressure?
you taste the pain?

are you ready?

I hate to fall to you,
Sandman,
I
Succumb
To you,
Sandman.

You do this
Thing
Where you leech
The good dream
And leave.

And—
When I wake
It feels like
I never even
Took a break—

Thanks to you,
Sandman,
I am
Just a
Tired  
Man.

What protects your knee
But your devotion to me?
You kneel down and scream
“Look at me, please,”
I hear a bug’s plea
You are nothing to me
Let your head hit my feet
You wretched beggar flea

turn off the big
light
the cand
le ts lay toge
ther e will be no
space betweenus
we will catch fir
e mbraced together

the breeze makes a home
in my lungs
it
breathes for me
quietly
deliberately
fans and feeds
the tips and tails of
flame
between my lungs
a wildfire begging to be put out—
it
roars
anyway

i inhale

Do not shine light
upon the mirror at night.

Do not peer
into its murky depths,
for you will rouse the Thing
that placidly watches
from the other side.

The Thing that peers
so curiously,
glinting,
taunting,
wishing you would wake it.

Do not look
when it waves.
Do not speak
when it taps.

Do not rouse the Thing.
Do not touch
the glass.

it sounds like fuzz
since you've left
it's almost funny

everything sounds fuzzy
and my soul grows frantic
all i can hear is the fuzzing

i wonder if you can describe the silence too,

Ready, aim…and fire!
            Chatter and laughter and explosions in the sky,
            Our youth burned out—then rose the mourning choir…
Ready? Aim and fire…
            We cling to wartime needs and the will to survive to acquire
            A win against the adversary, and not die.
Ready, aim, and fire.
            Chatter and laughter and explosions in the sky.

i track the time
with each branch that grows
on the tree you planted
all those years ago

it was on a whim
you let the seed drop
"i'm here forever"
and yet, you're not

i track the time
with each leaf that sprouts
i'm here forever
i'll watch you, sprout

The painting is blurred
Shades of color
Speak to me
Call to me
“Look at me”

My eyes are open
Yet I can’t see
The shades of color
Directing me
Warning me
Protecting me

My eyes are open,
The painting is blurred

Morning birds coax the raised words carved into my palm.
But carved is too gentle—
they were hacked,
the way an angry butcher cleaves a spoiled pig in place of his darling wife.

PRAISE HIM.

Praise who?

PRAISE HIM.

I will.
I do.
Every hour, on the hour:
PRAISE HIM.

Crimson blood drips,
yet it runs as slowly as it can,
for I still must
PRAISE HIM.

To resist is a sin.
To stop would be unforgivable.

So every hour, on the hour,
I must
PRAISE HIM.

your voice is a
low rasp
disguised as ambiance
you're a
wasp
and I’m the nest
you loud
little
pest

something forgotten
is blooming on the trees
little wishes hanging
from the ends of
spindling digits
kisses of color
adorning
brooding skies
praying not
for eternity
but
an absolute
existence

“It’s there.”

“It’s where?”

“It’s there.”

She’s pointing at my
hair.

“What’s there?”

“Your fear, it’s
hiding behind
your hair.”

“I do not fear.”

“Yes, you lie.”

“I do not lie.”

“It's there, hidden
behind
your eyes.”

Set the doll
aside?

I know you are gone  
but the wind curls around me,  
slides under my clothes  
to tickle at bare skin.  

Sun rays caress my face  
in the same way you used to  
pet stray cats.  

Rivers yell and crash  
when they run,  
like us
hand in hand  
when we were young.  

I know you are gone  
but I will always hang on  
to the fleeting existence of you.

A cold like no other,
in the freezer aisle.

My hands are shaking.

Looking at ice cream we won't get,
retracing fading smiley faces
fogged on frosty glass,
in the freezer aisle.

My body is blue.

Cold to the bone,
Mom puts me back in the cart.

each word that stings
is carved into skin
the termites
gnawing your bones
make new friends:

horror
and fear

of being
human has-beens
who hide behind
glass eyes
sliced skin
like
humanesque
empty tins

A line, fractured clean—
I stare.

How
Can this mirror be so mean?

Shards of truth,
Slicing my skin,

Oh, what I’d do
To see me whole again

The rope runs
Over my wrists
Soft like
Silk
Heavy like
The sun

It’s tied me down
To a flimsy little post
That wouldn't hold
Even a feather

Of the bird
That so desperately
Tries and tries and tries
To fly away

You reek of smoke and heartbreak.

There is a forest fire raging in your gaze
that I cannot extinguish with mine.

It can be doused, perhaps—
or smothered
with more eyes and more eyes and more eyes—
but my water pail is filled with Patrón.
I cannot quell it alone.

The thirst in your wildfire eyes
is drying me to leather;
jerky for the vultures.

Maybe they
can quench it.

I am alcohol and lame steak.
You are smoke
and heartbreak.

formless joy radiating off in
waves
amplified by

smile lines
and
crows feet

it emanates
and embraces
those with

sunken eyes
and
hollow cheeks

fire hour
no sand in the hour
glass in my
eyes are          blacktooblacktooblacktooblack
             (calm)
     glass. there is no
sand in the Hour

Lepidoptera,
what a pretty word for  
not quite birds,  
not quite angels,  
not quite bugs,  
not quite devils.  

Their scales are faint,  
carrying the weight  
of shifting tides  
across the world
or maybe  
even the rocks  
where the aliens sleep.  

Ah,  
Lepidoptera,
what a pretty word  
to hold the fear  
of an ever-changing universe.

you cut open
pomegranate
or is it—
man go?

you take your knife
and you scrape
and you scrape
and you scrape
until it's bared all its pride
until all you hit is flimsy thin rind