no, i don't have a clue
You're the smart one.

you add me you subtract me
I'm a problem.

you go to recess
i'm stuck to this desk.
what is me minus you

I lost you like the trees lose their leaves.
I went through the seasons, I felt all the things.
With rain and sun, I've grown some,
but I couldn't grow a new you.

snapping branches remind me
that everything moves on.
It all comes, it all leaves.

it’s too much and not enough to know
that love is just a peace of mind; a piece of time -
that the rocks on the ground and the rain in the sky
are more real than the idea of you and me.

Wine stains the sand
we smile, light and
quiet; the clouds
paintbrush pass.

I don’t believe I’ll ever
understand – or forgive or forget – or even know how

he was never, never going to leave me. Yesterday.
And how
he is never, never going to be
with me. Today.

This second, I will
make a little cup of tea
And try not to spill it
or burn my tongue. And dream of the ease
of many tomorrows from now.

I lived in a refrigerator
from 1969 till now
It was cool to say the least
(It was cool to say the least)

Man, I've sat
hands folded, chillin'
in a ziplock bag like a lump of mud.
Everyone else was picked out
peeled and fried and ******
everyone else
died, in the mouths of their
lovers, or perhaps it was rapists,
the bedroom, the kitchen --
I see no difference from where I am a-sittin'.

Oh, the refrigerator,
oh, my
real-life satire-of-society
you make me want to be eaten
but you make being eaten so
much like death in the eye.
and I
don't know.

Why.

I like to believe
I am more than a sack of goo to be tossed down the throat
I pretend to breathe
like the refrigerator
I fist-banged on that hard as wood center
between my ******* like a man-gorilla
I was told that's where my heart lives
all cozy-sweet in my chest, oozing out love fresh
like vanilla, but losin' flavor
every second, every day
(every second of every day)

Why does it feel so far away?
Why does everything I want to know
feel far away?
Everything I want is in a *** boiling.
Everything I want is in a ***
boiling two houses away.
Everything I want is inside someone else's mouth.
Won't you wait for me. Give my
pouch a squeeze. I'm spoiling. I'm
only
runnin' on borrowed air, the electricity
of the refrigerator
is the only thing that holds me, and it is always
chilly.

Yes, I want pity. And what's worse, I want it
however you'll have me.
But first.
I wanna stick my finger through
right into my heart blood
And break off a piece to
chew before anyone else does

It would be cool to say the least
(It would be cool to say the least)

I lived in a refrigerator anyhow because
when I was 13 I looked in the mirror
and straight-dead knew
my place in the refrigerator
cheeks wrapped in plastic sheets
body-fat wired in lingerie like ham to-go
served hot on Thanksgiving Day tablecloth lace
(Watch half the male population get out their knives
and pour gravy
all over my baked face)

I understand there's some new age
concern that I'll just
waste in the
refrigerator
but man, I am a product and I am made
to be consumed
and the refrigerator
has been the only one there
to keep me.

And if it's a ****-box, I owe it my life then
in the name of my country, the economy,
and world peace, here I am.
Late 30's, about to expire in the refrigerator
Everything I want is fuzzy and far, always
two houses away
Everything I want reaches its hand to the thing sitting next to me.
Everything I shared hopes with has succumbed to mold
I figured I would help society by making room
and be the one to slay the beast
(Drop your conviction and join the feast.)

Sore, soaring – blood-rush;
leaving my veins and brains disturbed
yet soothed over,

once more, like salty sea
soft tease on **** shore.
The constant flow of the come and go activity,

becoming...
                    the calming

stillness.

It is not silence though I come to take it as so...
the sound is rich though hushed; velvety.

To me, you're
when a cigarette tastes like an everything
bagel
after a warm, warming
cup of Spearmint tea.

Everything about you is miraculous.
I have no words to give you
because they all taste like apples,
when they should taste like pomegranates.

It is all too generic, nearly – spiritless
to call you beautiful.
I am merely
existing in this dazzling
vapor of mania, that I
so             clearly               see
buzzing mad about you like hornets.
Only psychotic pills can describe what you mean.
Everything makes sense, in that, it doesn't.

