in the fog of a cold summer,
you shivered like a seismograph
tremors assaulting your faultlines
and i took you in my arms,
zipped you into my ribcage to keep you warm -  
you shivered to the rhythm of my pulse,
hot blood exiling
the summer chill.
from the fog of a cold summer,
i took you into my bed,
plucked your feathers
to keep you with me;
made dreamcatchers from your feathers
to keep the nightmares from your mind.
shivering seismograph,
can't fly with bare wings.
through the fog of a cold summer,
i walked with you,
held your hand
anchoring you to my side,
shackles between  us
keeping you safe
[you can't fly in this fog
little seismograph:
the clouds will eat you up
the fog will wrap around you
and dash you against the rocks.
oh, you are beautiful,
but you won't be when you're
bleeding broken on the talus,
your bones escaping your skin.
blood breeds art
but what use is art when you're gone,
when you've found your feathers and flown]
in the fog of a cold summer,
you asked to leave.
i need to fly, you said,
i need to become lost
in arms of mist
and fog.
your ****** arms aren't enough,
your ****** arms are staining me
corporeal.
just keep your arms around me,
just remain in my ribs,
just close your eyes
and let me be your
air currents,
lifting you above the talus.
i can fill all your fault lines,
i can ossify
all your fissures.
i'll fill your hollow bones with my
hot
blood
and exile the summer chill.
in the fog of a cold summer,
in the wake of a muscle spasm,
you fell from the sky
and i caught you,
plucked your feathers
so you could never fall again.
little seismograph,
shivering to the rhythm of my pulse,
i will keep you
so warm.
i'll keep you safe
in my cage.

i'm 9 in nairobi
playing foosball with a masai man
whose lip and earlobe
(both well-stretched)
bounce against his face,
he hangs lip over nose,
ears over ears,
we play on

funny, those kinds of scars
began with young women,
east african, who
fearing ****
and kidnap
from the north,
cut holes
in lip, in earlobe,
lifted skin of stomach
to slice smooth turtleshell shapes,
rubbed camel dung in wounds for better

scars,
which meant:
resistance, meant:
freedom, meant:
don't take me away,
don't steal my life.
funny
those scars
mean beauty now.
funny, these scars
on my wrist, funny how
much i love life now.
funny scars

my mouth is full of silence
it runs down my neck
and hides inside my shirt

i walk the ruins and find my words
tied to train tracks, try though
i might i cannot free them

the city drags me to the river’s edge
i want to weave a raft of words
but my mouth is full of silence

the city too is full of silence
choking suits and skyscrapers
only words are sharp enough scalpels

for the tracheotomy but the world is full
of silence and my mouth is full
of silence until you

open yours
and say

mine, too

Dear Everything
Tonight I may die of over stimulation my frontal lobe ****** by a televised illusion- of her listening to records black coffee the needle scratches
Her eyes shotgun blast to my chest second glance whiplash running
All the red lights in my brain she steps onto the street as I follow beneath in sewer tunnels like the rat to peanut butter smeared traps Squirming between the cracks in the pavement To
An old brick high rise looming I watch from the alley as one window
Lights her slender shadow ******* heart beating watch ticking
I climb the rusted razor wire fence the old fire escape to the window my knife blade slipping between the catch unlatching silently I slip into the bedroom flower
Scent engulfing my senses her form softly breathing eyes closed
I stand above her wishing I were dead ripping at the hole in my chest How must she taste?
Picking at the wound she has created crawling inside to infect with her canines snagging the muscle tissue startled awake she looks into my eyes snapping the trap on my neck

When problems arise in my life
i tend to boot my best mate
and make poetry my best friend
cuz' when the size of my strife
is this big..
i find letting a sole piece of paper
Carry such a boulder
works much better

so recently
i've tried to let paper carry everything
and recently
Mr. Paper has dropped a lot of heavy things
because paper is tear-able
water soluble
burnable
breakable
and a list of other things
that make it absolutely terrible
for carrying physical
objects not summed up in grammatically
and emotionally
ordered sentences
or words hap-hazardously
strewn against a milky white canvas

Paper really is only good for catching
the thoughts that are weighing
your head off to one side
so they spill out of your ears
   it gives you some pride
in your heavy ****** up thoughts
and your slightly lighter
but still ****** up head
by laying the weight out in front of your eyes
and not behind them

But the words don't just fall out
of ears
and onto paper
coated with ink
and stick like good emotions should

no

if they're too heavy they'll rip right though
and then you only have a gaping hole to try and make sense of
try making them run behind your eyelids
have them lose some weight

i know the pain is unimaginable
heavy feet stomping on your nerve endings
that exist right behind your eyes

makes your stomach hurt doesn't it?
makes you cry, makes you scream?
it's worth it
i promise you just hold my hand
and allow these thoughts to lose weight
running on your soul
ironically shaped like a treadmill

you'll know they're ready to leave
when your heavy head sulks
over a blank page
and they spill out of your ears
and leave you light as a feather
to think and breathe easy
again

and you're left with a beautiful organization
of ****** up
nearly obese
thoughts and feeling
caught beautifully onto a piece of paper
and the most beautiful thing to you
is that those thoughts are there
and you are here

trust me
i wish the words just fell out
i do
but the words don't just fall out
until they're ready to