During a walk through the hallway
of the primary school
I find hallways
filled with turkeys and leafs and stiff scrawled characters.
What is Mr. Smith's class thankful for?
Flowers and toys and cars and dresses and pink and purple and soccer and skirts and barbies and family.

How could you sum up all of the things you are thankful for in one word?
At the end of the hallway I am faced with a choice:
What are you thankful for?
-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------------------------------
What­ am I thankful for?
Happiness, and family and security and nature and
friends.
I am thankful for friends.
I am thankful for laughs and chatts and cries and sobs and games and smiles.

I am thanful for ****** contortions and 80s dance sessions,
for inabilty to speak.
I am thankful for hobos, eating on the side of the road,
and for devious scheymes of intoxicatation.

Hep beni anlayan bir arkadaşım var müteşekkirim
and who listens to my sob stories.
I am thankful for singing in the rain.
And styling hair in the sink
for screeching and howling
and hissing.

I am thankful for obkirchergasses,
for Ströcks and for ice cream plarlours.
I am thankful for mentos,
and walnuts.

I am thankful for bad lip readings and hilarious youtube vidoes.
I am thankful for unknown languages and nymphs
and for eloquence.
I am thankful for good taste in music
and for strong opinions.

I am thankful for dancing indian pirates with demon chicks and fireballs.
I am thankful for two-headed teenagers and barbeques.
I am thankful for God and healthy choice prayers,
and Hawaii get aways.

I am thankful for huge, hanging sweaters and crazy, funky leggings.
I am thankful for deep talks about the world's lack of beauty
and for poetry buddies.

I am thankful for dodgeball playing mice,
and poor old wenches.
I am thankful for pirate and mermaid adventures.

I am thankful for the looks we get:
looks of loud disapproval,
and whispers of quiet exasperation.

I am thankful for golden men and loud singing,
for crazy dances with crazy cousins and cute brothers.
I am thankful for Aunt Jemima.

I am thankful for banging on metal bars with rocks and shouting at the top of our lungs.
I am thankful for climbing over gates in order to not step on cracks.
I am thankful for amazing humanities teachers.
I am thankful for a laugh when the day is over.
-----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------
How those kids manage to fit all of their thankfulness into one word  is beyond me.
Even the one-word things we are thankful for, must be described with a million words.

She was ugly.
A snake of a girl- beady
blue eyes and
blood-red toenails.

The small snigger creeping
up through her perfectly
kept teeth as she spat
at the garbage
of the street: the creatures
she couldn’t see
through her beady
blue eyes.

Her mama would dress her
up in yellow ribbons and green bows.
“Why honey,
you make a sweet little
dandelion,”.

She liked to be
a dandelion, but secretly
she dreamed of being
a marigold:
                                                                ­                       Lips parted to the sun,
                                                                ­                                       seeds planted
                                                         ­                        in the rich soil of her own
                                                                ­                                             blackness.
She wanted to be a marigold.
But she was just
a dandelion,
stepping on petals and
weeding out whatever
she longed to be.

Lights flash.
Glowsticks twirl.
rip   snap   glow
rip snap glow
ripssnapglow
ripsnapglow
rispnapskgoa
thelkaljth
the words blend
the sounds smear
the colors undulate
and suddenly
i heave
i hurl
i ****
i puke
my stomach caves
my body shivers
my brow sweats
my knees quiver
i lurch to the ground
splashing in my warm milky surprise.
and expectedly
i puke
i ****
i hurl
i heave
the world twists
the technicolor dream-coat of Donny Osmond happiness swells.
it rips
it pulls
it tears
it *****
and I'm a hostage to its psychedelic screams.
Faces twist into positions they aren't meant to hold.
gasps wheeze into my pores, burrowing like soft, comforting mole rats into my being.
I'm dissected.

Clumps of red lacquered strings
twisting and wriggling

They just won't unstick
They cling together with stubborn love

Basil leaves hopelessly floating through the eternity of red sauce and garlic
Chopped up and sprinkled thoughtlessly throughout the disarray

Yet, somehow, little strands of spaghetti manage to stay together
and
I find myself
envying them

I've got a surprise.
It's in my hand.
I'm holding it.
Want to see?

Grumpy?
Mad?
******?
******-up?

Yes
Yes
Yes
Yes

Why?