I want to tell you all my dreams. And somehow communicate
that I think you are far more staggering
than I could ever articulate.

Isn't it a sick shame
that those – I mean those
wickedly gorgeous human beings, those with souls
heavy and earthy as antique clocks,
souls like tree moss
living for ages on wood sheds;
souls warm and tormented
like voodoo shops and dreamy sunsets;
souls like ruptured stones,
in-grown toenails and volcanoes –
those who,
should take compliments
and tuck them away on the wide shelves of their hearts,
instead –  
handle them like steaming acids.

I only wish you would

take more than a kiss from me.
but I feel content
also obscene and distracted;
listless yet
serene – when we
share a close space.

The aesthetic I find, I cannot ignore
nor quite place.

It smokes. It intoxicates.

I want to describe the spices in your curves,
(surely you must know) – the organic magic of them
and how they flow, sway-swaying
gentle stream, always waiting to be
dipped into.

But, there is
an energy far more hypnotic than lips or hips,
it is familiar yet new, and constant
and constantly

enticing,
beneath your skin, behind your tongue
somewhere twisted within
your twisted brain –
it gives me
sharp visions of grandeur, like African whiskey;
I can hardly come back from it.

Your dark eyes beaming in the moon rays
like violet plums chilling in water.
Sweet hell.
My heart hurts so brilliant.

When you are near
I thank the stars I that I am, too.
I close my eyes and I am a poet.
But once, as is inevitable
you go; I am helpless
as I am when the clouds move.

The satisfaction I felt
evaporates, in seconds,
just as it came.

one, two, three...

I feel directionless

and ordinary

in all the sober haze.

Daylight needles up to my window,
smiling bright, jaunty, and annoying.
I tell it I am not
participating today.
I'm just doing showers and sleep.

Avoiding human life and signs of mirrors.
Noshing away cold french fries, sipping last night's wine
in my boy-shorts, favorite Spider-Man tee
and signature vampire demeanor.

With achy bowels and a mind like a gallon jug –
The people-sounds outside are heavy
and I, irrationally,
feel judged by every living thing.

Still, I will not leave my bed
like a loyal pet of a grandmother.
There will be other days to
adventure on,all young and fresh, I'm sure
maybe tomorrow I'll break the slump.
but for now my blistering eyes won't stay open;
My whole mouth tastes like a dump
and this back of mine feels like torn paper.

Muscles sink to dust, and lay quiet as a lamp.
Hours slip by. Only Netflix talks to me.
My body dims down like the laptop across my chest.
Yet my thoughts
surge me on
        and away like ******.

And in my mind, I feel shiny, worth-while
and suddenly beloved
and famous.

Husky honey-whispers
escape her lips like smoke.
My stomach goes all hurly-burly
and I forget how to use my hands.

I bite my tongue. I bite my lip. My eyes implode.
I imagine I blappity-zap  
a-twistin' and a-turnin' into some 1940's cartoon fella
hair black and slicked back,
heart poppin' out my chest like an alarm clock.
All I can do is stand around, pretending I'm not
getting drunk, just by – staring
at her.

She can't see me like I see her.

I want to stomp up on the dining table,
then burn the kitchen sink down

and scream ******* to the land and sky
for making her and I
as things not made for each other.

She plays around with her mouth on mine.
She holds me like a sister, and kisses me like a pet.
I melt with every moment I get.
She will never love me.

your hand sleepy
and resting deeply
in mine,
the sound of your voice
pecking like a sparrow,
tickling my heart back to life;
beaming, vast, sunshiny
and unbroken.

Lake waters rose heavily, forming
the wall with a line of sinking clouds
about to burst forth.

And for many violent
seconds, hail hit,
giving off a terrible sound,
like elephants
toppling to the ground.

Just as abruptly as it
had begun, so it ended.
Sun met rain
and birthed an eye-grabbing double
rainbow that hung dazzling
and quiet;
it, too, for mere seconds...

There's an awkward thrill I feel
like wicked-wet rabies –
Oh. Ah. Oh.
To gaze over photos of the woman I created.
With my warped perception,
saturating and cropping everything into delicious
oblivion.
I am the knife as well as the ingredients
that sauteed her together in a camera flash.
She sits hot like heaven.
And I want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.

