Is it a splat or a plip when a drop of water hits the ground?
The pavement is glistening and glittering
The colour of the chipped yellow on the curb is so yellow it's gold
The drops are so thick I can see the crown that forms when the water collides with the ground
The downpour sounds like crumpled parchment paper
And it smells of faded fluorite
The wind is cool and the sun is warm
My face feeling fresh and my back feeling comforted
Soles scrape along the pavement
The water adds sharpness to each step
A small ravine has formed between sidewalk slab and curb
The plops of water especially grand when they sink into the cushion of this curb ravine
And waves along the cigarette bud rafts that ride the tide
February is never this kind or warm
Bare knees and open coats are everywhere to be seen
Valentines day has gifted to all
Not just the love birds
Though they all tweet in the rays of the sun
That cast glare on my palette upon which I compose this small ode
It is a precious day to see the winter fade so quickly we can watch as it decomposes

tired..
.......
..
...
breathe, they say
"breathe"
"just breathe"
'breathe'........
...
what if i can't?
what if there's something in my throat that blocks the air
what if it's a growth that takes over the voice box
and sinks its roots and organs into the cores of speech
or what if it's a chunk of metal that weighs on my flesh
the mucus coating the tube of pathway making the lump sink further
and further
into my stomach, eventually
and the mercury that melts into the acids shores
foams and coats everything inside
everything
what if that poison infects everything?
i think it already has.

there, the period
you were waiting for it, weren't you?
there were questions, but questions lead to answers
and don't really end
and there were ellipsis but those suggest thought
a period of waiting
waiting for something
the period, a single dot
is so definite
somehow
one dot can stop us all
stop all thought, all words
one
little
dot.
...
it makes no sense.

digression
it happens a lot
especially when trying to focus
focus on the thing that it is
that we want to get out and deal with
but we don't want to
no, we don't
we like to hide our things
because things become real when they're said out loud
maybe if we don't speak
if we talk about something else
the thing won't be real
and we can pretend everything is okay
and i speak of this concept
because i don't wish to speak
about the thing that is
not yet
i must
but i don't
right now, it isn't real
but it is.
it is real.

i have a thought
that anything that can be thought is real
it exists
because it exists in our minds
our minds are a space in another dimension
a pocket dimension
and there, the things exist
even if they don't exist in this shared dimension on earth
in our minds, it exists
so god exists
( and no i will not capitalize his name
he is just like everyone else
we were made out of his image, so he is just like us
who all love to judge each other in the name of god
or ala
or whoever
even though the point of religion is that it is not our place to judge
or we will go to hell
but no one listens, and everyone equates themselves to god
because they judge in his place
despite his teachings
or her, god could be her
him or her, doesn't matter
he is the only one to judge
and yet
we all judge
so i will equate us to god, since you all do anyway
i'm just more blunt )
god exists, because we think him up
we think up other things too, and they all exist
the voices in the head of a ****** exist
in their pocket dimension
those voices that haunt and taunt
and command and demand
yes, they exist
not in your pocket dimension, but in their's
and so does god.
not in your pocket dimension, but in another's
he does.
in mine? maybe
maybe
i'm undecided
if he does, he's not all he's chalked up to be
for i have prayed to him
i prayed very hard
and because he loves all his children i'm sure he heard the pleas of a blubbering child
i prayed so hard to god to fix my mom
and my mom broke even more
so i wondered if he was real
because god would surely do a good thing and fix my mom
unless she was beyond repair and out of his reach
so either he is not there
or he is, and his power is not very great
unless you all think he just didn't care?
maybe he didn't.

i believe in the spirit.

the thing, is a thing
we all know
we all know it, we all feel it
it is a thing and it is hard to say
because no one likes admitting they need help
really and truly
no one likes to think they're ****** up,
no one likes to admit it
no one likes any of that
but
no one can fathom knowing they're ****** up.
it ***** them up even more
and they panic
we panic
i panic
because we're supposed to have it all together
we're supposed to be just fine
and accomplished
we have to do all these things and be so perfect
not actually perfect but perfectly content
perfectly balanced, perfectly normal
do we even know what normal is anymore?
is normal being boringly complacent?
or is normal being ****** up?
i think it's a bit of both, and i hate it
i would never, have never, will never
never
want to be normal
because i hate boring
and complacent
and quiet
i hate it all
i need to speak to people
i need my voice to be heard
so if there's a growth in there i'm ripping it out
i know i could get a surgeon to remove it but
i hate help
i hate this
and i hate you
but i need it
we all need it
we hate it, but we need it
like we need to shower
we hate the idea of stripping down naked
seeing our ugly bodies with all that fat and all the moles and all the hair and the wrinkles and the blemishes and the crusts that dry up like dry skin and flake off
we hate staring at ourselves so bare and raw
and we hate getting the water going and waiting for the right temperature of water
only to step under the stream and still be dissatisfied by how lukewarm the water is
so we turn it up
and only when we're scalding and cooking from the inside out like some insignificant slab of food
being prepared only to be **** out later
a temporary purpose
only then do we enjoy the actual shower
only then do we enjoy the help
and the talking
and the ranting
when we're burning
and feeling
and letting it all go
standing there and accepting everything
whether it feels good or bad, we enjoy it
it's a burning hug of comfort
and we never want to leave
but we have to
and when we do, we don't want to go back
we put it off, we avoid
we do what we can to pretend we don't need the cooking, scalding, burning water again
even though we need it.