Everything.
This room makes me cry.
Your eyes make me scream.
This situation makes me yell.
You face makes me sob.

You don't understand.
I don't understand.
Oh, well
Just keep giving me hell.
Oh, well
Doesn't matter.

Not like I care.
Not like I asked anything from you.
Not like I don't need anything back.
Not like I sat and listented and solved all your problems and never once talked about myself.
Not like I ever helped you.
Or like I have problems too.

I'm afraid I haven't paid the title a proper homage.
Oh well,
I can't to anything right
anymore.

Most people grow gardens with flowers and peas.
But I am not most people.
My garden is rather unique.
Come quickly outside if you dare take a peek.

Follow me out the door
but don't be too hasty
I will return you here looking awfully pasty.

Into the woods we go
with a feeling of unease
remind yourself you may turn 'round if you please.

You wear an expression of bravery
plastered to  your face
I'll warn you that is entirely out of place.

My garden lies far, far away
The entrance: this long narrow path
Upon return I suggest a nice lukewarm bath.

We march on silently
Straight to my clearing
Where all that dwells is hardly endearing.

We arrive at gates
I push them wide open
and glance at your face, the expression most potent.

You stare out at my garden
Your weary eyes cautious
Searching for normality with obvious malice.

There is nothing of that sort to be found here.
So sorry to disappoint you, my dear.

From the unicorn pasture
to the golden archer
near the tentacle bed
and the swooping vulture

Round the corner lives my large pet dino
being lead by a petite albino
by the pond grows my crop of egg head
while nearby lies a heard of enormous sized rhino

Your gaze falls on my pink sparkly pegasus
being rode by a tiara topped princess
on a field of grass that is blood-red
bordering a lake worthy of the great greek god Isis.

As I watch your face change with shock and a pinch of delight
I see you won't put up a fight
You'll help me grow and raise my unparalleled garden
You might even defend it and be my trusty warden.

All that matters is that my garden is safe.
And to be honest, I couldn't be happier.

Head spinning
Feet tapping
Mind wrapping
Thought trapping
Idea capping
Desperation mapping
Quality lacking

Spaces filled
Time killed
Not thrilled
Answers willed

Nails biting
Cheaters sighting
After all nighting
Wrongs not righting
Feel like flighting

Brainpower waning
Lack of knowledge maintaining
Wisdom draining
Composure regaining

Test failing
Arms flailing
Letters mailing
Face paling
The big unveiling
No more prevailing
The action entailing:
My annihilation

Two months ago I saw you alive and happy
two weeks ago I could have seen you breathing
one week ago I could have touched your porcelain cheek
Now all I can do and ever will do is stare, stare at the finite letters etched into stone
-----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------
May you weight be lifted
May God take your load and let you be free
May you flit forever young through death's waves.
no more pressure, the gray shroud has been lifted and you may dance with the angels on silvered slippers
May you glide gracefully through the enlightened void of forever.
--------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------
What I wouldn't give to see your smile, one last time,
to hear your final laugh and to weep with you at the end,
to hold you near and let you know you are loved by me until the last second,
to be with you one last time, to say my goodbyes: to get closure,
to get rid of the chains pulling me down.
-----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------
If only the world were perfect and I could meet you, in health, to let both of our souls be free.
but you need not worry, for where you are now is the most immaculate place on earth, but detached from earth
-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------
May you lie forever in undisturbed harmony
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------
I say my farewell to your stone now and can only hope you hear me
but if and when you do,
I want you to know
I. Love. You.

Your eyes burn caverns in my soul
Your breath sears scars into my heart
Your horns rake spears across my free will.
You bind me for your life.

I sculpt your mind to ash.
I whittle your heart void.
I paint my own expressions across your face.
I fight you for my life.

In this dramatic scenario who is the enemy?

The fight begins
You lunge into my open arms
I trap you.
* +1 point for me
Your fangs tear my skin
+1 point for you
My mind flies and whirls
Your eyes emulate.
I watch you.
I watch you writhe and offer my assistance.
My hand reaches out...
You grab my hand
-1 point for you
Upon the first touch your mine.
I feel it
This hypnotic state encloses you.
I whisper you commands.
I toy with your morals.
I complicate your values.
+3 points for me*
You leave, according to orders.
The fight is over and I have won.