The woman I created, I hang up like perfected rotisserie
and fall in love with her accidentally every day.
Looking into those precisely underlined
tiger-*** eyes of startling navy. Knowing their true dullness.
Hissing at the free-swinging curls
and the hours behind them. Loving the lie.
The flowy top and sleek trousers gliding down lovely as Niagara
over chaffing chub; all hidden. And thighs; unshaven.
And that topical smile everyone likes to see, waiting to plummet
into suicide like a kite hanging in one tight second.
Her image is my greatest
False accomplishment.

I hang my portrait up on a wall of the internet
for people of the world to migrate to
the photo exhibit, my little show-off room.
They make offers and toss compliments
with their “I like this. I like this." nonsense.


They don't know that the girl in the portrait, she
isn't organic. They seem not to notice
that she is something of a chemical flower.
Her face is my face, only with whiteout poison-paste
smoothed over twice.
And they want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.

Gazing upon her believed-to-be beauty, as I hang my paintbrush,
she bites her body still as a painting,
bruised and needled
into perfect frame. She cries
like Jesus Christ, as she is stared at, but not seen.
I am the artist as well as the object.
And the woman in the portrait is
nothing,
but dot after dot of manipulated color.
And we want to
stare at her picture all day until she comes to life.

You have time and I have ink.
We both, use each other
until we completely run out,
then somebody throws us away,
and on the same day
the next one is made
to fulfill the purpose.
You think you are so unique.

I've dated an artist for over two years
of headaches and yeast infections.
He's skinny, hairy, and the pointdexter I never knew I wanted.
I never wanted a man
to pin me to his wall as some temporary masterpiece.
But life comes and
kills us into what it wants us to be.
Every time I say “Let's stop”—
I shake my mind like empty soda cans
and roll over and take him again.

My trouble is
I love getting ******.

Though we call it something else, truth is
I am his *****. It's an artistic statement
that's been done a million times over. But he needs me
to tell him he's brilliant.
And so, I bury my cheeks into his chest fur.
Feeling its scratches like a returning stray at the door,
As he twirls his finger around in my mouth
romancing me into
something lovely and agreeable as Zooey Deschanel.

I hope one day I can break away and
just be

my own ***** again. But for now, I walk on all-fours
bent over in sharp-submission
and it's

delicious.
For we are nothing more
than two hungry dogs, running back to each other
panting and stinking
through the pouring rain.

I know we may never be one of the dream people
who make their faces and words, world symbols.

writer, actor, 
filmmaker, photographer:
These are things we say we are. You and me.
We need no one to define us. 
our minds keep and align us 
cozy in our deception like wigged-out mothers. 
But we need others to believe that we are what we are
in order to make us reality.

An artist without proof is an empty box.

And we go unfed, 
though we ache like ***-hungry puppies.
Unable
to do a **** thing, but weep,
yearning to **** on a whopping heap of the good-life.
But we go
unfed.

Early twenties, and we're burnouts already, you and me, 
about the meaning of life and the government and *******.

We met in college
my adorable Humanities degree
cupped in hand with his.
We found solace 
in our disappointment because when we kiss
our sadnesses take root into each other.
So our rough, restless, god-angry loving
never stops
metaphorically, that is.

His desire puts me in a box, and he comes in with, 
and we talk.
My desire sets his box full of flames
so he can climb out, and get free again.
But he knows life puts us all in a box 
and you have to do things people want
in order to win the green paper you got just to keep
that box. One day
I hope to live in the same box as him.

Until then 
I'll be in a foreign land, passing out the alphabet and bandages
and ignoring the world of green paper, 
as I live in a box without a lid.
And, as the hot rain drops, my brain makes a fist
and I picture him.

We are now becoming quite a beautiful film, you and me
as he keeps his longing fastened up to mine 
like a pair of overalls.

All the books I needed to write since I was seven years old will,
kills to say, 
never happen, quite possibly.
But still
I am attempting this thing, this poem 
for you and me,
because
of the feeling inside to throw buckets of paint at the door.

The feeling I get at 2am 
to cut holes into my fingertips
in order to string out an art piece from them.

