What if people were not flesh?
Perhaps instead made of books
Sheaves of paper and pots of ink
Words, words, words
Filling the pages
Shaping the heart, shaped from the heart
Telling the life story on the skin
And through the layers of body
The heart detailing the loves and passions
And heartbreaks it has felt
The tongue and stomach telling
Of the delicious foods they've tasted
The mind regaling the stories and tales
It has heard and read
The eyes etched with pictures
And places and people
The ears curling around their recollections
Of songs and voices past
And last, the lips.
Inscribed with the memories and tastes
Of every kiss stolen and each word spoken

i sat in church one sunday
and in front of me stood a young mother
small baby cradled in arms
though the infant's skin was of a delicately golden caramel, her mothers was pale as milk cream
she turned to grin that sweet innocent grin only children possess and poke her tongue at me
it looked as a small petal held between her lips, moist with dew and velvety soft
she grinned so easily and lightly, it would have been unthinkable not to have an absolutely comic grin of one's own tugged from ****** muscles
her eyes sparked with that special flame only the innocent and childlike possess
and in that moment
i could not have loved a child more

A concealed point of metal
Basket's corner
Tears my knee
As I trip between bed and wall
Blood wells in the cut
Dark black blood
In the room with lights out
Press the wound and more blood drips
Smear the red war paint
All along my leg
Fingertips stained
I fall and bleed
But smile

I live my life in troughs and peaks
I write 2 papers and shoot off 6 emails in a freshly cleaned room
I let the dishes sit for a week and can’t get up til after noon

My period used to be like this before I started the pill
Sporadic and long (or short) and inconvenient and gut-wrenchingly guilty

I think about my 3 papers due next week and how I want to sketch up my traumas
Instead I open a new document and type this
I procrastinate productively sometimes I guess
This is a trough

I've grown weary of this road and the cyclical path I follow,
yet I know that to make this road my bed would be to make it my grave.
Too long I've slumped forward, like a satellite in low orbit; forever falling down but never quite reaching The Place Where Down Stops.
All I need is one flare, one burst of flame
away from the stale air of an old house and musty earth
and to propel what passes for a spaceship into fresh, verdant land.

I've outlined the necessities, which you'll find on page four of the agenda.
Our itinerary is scrawled somewhere between the receipt for my breakfast and my dry cleaning,
and don't worry if a leaf or two falls out.

b.

Once the sage gaze of starlight fades,

the twinkle and flash of cosmological mineral death,

descending in a tumble through the atmosphere,

puncturing each layer like a pebble through cobwebs,

we wake to a frightening new wonder.

We rise to the growling of the center and the sun.

I am a cold creature and cannot speak.
The words solidify before they reach my mouth
And I choke on my own breath.
I am a cold creature made of ice and bone,
Stiffened by harsh winds thrown against me
Yet fragile to a breeze’s grazing touch.
I am a cold creature with numbed feeling and a distant gaze
And cataracts chilled to cool perfection,
Floating on murky brown pools of exhaustion.
I am a cold creature whose heart and eyes once held flame and fire,
yet there is still an ember’s glow.

Mother nature has been flirting with Spring and Summer again, but I fear she'll give Winter one last parting kiss.

12/4/12
When the sky is crumbling
And your tears are falling
Under the blankets
Is the only safe haven.

12/6/12
Inhale and **** in all the evil
Exhale and breathe out all the good
Or is it the other way?

Why bother with math,
When English is more exciting?
Why do the same old thing,
When English broadens your horizons
Imagination is set free,
Leading to plentiful ideas
That will expand into our future,
Effecting our daily lives.
You say math is the basis of life,
But that is a lie.
What is math without English?
Without ideas, math is nothing.
Numbers go to waste,
Science would never be put to the test,
History would be long forgotten.
English is the basis of life,
Nothing more.
For without ideas,
Where would our world be?

The croci are swelling,
pressing up towards chill winds,
straining the surface tension of the dampened earth.
Unfolding gentle lips of purple and white to taste the spring,
like the flick of a snake's tongue,
they sway, eyes closed and arms open.
They beckon you to stroke softly with your fingers,
and tremble when you inhale as yellow powder speckles your face,
and they giggle.

