leaving you didn’t feel how I thought it would
someday maybe I’ll let go of this half assed serendipity
if I broke your heart I’m sorry but what else could I do
my hands are tied against this brick wall this music in my ears almost makes me think
that someday all my ends will be tied off
(in the meantime I will wait and unravel)
if you ask me what I want I won’t have an answer
if I tell you the truth there is some part of me (all of me) you’ll have to let go
tonight I will paint myself into the highway and try
to hold on to these silver strings that haunt me in the night
I am a mesh of fraying edges of threads unfurled
as I tumble through these stagnant streets their weavings come undone
you should know by now not to believe me
next time I tell you I met the sky leaving you tell me I’m full of it
leave me instead
because until I’m drowning in this deep blue horizon I know
I’ll never feel like it’s over
(I should know by now I’m not enough for this)
they say inside me is a swarm of locusts they talk about me like a tempest
(I should know by now this life is bitter and I’m too ragged
too much) I’m sorry if I broke your heart but what else could I do
tonight I will sit quiet
and the night will bear down upon me while I cut the calluses from my fingertips
these sheets are stained with blood my hands are numb and treacherous
maybe someday lightning strikes will cauterize my mouth and
tonight I will paint myself into my bed posts until I can let go
there’s a whole world outside and it’s vicious
you can say I loved you as long as it means I broke you too
I was born into scrambling hands too rough too tired to be untouched
as I stumble through these dying streets my insides come undone
(I should know by now I’m too rugged, too much
the wake of my body will tear this turf asunder)
I’m sorry if I broke your heart but what else could I do
maybe someday my acid tongue will cauterize you
maybe this low key atrophy will simmer long enough
to bring me full circle
you should know by now not to believe me
and I should know by now what’s real

“Take off your clothes.”

this is a ***** and devoted clan

“I’ll be there,” he said. “Early.”

he is slavery’s plantation overseer. of his medals
he cherishes one

A ***** BOY WHISTLED AT HER AND THEY KILLED HIM

the back of his home is a tool house. they turned south on Mississippi No. 1
there was no moon as they drove. there had been no denial
he’s tired o’ livin’, Chicago Boy, tired o’ sendin’ your kind down here
don’t disapprove enough of them. resist the revolt of colored men
they turned south on Mississippi No. 1. they filled him so full of poison
that he was hopeless

“I’m not afraid of you.”

they included sons, grandsons and a nephew of Moses. his body bears
multiple shrapnel wounds. close range killing “he ain’t got good sense”
nobody was holding him. he was as tough as they were
hypocrisy exposed; myth dispelled
for the first time – the story no jury heard
he looked like a man, Chicago Boy
this is the sum of the facts

A ***** “CHILD” WHISTLED AT HER AND THEY KILLED HIM

he had heard of the trouble. he wanted to go home
dark-visaged, talkin’ mighty big. he staggered under its weight…
dark-visaged, he stood there naked. carried it to the river bank
stand him up there on that bluff. mark him for a coward and a fool
here are the facts
just whip him, Brother, if that won’t scare Chicago Boy
it was Sunday morning, a little before seven.
here, for the first time, I’ll pay you for the damages
they tried dirt and gravel roads, drove along the levee
here for the first time, I didn’t think they’d **** a boy
if that won’t scare Chicago Boy, hell won’t

“You still as good as I am?”

for three hours that morning, there was a fire
I’ll blow your head off, Chicago Boy
pistol whipping bruises more than it cuts
Chicago Boy, Chicago Boy
I’m no bully, Chicago Boy
Brother, whip him, shine the light on down
Brother, the Big River bends around.
the real answer is the remarkable part

“I’m as good as you are.”

seventy-two hours later – eight miles downstream
the half in their fraternity was forgotten.

i will be
    M o ving in the Street of her

    bodyfee 1 inga ro undMe the traffic of
    lovely;muscles-sinke x p i r i n    g S
            uddeni
    Y         totouch
                             the curvedship of
                                                         Her-
    ….kiss      her:hands
                                    will play on,mE as
    dea d tunes OR s-crap p-y lea Ves flut te rin g
    from Hideous trees or

         Maybe Mandolins
                                      1 oo k-
         pigeons fly ingand

    whee(:are,SpRiN,k,LiNg an in-stant with sunLight
    then)!-
    ing all go BlacK wh-eel-ing

    oh
        ver
              mYveRylitTle

    street
    where
    you will come,

                             at twi li ght
    s(oon & there’s
    a             m oo
)n.