I rest.
In my sleep I dream.
I dream you.
-1 point for me
I thought the fight was over....
You control my dreams.
+1 point for you
You bind me in this nocturnal jail.
+1 point for you
You lock my words
+1 point for you
The dream is over and you have won.

We are back to where we started.
or are we?
I can't be certain.
You do the math.

My head in hands
My weeping stifled
the creatures in my head
swirling screaming tormenting each and every thought daring enough to cross my mind.
each comment a blow to my character.

These spiraling insecurities unthinkably true.
Could it be true?

Swampy hands pulling me under
under civilization
a whirlpool of consumerism
selling the next thing
selling me

I DON'T WANT TO BE SOLD

I battle these ideas, these values being forced upon me
They lock me in jail.
I plead
They only stare back at me with stone hard eyes.

I pout.
I will not be sold
I will not be some media *******
I am me.
I cannot be advertised.
I cannot be owned.

"Take your commanding hold of me"
I will not succumb to your sickly media culture
I will not hold off for you.

You may hold me in this suffocating cell for as long as you please
I may live and die a captive
But I will never be yours

I was born in terrorism.
I grew up in earthquakes, tsunamis and rebels:
in shouting blond girls with red eyes and pixel
smiles.

I was born in blurred faces and mute
voices pulling at my
eyes until I dripped the clotted
tears of a thousand soldiers, or refugees,
or children.

I was atomized, crunched
into small seeds and scattered
across a desert field.
Someday a flower would grow there,
budded from the bones
of my being and  
flowered into a fiery,
empty marigold-- dripping
gold and embers across a thirsty desert,
where the shout
of the civilians was distant
enough to ignore.

I was sodomized,
conceived in the roar--
of the rumbling wave- crashing over-
pulsing through her thrashing cave.

I watched my flower whither
and blister with the deliberate count
down and the glare of the
floodlights-- dowsed in water and soil--
or some semblance of the two.  

I was born in the blood
of my mother and died in the
womb of the world.

"Get out!"
He yells; orders
"Get out of the car!"
I sit.
"NOW!"
I look around
sorry faces gawk at me
they should be sorry

letting me fend for myself
walking into the desert battlefield with me
then stealing my bags and running away
with sorry snickers
sorry
**** well should be.

"I'M SERIOUS! GET OUT NOW! OR I'LL PULL YOU OUT!"
I gaze out the window
barren deserts,
mossy, sandy mountains,
endless stretches of hard, dead highway

The lock unlocks,
my belongings gather,
my shoes go on,
the handle moves,
the door opens,
my foot ventures to the sandy ground
the door closes
the engine starts
the car moves away
Sorry hands wave at me
my body is still
My face holds steady; a deathly glare of dementia
The car disappears
Realization slaps me dead in the face with its stone hard fingers.

Did that really just happen?
Am I truly all alone?
I look around.
NO people.
NO cars.
Just an endless stretch of highway
Epiphany strokes me with fire warm palms.

I'm alone!
I'm alone!
Sweet freedom!
Sweet, sticky, horrid freedom!
I hurl
I cough and spit wheeze
I wipe my mouth
the saccharine taste of bile still fresh.
I thirst.
I grab my camel back and take a small, deliberate swig.
I put on my backpack and stalk away from the speck of dust car.
I grimace.
I rummage through my never-ending pockets.
I count out five dollars and seventy five cents worth of change.
I grunt.
I hike up the dusty trail.
All ahead of me is sand and dust, sickness and deluging concepts of freedom.
I march on.
I feel the earth echo beneath me as each grain of sand separates.
With each trudging movement my feet slip backward.
With nowhere left to go and nothing left to do
I walk on
with my smile of freedom and my baggage of
Desertion

"You look good together"
I know
"You would be cute together"
I see that
"I think he likes you"*
Doubtful,
I've never even been considered

But apparently
I'm not good enough
I'm an untouchable

Too unique
Too smart
Too independent

Not enough breast
Not enough ***
Not enough popularity

I wish I could say
that it doesn't bother me

but I watch all the fakes with their perfect boyfriends
and I feel sad
and I yearn for that
and I think we wouldn't be fake
we would be real

I wish I could say
"His problem, he's missing out."
but I can't
because,
I'm missing out too

My pens and pencils neatly arranged.
From largest to smallest.
From shortest to tallest.