But unlike the trees and bushes,
they never age.
Thin, nubile, soft bodies will wither,
the fingers they've poked up through the leaves and twigs underfoot will pull away.
The croci swell and dance,
but they never throw their heads back and sing

I've always loved quotes
And I tend to collect them
Much as one would collect
Bottle caps, or fuzzy-haired trolls
Or maybe foreign coins
One glance at my favorite notebook
And my zeal for quotes becomes
Very clear
There are many things I do though
That don't make sense to me
Like why I try to make people
Happy
But am so often
Depressed
Why I like some ***** jokes
And not others
Why I even like them at all
Why, perhaps, I am who I am
And not a bit different
Yet so incredibly
Impressionable

Shouldn’t talk about it,
But a thousand times,
A thousand singing stars from now,
You’ll hear the flip
Of my cards hit the table.


The kingfisher left the crown,
And a lantern in the storm
Scattered arrow shadows,
Pointing violent paths through
The blinding white.


We hope for the shining respect
Of yellow prints in the darkness.
Sharp stars between jungle leaves,
And the whisper of cosmic shifting.


Like the gods rolling over in their galactic sheets,
Sending waves of glittered gasses
And planetary matter,
flying.

Yesterday they lined up all the boys to give them a good talking to.
After all, when you're about to ask the head priest's daughter for her hand, you must do it the right way.

But of course, they'd only line up the boys, and not the girls who glance and flirt and trail the tips of their fingers along wet gowns when bathing.
It's known that Victoria will kiss anyone who can tame her curls, and Alice leaves violets for those she fancies.
Even a pig recognize that Jacob and Peter have been making eyes at each other for about two summers, and that Matti only longs for books.
Harold's true love is venison, and though he could be won over digestively, Emi is really trying to move towards vegetarianism.

So they told the boys how to carry themselves and some listened in desperate eagerness and earnest and a few planned pranks, and anyone worth their salt could tell it was a disaster.
This morning, the local girls dressed the boys in flowers, as is strange tradition, but then a few joined the line and fairly glowed in their blue linen and lemony cinnamon licorice hair, dripping with petals.

The king laughed and the head priest smirked in bemusement, as it is every year.
And Emi gazed, bored and silent to every proclamation, gift, and oath.
Yet a fourth year had passed without a chosen suitor.
Courtyard emptied, and I drew near her chair as well.

"I have no strange and beautiful art to exhibit or exotic sweet to taste. I do not seek what you will not eagerly give, and I will not ask you to be my wife, but I'd very much like to be your friend ifthatwouldbeokaywithyouthanks."

After all, who doesn't fall in love with Artemis.

Rain that is no longer wet
A slip of the teacher's tongue
Which can only make me wonder:
Is it like canned evaporated water?

Dear old lover,
You send me all these signs to remind me that you’re around.
You come again and again to **** me over in your bed of lies,
You give me cracked porcelain and glass expectations for me to mend with gold.
But you’re a topaz among yellow diamonds, a ******* rube.
But you’re Splenda, ******* Stevia.
You’re overpriced, second hand Ikea,
I’d push you into a swimming pool to ruin your silk tie.
Your hands white from the bleach and peroxide, and collar yellow from nervous sweats.
Yeah, you’ve got a library; dictionaries of medicine and candy sweet science,
but you must have burned everything on doing a person right.
You’re a double entendre pain-in-my-*******-*** with a Ken doll grin.
Give Mr. Freeze his heart, and buy your soul back from the devil.
As filthy as it is, you could do with a little in your life.
Dear former friend,
I want you like a salad of poison ivy,
I need you like I need a nap, and I’m the designated driver.
You’re chopped liver, and your humors are out of whack,
The crown you wear is turning your forehead green and doesn’t fit quite right.
I’m the beast and you’re the burden
You’re the straw and this camel is kicking you off
at last chance, last call, last stop Nowhereville
You bathe in the bubbles of champagne dreams and silver fantasies,
But I’m the cup of ambrosia gods long for, and you lost me.

Hahaha
Wait, you thought we were what?
A, 'unit'?
Who says that?
I was sitting with my friend
He was lonely
He asked
He's a friend
I'm not allowed to sit with a friend?
This automatically makes him my boyfriend?
Two days?
So what.
Get over it sillies
I sit with you everyday
Two lunches alone with a good friend
Is not a pink slip
You've got each other, don't be jealous
And besides, its two freaking days!
The world has not ended
My 'relationship status' hasn't changed
Calm down, and carry on.