in the shower the rest of the world is gone
i find
it's like nothing else exists
but i imagine someone is with me
this is how i know i suffer.
i hate my body
my naked, ugly body
i have never liked it
and i don't want others to see it, ever
so when i stand there in the shower
scalding and burning
and i imagine someone is with me
i imagine and desire someone to see me in all my bare ugliness
i know i truly suffer
because insecurity is the most powerful dictator in the world
and it commands all actions and decisions
all words spoken
everything must go through our glorious dictator's instated filter
before ever reaching the shared dimension of the world
sometimes it likes to dictate the pocket dimension too
if it's feeling particularly prickish
so when the insecurity is overruled
by a dire need for someone there in front of me at my ugliest
i know i'm far gone
and i'm struggling
and need the help of another who might understand
who might help.

i hate myself.

i love parts of myself
i love that i speak
i love that i approach
i love that i am outgoing
i love that i know how to laugh and mean it
i love that i have great eyes and vision
i love that i will try anything once
i love that i am intellectual
i love that i am witty
i love that i draw people in
i love that i can be admired
i love that i come off confident
i love that i am intimidating
i love that i am good at things i love to do
i love that i am willing to help myself
i love that i hate admitting i need help from others
i love that i am independent
i love that i don't know how to be dependent
but i hate it too.

i love writing.

writing is my everything.
i haven't written in so long, not like this
and perhaps that is why things have gotten so bad
but writing allowed me to wallow
poetry allowed me to wallow in all of the darkness and the tar and the gunk and the oil
that i've tried to dry out and wash away
but i like my gunk
i don't love it, but i like it
this long lost love of mine, and ex-lover that i left in the past
is my most comfortable lover
it knows me, and it loves me too
and i cannot understand why i haven't reached out sooner
i adore poetry
in a way that no one else really understands
along with theatre and music
poetry is my family
my true, loving family
and i have abandoned that family until now
and i have received a warm welcome
a glorious return
to the thing we all know
and to the thing that i know
and as i sit here, writing this
listening to a psychoanalysis of amy lowell
i know this is my help
and i know language is enough
more than enough
these words on this page are a thing we all know
a beauty of a trueness that gives us hope for a better day
not a sunny day, for sunny days are the saddest
at least in the overcast we get a dark hug of a sky trying to reach us
and sometimes it does, when it rains
the sun is just an ******* who likes to brag about its constant brightness
digression
language is my band-aid
my suture
my medicine
my surgery
my herbs and my tea
my bed and my pillow
my scalding shower
you may analyze this
with your structure and your feminism
your deconstruction and your new criticism
the meaning will always be the same.

it is a thing we all know.

I shall say not a thing
I shall think not a thing
The seeing eye silences me

My words aren’t my own
So words be not shown
And my thoughts to the void, I will keep

I dare not to blink
I dare not to wink
For the eye and I know all

But if nothing is said
Only actions instead
We all will still meet our downfall

Sit still my old friends
Straight tall, never bend
As the hours tick by without care

As we watch our lives pass
As sand drips down a glass
And freedom is abolished everywhere

The unimaginable zero summer lies in the water
A water grey with the half-time break
Where mother takes a breath
A breath that sends chills up every nerve ending, even in the tips of fingers
When the sun is a bleached dot in a faded sky
And the evergreen wilts to clay
The sounds of the water hitting sand in the tide
And the rustling of the leaves weaving to make the ceiling
Are no longer welcoming comforts
But detached, careless, and fierce
Any young are burrowed away
A short-notice hibernation with mom and dad and half stock
The black no longer a vast night sky
But a lurking cold beneath pale, cycling feet
That are numb, frozen
Zero

Oho, how I love red nails
They mark a promiscuous woman
A lady of stature
Someone is trying to make a statement
But she is far too into her looks
They're so glossy!
As if they weren't in your face enough already
I just love the compliments though
So many!
Forget my brown eyes
Or chameleon skin that is white in the winter
And bronze in the summer
Never mind those chunky thighs
Nice and thick
Thick is in these days
But the thigh rub
It makes a rash as bright as my nails
Which are perfect for a girl who talks with her hands
You just can't look away
You judge in the morning and indulge in the night
You try
But my red nails are red
So they hide the dried blood underneath

The forgotten gem among the precious
Your love is too dark for a child
Also precious
Yet pure like a diamond
Diamonds are so common

Garnet, you are rich
Richer than most in quality
Perhaps a banker or lawyer would remember you
But no, sapphires are rich
Richer than dull gold, not rich enough I say

You reach new depths, Garry
Like an ocean trench filled with the remains of the unknown's lunch
Not as deep as the amethyst, apparently
That is spiritually charged and better for the soul
Your violence is a stain, but I say it is a warning

Garnish, you lack value
Topaz is the quality they seek
The eye of the sun, so bright
Too bright
The eye of Jupiter is too much, I say enough

Oh Garnet
Forget Ruby, your sister
Forget Emerald, your opposite
Forget Opal, all in one, the God of the gems
You are Alfred the Great, so great, yet forgotten

Down by the bay
Where the poppies grow
And cool water floods the deep, pulsating red
Of mine eye
Flush the blood and blow the wind
Clear the crust of old wounds
This bay is a damp towel
Of soaked romance
Dripping in casualties

The sands of the bay are blanketed
With young Aryan girls whose hair has reddened to
Succulent Strawberries
How Alluring
Clear, clean eyes that sparkle with blue topaz
Such gems of innocence
Framed with fire locks
Water set with flame
Purity burned at the edges
Like the sun that scorches the tide

Night comes low
And cools the heat of youth
They say the night is young
But it is morning that is the baby
Night is wise
A deep sapphire that swallows all else
Wisdom
It purges the flesh
But leaves enough red for my cheek
Just a small spark
Before I turn cold