My markers perfectly aligned.
ROYGBIV.
Red
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet
Rule­ to live by.
In order of the Rainbow.
Aesthetically pleasing.
Perfect.

My erasers meticulously stacked.
widest to thinnest.

My pencil case empty.
The teacher approaches the board.
I grab a number two pencil from the small end.
(get the weak out of the way)
I am ready to go.
Ready for action.
Prepared for anything and everything.

James comes up to my desk, grabs it with two hands and shakes it.
My masterpiece crashes to the ground.
I was not prepared for that.
He laughs.
I cry.
                                                                                                                        Whaddya have to do that for?

Sometimes
I see a picture.
A picture of a woman
in a kitchen.

Her hair is tied back. But sometimes
it’s not.

Sometimes she winks at me.
A knowing
smile and twitch
of an eyelid.
Sometimes.

Sometimes she’s angry.
Drenched
in the sweat of steamed
broccoli and cauliflower.
Sometimes.


Sometimes she’s cleaning.
Scrubbing her kitchen
spotless. Red tomato
sauce and broken
glasses.
Sometimes.

Sometimes she wilts.
Beside the petunias.
Black
and purple.
Blue
and pink.
Sometimes.

Sometimes she’s spilling.
Water flooding
over the counter
top and stuck
to the clotted drain.
Sometimes.

Sometimes she sees me. Usually
not.  Sometimes she smiles. Usually
not. Sometimes I help her. Usually
not: sometimes.

I look around
and it seems that everyone is happy,
that they are doing something right.
I look around
and it appears that I'm sad,
that I'm doing something wrong.
Well it ever unwrong itself?

Each letter thrown unnaturally on to their haphazard paper is worshiped, studied, praised
by all.
I've been doing this longer...
Shouldn't I be better?
I watch as all others rise on their platforms of aimless potential.
Raw potential.
What about skill?
I sand alone on a once even; now sunken chasm of lost heart.

The award goes to...
It's gonna be me
It's gonna be me
Everyone knows it.
It's GOTTA be me.
It's not me.



See that tiny dot?
That black speck of irrelevance??
Do you know what it is???
That's me.

And do you see that sea of shining smiles????
The golden accomplishments gleaming?????
Do you know what that that is?
That's them.

Once upon a time, I was up there,
gleaming along with the rest of them.
Maybe even a podium step higher.
Then suddenly, as if powered by light speed elevators, they shot away.
Their glimmering faces glowering down at me and snickering.

I don't understand.
How is what they did any better than what I did?
Who is keeping score?
Betcha my bottom dollar their prejudice.
Whoever they are they caged me in black walls of shunned solitude.
And proclaimed a law against me.
What against me?
I'm not sure.
But the dark walls are closing in, the glistening sea is shrinking
and that tiny little dot...
That's me.

Here I am;
the asphalt covering what is left of my withered self expression.
Here I am;
with nothing but a package of what small personality I did salvage.
Here I am;
awaiting the exile to the inner circle.
Here I am;
wishfully knowing what is next to come.

Here I will be;
a foreigner to  self controlled emotions.
Here I will be;
sent into the burning throat that we call trend.
Here I will be;
a roller-coaster supervisor, but never a rider.
Here I will be;
shamelessly placid.

There I was;
entrenched in my own beliefs.
There I was;
guiltily independent.
There I was;
unique to the tiniest hair on my body.
There I was;
never questioning who I was.





then came the fire





the sweet flames clawed
ripped to shreds
they traveled deep with in the vault I called my spirit
they licked at each crumbling memory of me that would set me apart
their tongues ablaze and thirsting angrily for each asset that made me different
they drooled lullabies
they sweated sanctuary
they left
as if it was nothing but a dream




the fire was gone.






Now





Here I Am.

Our hands and mouths are like boats, they flip about in the turmoil of the sea's final storm.
so indecisive
knowledge is key; key is bankruptcy.
only if you have the key...
can you antelope, I can elephant,  in the tetris island.
YOU FOOL. of course not. try again.
The beeper is left cold.
Only because you have to answer. you could change this you know. there are other possibilities.
like what? ranger ice?? I don't think so.
haha
no I laugh at your incapability of answering this question which is ,oh, so simple.
I'll give you one more chance
Glen.
One more chance.