I want to write good poetry again, but I cant seem to make it come.
I hardly have the energy to lift my arms or take a single step forward,
if only for the chains I wear
of lace, and tied down with heavy frocks.
The moment I reach for a pen
my dress begins to slip and I must grasp and fumble.
This masquerade is growing old
and my mask is wearing thin enough to see through.
I want to speak,
cry out and scream my soul
but the red they've painted across my mouth
is worse than any gag, and ribbons streaming
from my hair snag on the thorns and rocks of my path.
The weight which hangs, draping over my body is not of iron or steel,
Yet still I outgrow these bonds, and only now
realise they are bonds and weary of my restriction.
They are bonds I no longer wish to wear, as
with every moment I live weighted down
the sky in my eyes grows clouded with fire and smoke.
Any inspirations to paint are lost to the thread which hangs from my eyes.
Were I to try, the ability to sing would be choked away,
sounds stolen by the ever pressing knife.
But
my only chance to escape this seems to lie in the blade's threat, to sing
with all the fire and rage in my soul
and bow back before it catches my mind as prize.
I'm no doll to be toyed with
And I'm sick of playing make believe.
I think it's high time the clock struck midnight.
It's time to burn the dress.

The day I met you
You were either high or silly
And now that I've known you
I still can't decide
Maybe you live on a high of crazy
Reckless abandon
But no, you care too much for that
What are you?

Recipe for an All-Purpose Orifice
Makes one serving of patience

1 part nasal cavity
1 part ******* *****
1 part yonic *****
1 part oral cavity
1 part aural cavity

Blend gently in a hollow synthetic cylinder.
Envelope the spirit of the form.
Let it set.
Gently coax the form out, once you've assured the spirit of its safety.
Accept the tedium; love can be tedious.
Set it on your shelf for people to pick up and wonder at at dinner parties.
Carry it with you when you move.
Leave instructions in your will requiring your loved ones bring it to the cemetery yearly.

The boy’s hand slips into mine. The cave tunnel is dark, and wet. Not cold, or musty, or anything other than dark and wet, and still. I look down at him, and smile softly, then turn forward as we stepped into the water. Large pebbles underfoot crunch roundly over each other.
Take a breath and everything is green and clear and open. Underwater, all the even lines of an empty public school hallway hauntingly echo the muffled silence. The stairwell opens easily, and strangely so.
The landing at the top is far enough away that I nearly choke looking for it. But we make it and there’s a few feet of air and this door is harder to open. Much harder. We pour out through it, onto the matted carpeting of a library where many eyes swivel to find the disruption.
A crisp lady with cat-eye-glasses ushers the boy into a side office while barring me from entering further. She and a round, stationery man snap back and forth at each other in distress.
The boy and I are in the wrong time, it’s not the right time. ****. ****. They’re sending him back to 200 BC. And me to 2017. No. No.
No, I’m supposed to take care of him, he wasn’t even supposed to be in the cave with me. Neither of us were supposed to be that far away from the group. He isn’t old enough! This was supposed to be quick and distracting and ******* hell what do we do?
The people in the library push us back into the stairwell and it’s cold. Not the water, the color. The light fades out of it as ceiling glow-stars would, and he’s so calm HOW IS HE SO CALM?
His hand is so small in mine and I’m afraid we’ll run out of air before I figure out what to do, but we can’t do anything. We can’t. There’s nothing here. We have to go. It’s the only direction; back into the water and hope they were wrong. I don’t understand how he can trust me this much, why is he still looking up to me? We might drown.
I need to make a move, and he hands me some glowsticks. Somehow he’s found light. I’m sure my hand is unpleasant and clammy and can he feel my heartbeat through my palm? We need to go.
Big breath, into the watery shadows of stairs. There’s sand at the bottom. My hand’s on the door, pushing out. I can hear my blood. It’s open. Oh god, ***-

I’m awake

How about this,
Take the knives from your back
The razors from your wrists
The needles from your arms
The pain and suffering in your heart
And the doubt in your mind
Drop them all in this bucket
Toss them into that abandoned well,
And come over to this side
Cross the line separating dark and light
Wicked and angelic
Rough violence and gentle caresses
Step over and join us
If we can offer nothing else,
We can offer ourselves.
Friends, lovers, comrades,
Formerly tortured souls like yourself
It isn't perfect over here, but it's better
We'd escort you over, walk with you
But we've already crossed that line
And once you cross the line,
Only your voice can cross back
Only your voice will want to.