The feeling that long, sunny Sundays give
to drink tea and wine and go canoeing while
a novel ***** out of me like a bleeding baby.

The feeling I always forget to jot down
after being ***** or mugged or misjudged or beaten to bruises 
when everything is as painstakingly raw and red as poems 
are wired to be.

The feeling that comes when it's just us, 
he does things to my body that makes it crack into smiles
fantastic enough, it can't help but shatter like a mirror
all across the floor. You and me.

We exchange our hearts like gifts, and they are 
empty boxes.
And it's all

I've ever wanted.

She hates

The degradation of being the *****-cow.
Breast-heavy, down on the ground, floppin’ from side to side.
Chained to the stall, moans and groans popping out of the throat.
The face tossed like trash, whamming into the wall,
spit dripping down the chin— now again, her
pink, plump *** in his hands,
and him, the sweaty, ****-monster beating and eating her up like a cookie.
It’s a—
bad dream. it keeps coming
Back. it feels
Filthy. Filthy. Filthy, and
                       razor-axe-sweet.

in stirrups. first time.
He approaches, promising
to move his fingers around gentle
I feel a dark rain crying
in my stomach.


I ask if it'll hurt, he says a bit
of discomfort. the instrument
thumbs up into me
like an alien tap.
What if he slices something?
The point is not that he won't but that he could.


He tells me to spread my legs as wide as shark jaws...
It is his business to see everything. But I don't want anyone to
document that I am not head-to-toe gorgeous-smooth
nor a fresh nature slice of honey and flower petals.
I am making a big deal but can't help but
feel like black mold in spaghetti sauce.
My ****** sits in a forest
like a lumpy, tree stump.
It is ghoulish pink-purple  
against his medical hands.
It sits like a slug, just terrifying
in the cold air.
Glamorous *** depictions popped to dust
like a scary, fat balloon.


After the exam
I feel as though I am covered in paint.
I walk the jungle streets home
People dashing and crashing in spins,
all squeals and barks.
eating and ******* side-by-side in restaurants
men spraying their salty juices, women spraying theirs
it makes me sad but I can only see them as animals
sealing their nasties behind cotton.
Why can't I remember what it feels like
to be a precious, little girl again...


I let out a cow's moan
It's been a while since
I've known that I am a diamond.
my fur and dirt along with my baby-heads for *******
and genitals all a gush
swinging and sweating about
under the probing sun
of God's unfeeling expression.

I wish I was a cigarette
so she'd have a reason to stick me in 
her mouth.

She'd **** me down hard like water.
Put me in, take me out, put me in, take me out,
always back in 
her warm, pink
mouth.

I'd take the fall to hell just to have
seven minutes of her
inhaling me in like happy poison,
disappearing softly
inside of her,
and her, still craving
me
                             long after.

You shove yourself inside of me (though we do not fit)
You, the intruder
take a big, black step
and walk right into me.
You surround every wall. I can’t escape this place at all
because I am the place.

I feel time stretch...

You leave just as hastily as you came in—breathy, throbbing, sore
You leave me empty, gaping and
torn. You walk around, then kick me off
and right now you’re
walking
around. Searching for
something more.

I feel time stretch…

somewhere I am
Laying on the ground, worn; inanimate.
Somewhere.
I can always hear your footsteps.

My belly, a pimpled basketball, 
puffed with pasta, 
and my chest, just a hoop and a net, swishing wine through.
Spent my last ***
on cookies and cakes
stuffing my cheeks in backwards
with gushing gobs and slushy slimes.
I go mad like a fat queen.
my hot mouth, 
now a thick, cocoa-creamy swirl, 
as it turns into a custard-filled pastry of its own. 

I do what I can to feel bliss among ****.
Try to ignore the flies fizzing like seltzer.
The candy wrappers scattered wherever 
like broken-into envelopes.
I feel a large thumb press, press, press
my skull to my ankles. 

Tossing chocolate chunks square into
my throat like bozo buckets.
After a while
It stops being "eating"  
and turns into a factory of into me and out of me.
In the end, the delicious part always gets too salty and 
salt over salt is trash
and nothing stays
an ****** for more than a couple 
pinches of this or that.

my body yells at me, because it wants nothing more but to 
**** devil-face with those teeny-tiny, delicious
throbbing minutes. 
I can't feel my life
and so I have to eat dinner on the floor.