I feel him hurting
me. Already.

With cinched waists and jarred backs--
a trickle down my eye, carving out
my lips. My tongue. My spine. Your hands--
the rough carpenter of longing.
I crave to find your center--
the point of equilibrium where
two words meet and
love, and writhe and conquer.

All of me is
vulnerable and molten
and yours.

Yours is something different,
different from mine,
from his. His is more.
His is power. Is Glory.
Is light and strength
and Yours.

And what's more?
Is mine. Is our
breath. Our metronome
and the syncopated
rocking of your arms and the bed frame.
Just left
of center. Just right
on target.

Standing in front of the mirror
pinching, pulling, tugging
twisting, rubbing, covering
Sighing.

Flat, they said
Their sausage fingers pointing
Their sickly mouths snickering
The others laugh; agreeing quickly
Those ugly *******
like they're any better

Are they?
Watching all the pretty girls
and their boyfriends
and their fake smiles
and their push up bras
is that the only way now?
the only way to be liked?
to even be considered?

Baggy eyes
Puffy hair
Pimply face
Scrawny legs
Hairy arms
Who's ever gonna love that?

Someone; someone a thousand times more special than twenty of those ugly ******* combined.

Words were for whispering small
truths or swollen somethings
with the power of rocks, resting
on sifted oceans--back and forth
in the rocking chair.

Mama's song rings
cracking. Almost
the surface. Barely
a scratch. Lightly
on the record. Hitting repeat.
Falling

just short
of an earthy gesture. A smokey
word and a hallowed cave. Lethargy
drifting in waves.

If there were a hundred words for every feeling,
and a hundred feelings for every word
I wouldn't know
what word to write
nor which feeling to feel.

The tracks stretch on for miles
cold, hard metal
scratched and worn and broken.

Walking in the middle
each rung my personal foothold.

no one knows I'm here
I'm all alone.

I continue
step by step I near my destination
I see hedges of falling, golden leaves
I see the mud-caked, brown leaves
and the rotten fruit.
I see that one, lonely, silent tree

and I continue.
Staring at the rotten planks of rusting metal.
Listening to the metallic clink of my heals against the slabs of steel
'Stainless', they had said with triumphant grins.
They lied
everyone lies.

The once gleaming ore, now covered in mud and eroding plantlife.
Amidst the gloomy fog,
I find one shimering square of steel
smirking and reminding me;
not all lies are full.

I glance up and find myself back where I started,
Next to the hedges
the mud
the fruit
and
the lonley, silent tree


    and I drone onward

Unspoken eclipses.

Simply grazing mediocrity.

Vibrations, sensations; all beyond our control.
Piercing, smoking; fire to the brain.

Watching, Watching the switch of a light
ON off ON off

Forever caught in limbo

cling to the cliff; watching...

watching... the flip of a switch.

Biting into the crust of an evening reminiscent of you.*

Your crown was  
immaculate, your kingdom over-
grown with red ferns and dandelions up
the side of the fence in the back
yard where I'll meet you behind
the shed, under
the shadow of daybreak

with red ferns and
dandelions. A cloak sewn
from innocence, pushing against the weeds
breaking up--through
the side of the fence in the back yard
Where I meet you.

Your voice slurred in deep tongues,
licking up the side of the fence in the back yard.
Where I met you.

Smothered in red ferns
and dandelions.
We watched them grow
up and over the side of the fence in the back yard
Where I'd met you.  
From time

to time.

I'd watch
as the sunset colored you red,
painted me yellow
until we both
blurred into the night.
Before we even had a chance to crumble into
the crisp embrace of an evening.

Of course as I have an entire life left to live I am wondering what you ate for breakfast.
You ate a chicken quesadilla.
For breakfast???
...wierdo...
but at least I know now
the suspense was killing me.

Now I can't help but wonder what you did today...
Any photos???
You went the bathroom???
GET OUT!!!!

And of course, I want to hear your 'inspirational' (recycled) quote of the day.
"Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You.”
(classically overused)
MAN THAT GOT ME SO INSPIRED
I WAS SO SAD BUT READING THAT MADE ME FEEL 100 TIMES BETTER!!
20 likes
WOW YOU ARE A GODDESS!

