there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at ****** are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to **** you
to **** anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

.
                                    how is it?
you only live once.
but you can die,
a thousand deaths.

                                    how is it?
i can be blinded,
by your beauty.
but beauty is
in the eye,
of the beholder.

                                    how is it?
that i live,
only for you.
but i live,
to change the world.

                                    how is it?
love is a,
battlefield.
but love is,
life's refuge.

                                    how is it?
you loom large,
in my eyes.
but you make,
the big things,
seem small.

                                    how is it?
that to you,
i am a queen.
but to me,
i am love's
fool... lost.

                                    how is it?
history repeats,
itself.
but you are,
my first truelove.

                                         how....
*how...

Sometimes I'd like to say the word ****
Scream it
And yell it
On a mountain
In my mother's face
At my burnt toast
Composure is stifling
Trifles, mostly
Sometimes I'd like to write the word ****
In an essay
On a desk
Thirty times or so
****
**** poetry
I'll just write ****
**** **** **** ****
**** feels good

1708

Witchcraft has not a Pedigree
’Tis early as our Breath
And mourners meet it going out
The moment of our death—

A poem—
is just one more
scrap of paper
that has sailed off the table
in a bottle
with a cry for help.

i went outside to find
poetry in bloom:
floral letters falling from trees,
creating their own narrative.
whispy words pollunated
my inspiration while
phrases buzzed past me
swarms of thoughts as
i watched the world
off writing grow
and come alive.

You read my poetry in an attempt to understand me
versus an attempt to read literature
or fiction
or art
So you pick apart each sentence
and each syllable
and each subject
and you try so hard to figure me out
You want to know what I was thinking when I wrote this poem
or that poem
but what that tells me is perhaps you aren't even reading them at all
Although what poets express comes from the debths of our creative closets and emotional state
you must still open up your mind and soak up the words for what they are
Not for who I am

A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
                    A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
                    Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
                    At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

                    She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
                    Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
                    Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
                    I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.