Always coming and going—
my mind goes in and out.
White over black over white
He’s my sweet baby jesus migraine
and it hurts to feel him,
but it hurts to not feel him, once you've felt him.

He’s my sweet baby jesus migraine
I swear I can’t
concentrate on anything else
The lights go in and out and
he’s like the sun that’s
spinning, and god ******,
let the light
stay. Stay
so that I can live in it,
and not have to want. Want
all        the             time
white over black over white.

I wish I could
get rid of him altogether then, get
rid of the hi and the goodbye because
He bangs my thoughts to applesauce
And the applesauce is
spinning
like passion
all over the dizzy darkness
and I don’t see a thing
but him eating applesauce
in my head.

he is flashing lights beneath my eyelids, he’s
pulling up
in his green pill of a car, right now
To see me. This second. I got him
grinning, and there are
neon lava lamp juices in my head.

And I am warm. And it is all electric and then
He’s gone.  And again, all there is
is the dizzy darkness. And I have to
sit down
for a while and just feel
him go in and out,
white over black over white
with the hi and the goodbye,
and the
sad,
heavy
spinning.

All I've ever done is feel like one.
Feel Feel Feel Feel.

the words clogging my face
violently flushing huge ***** of thoughts/ideas/dreams
through a skinny wire.

Here, I've always known who I am.
Who I was meant to be, exact as pie ingredients.
Then why is it like a foot
stepping through a nostril?

It's like a mad dating-game.
Wanting to be a writer 
is about as romantic as romance turns out to be.
Publishers won't publish me. 
Rejection is not a letter in the mail, but an advance 
only the gorgeous receive.
I don’t know how to make my cover letter **** for you.
If you shelled out three seconds to peer past the surface 
you’d see a house on fire. 
Flames waiting to land on paper.

The sight of white paper excites me.
It does. It does. Like a bash in the face--
What else can I do?!
Even from the grave there's the incurable
urge to grab its soft gorgeousness 
and defile it, like biting into an apple.
the devilish relief
that comes with marking the paper, 
making her say whatever my insides tell her to.
Making her mine.
covered in clumps of my poisons thick as beef stew.

Because there's nothing else 
that drives me to the moon.

I enjoy the taste of ink slipping into my mouth.
It makes me think that my pigeon-like awkwardness 
will someday be something else.
That somehow my life is intertwined with Plath, Poe, Twain, Frost.
When I was seven, I sewed their voices together like cloth
to stitch out a mind for myself.

I love my fingers when they are touching
the pages of a book, 
and I feel my fingers on the pages, and I feel the leafy pages,themselves
spreading apart, still all as one, like the wings
of seagulls
leading me, as they should
to the smell of beach.

And though it's all I could tear my throat out for 

I avoid writing
like muck on the floor.

It's no riddle. It's just 
because I shrivel up in pathetic hesitation 
even when it comes to doing what I am allegedly 
good at doing.
I fumble away like Humpt Dumpty, 
taped back into one whole glob with rolls of excuses
as I become obese with sadness.
Just like everybody else, I look off into the sky, thinking I'm 
unlike
everybody.

spinning along through 
the routines and sob tales that life dishes. 
Can't write a thing.
Watching TV. Drinking water, wine, soda. Getting a headache.
Too busy.

It's never the moment 
that I envisioned each moment should be.

tripping and singing to myself, 
a delicious illusion that I am somehow destined
to be adored.

I am a frozen pipe
unable to burst through and breathe. 

Everything I attempt with the pen turns to trash, and I am afraid
that I'll die without ever expressing 
that I have truly always been
what I can't ever seem to be— 
a writer,
pig-on-pig in love with it all these years, and all these years,
sorry that I hadn't given more.

I'd let you turn me into a stream outside your house.
And you'd come over me, and I'd wet your morning mouth.
And you'd look into me, and I'd make you see
that I don't see anyone else.

And the sun would come. The sun would shine on us.
And the sun would be
just like us.

A single cigarette
still sits, the only one left in the box, still
waiting to be held and still waiting to be kissed.