YOU CHANGED YOUR PROFILE PICTURE????
SCOOOOOOREEEE!!!!
Woah, you look so pretty, you did such a good job with the editing (there is a lot of it).
You look nothing like that in person.....
I like your bra...by the way...
10 likes in 3 minutes!!
DUDE
THIS IS LIVING!!!!

Well enjoy your life with the constant need for approval...
Lets see where that takes you...

Stretching thin
A yarn
Streches across the world.
Another thread, as thin as ice, spreads across continants.
A string, pulled taught, carries across oceans.

A web keenly woven by some sinister spider
Streching me thinner and thinner
waiting for one to snap.
and suddenly its all gone.

She plays guitar with my strings, making the most frightening tune
she hums and grimaces
A bug in her web
slowly dying
it twitches
and twitches
and wrestles with the bonds holding it down
and fights and pulls and
falls
into
the
arms
of
some
sinister
spider.
It's
no
longer
fate.
It's
choice
Was it ever?

“English is a beautiful language,
a remarkably precise language
with a million words to choose from to deliver
your exact shade of meaning.”
- Laura Fraser


How clear, varied
and accurate.
How appropriate:
the choice of register,
style and terminology.
(Register: the use of elements such as
vocabulary, tone, sentence structure and terminology
appropriate
to the commentary.)

Language is clear, effective,
carefully chosen and precise,
with a high degree
of accuracy
in grammar, vocabulary and sentence construction;
register and style are effective and
appropriate
to the commentary.

I taste your lips like the cotton candy
of a Newark sky, laced
with smog and dysentery. You lift
me up, roll me over and draw
me toward you. The gravitational pull--
'on my hair and tell me you love me'--
of your shoulders
and the intoxication of your
voice. Craning my neck
to hear--'you love me'--the grip
of your hands
on my throat.

The city is loud. Just
loud enough to gasp
through the static
of your car radio, pressing--'up against
me'--all the buttons.
Just change
the station. Where we rock
and undulate smoggy windows and
candied skies.

This last goodbye
tastes different from
my first time, clutching--
'my back and etching out lullabies'--
the shift stick. Put it in
neutral. We can just coast
from here and take it
easy--'she's so'--easy. Easy
falling into and letting fall and keeping--
'next to me forever'--from falling
over and over the bricks
of your building, shaking
the foundation, the exact
same way. You loved me

like a super dome and expanded
the words of your cityscape: a nice
addition, in need
of renovation.  The cycle of
recycled buildings and veiled skies.
The monotonous gossip
of a Newark morning drawn out
past the night.

he seeps into me
fracturing each bone
contorting each muscle
The rich creamy nonsense of it all
Like a dark chocolate pudding filled with raisins; contrasting in the most horrific way

We don't fit
we just don't
there is no explanation
there is no burning fire
no raging passion
just a thousand pieces of broken china laying on the floor, never to be collected, or reassembled

I feel the darkness
it welcomes me
and washes over me with deep calming breaths
this was never going to work.

Sitting at the kitchen table,
picking at her fingertips: outstretched,
and barren with loneliness,

she touches them
to the hot mug of tea.
It burns.
Sweet sugars, stinging her sorrows,
drowning her desires in lukewarm water,
black with tears.

They hurt, her fingers,
stretched out to reach
something just barely
in the distance.

A sailboat on the edge
of the ocean.
The deep black sea of her
heart.

She peels  
at the blistered hands.
They are not
her own.

The light burns and my eyes shrivel up in their socket.
They roll back into my head and I sigh.
I look around in there.
I ogle at my insides.
So many colors.
Red, pink, blue, white all intertwined in a thick mesh,
like an american flag ripped up and sown back up in a strange arrangement.
I see the nerve endings shock, a movement ripples through me.
I look around with awe and see my heart slowly pumping.
BABOOM BABOOM BABOOM BABOOM!
I see my stomach churning, burning, dissolving.
I hone in and see the enzymes flutter with haste.
I zoom out.
I look at my brain shrivelled and worn, dying.
I really need to rest it.
My eyes roll forward and the light fries them some more.

Nice to meet you Dr. Smart.
My type of crazy is an art.

Tell you what I think of first?
May I take but a moment to rehearse?