Your fingers have dipped in starlight, and
My eyes glow like the moon
And what you've painted on me, your canvas,
Has made my every nerve end twitch
Trembling with anxious, drunk-love excitement.
Sandman's heavy seeds have been sown,
And weigh down eyelids with their tempting fruit.
My fingers are dimmer
And I softly worry your shirt between them
Staring at a space behind my eyes

you pulled the tears from beneath my furrowed brow,
apologizing over and over again
promising to wipe them away and stop up the flow.

we used such primal passions to sew us together,
even as the same tore the fabric apart
til only threads remained, shredded.

then you handed me the rake and pointed towards our garden,
telling me to pull out all the nettles and dandelions,
but i set it aside and made my own place aside from yours.

You requested a ride with your phone
since you don't walk at night all alone.
You were tired and drunk
so in the back seat you sunk
dropping your coat with a groan.

I drive around town after work,
because bills pile up if i shirk.
Patriotic America
writes corporate erotica
and leaves me with nary a perk.

Since I can't drive for Uber or Lyft
I'm stuck working first and third shift.
The money's much needed,
but I wish fewer heeded
capitalist lies, so I'm miffed.

FAGSS really get me to ****
(fully automated gay space socialism)
But until then I roam,
only renting (no home).
Hurry up now and rise communism.

Lyft and Uber make me dough.
But only as long as drunks go
out and party all night
maybe run into a fight,
but please, by all means, take it slow.

Uber wants to prevent their drunk riders
from being real rowdy outsiders.
So they no longer sit
in the car that they picked.
Get ready for eggs and slashed tires.

Uber's CEO likes Trump.
On his face I'd like to dump
tons of gross ****
including his ****
before squashing him into a lump.

Hello, I'll be your Lyft driver.
Get in, and be a Lyft rider.
Please buckle, no whimper.
Go ahead, sulk and simper,
but please, can you tip me a fiver?

I'm using these tattoos,
floating above bone and flesh,
to remind myself of what once sunk.

For thousands of years we have found ways of writing on the wall
Much of it concerning bragadocious claims

last night, when I dreamt I was a fish
slipping into the water to guide red, glossy trout upstream
who slid out of the water to back the subterfuge I’d designed to infiltrate and destroy not the lush
foliage walled house or the empty lawn with dining chairs and napkins all scattered, but rather the entity with no face
which made its home there and set up traps and laid in wait and yet, through any danger I felt there was also calm
and the air did not feel too thin or too heavy
but rather as if your warm breath was behind me, and you were behind me
standing with the fish women and their cool eyes gazing past me and hands upon my shoulders, and we were the strong, quiet water

You're a warm sun in the cool of evening and I don't know how to tell you I love you except for in the small ways you keep me breathing.

I think constantly about whether I'm happy dating you, and it's not your fault I'm uncertain about loneliness, because you didn't make me question myself for a year and a bit.

You're not perfect, you leave your coffee mugs around and have odd habits I'm not used to.

But you don't make me feel bad for not being vegetarian and you are so gentle and you tell me you have butterflies for me and that's not something X did.

You welcome my mess of fabric and paint and uncertain touch and you make me think about accepting affection and I'm tearing up writing this.

I'm sorry I haven't figured myself out but I'm so glad you're along for the ride

My breath and yours are made of stardust,
And will someday mingle in another’s being,
Or the midnight sky.

You've asked me why I love you
As if you couldn't believe I would love you
But how could I not love you?

Halloween approaches,
Creeping toward us,
Like the decomposing remains,
Of the undead,
Rattled and shaken from their place of rest, of what should've been eternal slumber,
But now eternal hunger,
Draws them from enshrined and honored pits within deep and moist and decaying earth,
Drawn by the sweet aroma,
Of candy corn and miniature snickers,
Milky way and skittles too,
But in the end,
Their only appetite,
Is for me and you,
Happy Halloween.