You say dog and I say fat
You say eat and I say cat
You say smile and I say crown
You say king and I say frown

You look at me with your brow all furrowed do you not see the connection?
You pain my with your stupidity and lost expression.

You ask me the shape of a square block.
You do not know? it is hard not to mock.

These exercises were made for a child,
Though the look in your eyes is positively wild.
A mixture of concern and regret,
Oh dear Dr. Smart  you shouldn't fret.

You may try to analyze but our smarts do not compete.
I have you dancing circles round me while I stay put on my feet.

A lithely swallow.

A dipping in--  
laying into the flesh.
Finding its
cracks, burrowing
deeper. Pushing
through that velvet sound--
the emptiness
the melancholy
the desperate cling
of the sweat.

Dangling just off
the tip of the fingers: a cliff.
Before the ragged
sealine stretches
its tendrils
all-engulfing.

I fall passed out on the bed.
The world swirling around me.
Absolutely colorless.
That doesn't mean its black and white,
Those are colors
My world is blank
empty
Like my vault of emotion was robbed
and they took everything
they left me with blank empty sorrow
although...sorrow is something...
I have nothing.
Why? Why me?
I cry
Although...to cry... you need tears...tears are something...
I have nothing.
The raw heat ****** even the last drop of water from my frugal body.
People say they have the same feelings.
then they don't understand because they have feelings... and feelings are something
I have nothing.
They ask me how?
How do I cope?
I smile and laugh.
"you get used to it"
You don't.
If they looked, really looked past the flowing giggles and locked smiles.
They'd see.
They'd see into my monotonously wistful microcosm of nothing.
Of nothing.
De nada

Who are you, in your eyes?
What authorizes this?
How overcompensated is your ego to allow you to do this, without guilty conscience?
Why do you do this to me?
When did you become this monster?
Where do I fit in?

They all tie into the one question that haunts my being:

                                                         ­                                                                 ­               Do I even matter?

And you hold the answer
my enemy
my friend
my teacher
my student

my fate
                                                            ­                                                                 ­           *Should I trust you?

People wish for a power
They wish to for invisiblity
to disappear
but
disappearing
is a curse

I have an invisiblity cloak glued to me
with the world's best glue
I can rip and pull and scratch it off
but it only leaves for a second
and gives me nauseating illusions of being part of something
and then it's back
hiding me from the world
smothering me in deep waves of silence and solitude

I'm sitting right here
right next to you
and yet you ignore me

you close the gaps between you
and whisper
******* whispers
they **** me
their sharp edges cut me with piercing un-spoken words

If I could have a power, any power I wanted
I would chose to be seen
to be talked to
to be shared in the moment
to be part of it

There is poetry in blood- in the veins
that licked up my spine and down
a silhouetted profile in last night's lusting whisper
and this mourning's coffee.

There is something in the way
she holds the knife-cutting
onions for tacos and
laughing for the guests, pulling

down her sleeves, adjusting
her hair in the
reflection of the sink. She looks
just fine
this way, using
these silver deposits to search
for something- perhaps
lost down the disposal
or obscured by drops
of blood from where she nicked
herself.

And she watches the blood seep and
her lines blur with
these words and
the page- or is it
her face?

It blushes.

Sometimes I cry just to feel the drip of life trickling like a thin creek from my body.
I let the droplets of heartache slip across my face and freefall to the awaiting floor.
I let them take me over and choke crude sobs from my larynx.
And I let them pool into a puddle of blue devils glaring up at me.

Sometimes I watch the world from a distance and laugh at the turmoil.
I have seen the smoke of death depart from buildings as their bases tumbled effortlessly downward.
Life is temporary.
Life is like a purgatory hotel.
Let's enjoy all five stars.

I used to write
about women,
looking in the mirror, peering
out from behind the bars of these walls.

I used to see them
in the kitchen,
by the stove, seated:
docile at the table. Their chairs
were always a little
askew--drawn back--
or maybe they just weren't there.

They'd wash--no scrub--
their hands among the dishes
until their manicures bled.
Then they'd stack the porcelain
in a heap out by last night's
******* and tomorrow's
cleaning.

Sometimes they'd smile
to themselves; a chuckle of menial
labor. But other times they'd cry
and groan and moan out the next
generation of household
women. I used to see
them everywhere. I wonder where
they've gone.