how about we start again
2:30 a.m. with broken televisions
reliving yesterday's disasters
just like when the waves informed me
that i don't hate clocks, i just thought i could
because you can since you're a god like im a goddess
but sometimes earth holds me down
just like the depths of the ocean that are too cold to
breathe in
and i do like the clocks because
my heart has no rhythm
like wind
so my metronome is something you will never follow
despite my silent requiem you yearn to find
and even i can't seem to fall asleep
with the sound of on-screen ocean storms in my ears
that you just can't seem to hear
on the next street over

you asked me once if I was angry
“bottled up emotions” benevolent. sorry
I started to answer but I stopped. “manipulation”
definitely. disconnect
over three months now and it’s time for the reading of the wills
to me you left your equity and to you
I left my pride (I couldn’t tell you the last time I used it
anyway) every time I see your face I still stop for a second
to me you left your sorrow and to you
I left the back seats of the car
“they were mine to begin with” okay.
every time I see your face I still count back from ten
you had wisdom on your lips and love in your eyes
you always had to come out ahead of me and you always deserved it
“guilt trip” maybe. maybe not
since that night my face is burned necrotic with nostalgia
(I wasn’t ready to destroy myself like that
back then you shone the street lights on my bruises and I felt at home)
something about you made me feel so helpless
something about you made me feel so safe
(now it’s just me on this rotting riverbank)
my guts were spilled out on the dance floor your arms
were bare bones on the walls and that was the last time you ever needed me
(now these pins and needles are the only home I’ve got)
every time I see your face I still pray for a second
“*******” obviously.
you painted your fingernails black while you talked about feeding the poor
I watched you from behind black eyelashes nodding and we both
fell asleep tasting metal in our mouths
since then I’ve watched my face turn white in the mirror waiting
for the blood to pool back into my cheeks
“you’re a ******* coward” I know.
since that night I’ve been waiting for you to strip this skin from my bones
teach me how to feel the sky against my hooded eyes
I wanted you in my hands as if
holding you there would give me some kind of future
I wanted you in my veins as if
bleeding myself dry would make me something like you
you asked me once if I was afraid. of dying? “of living.”
I started to answer but I stopped.
“you’re a ******* coward” so are you.

1.

It’s just the sound of breathing all together. Soft. Breathing air and water and blood. Nobody’s worried because nothing has happened. Soft lips gentle and closed eyes pure, untouched, unopened like new shoes. Head alone and empty, waiting to be bruised.

2.

The eyes are open and we’re holding hands. All of us. My quarks against your prose and your ghosts. You’re looking at me like you love me. Not even like you want to **** me. Just like you love me. Like I’m yours. Like I’m somebody’s. We don’t speak. We’re still holding hands with everybody else. On the floor there are broken teeth and ripped out ****** stitches but I’m not looking at them. Neither are you. Neither is anybody else. It’s all soft hands. Hips. Collar bones. Lips.


3.

The heat of your hand against mine. Fusion. You are not a ghost. They are. I am not either. We’re looking down. They’re not. We’re enlightened. They’re not. There is no roof and the teeth and blood aren’t real. They are only reflections of the stars. We do not speak except to each other.

4.

Teeth and stitches and bleeding hands and my blood is in your veins but you’re a closed circuit. I’m getting paler, but I don’t notice, because I am your dialysis, your transfusion. I’ll let you feel for me because I can’t feel my hands. You don’t expect it but you don’t tell me not to. Even if I die you will still hold me upright. My hands bleeding into your hands and open wounds in the wood floor. The glass floor unbroken because the teeth and blood are still just the stars. It’s okay because I know I’m saving you and I know you will save me. Cross stitch my lips so I can’t ruin it. Sew me up like a doll. It’s not your fault.

5.

Condensation into cold hands. Water droplets in their eyes as everyone else comes back again. Turns out I was just ignoring them. My blood in your veins. You’re not holding me up anymore, I’m clinging to your shoulder. Let go. You’re walking away and I’m following you and you don’t ask me to and you don’t wait for me so I step on the teeth beneath my bloodless feet. Even though they are only stars they hurt. Even though I am only a ghost I still run out of breath. Make me your Aphrodite. Yours before anyone else’s. Be mine before your lover’s.

6.

Now it’s all knees and elbows and raw hands on the wooden floor. Your blood my blood everyone else’s blood on my face. You let go of me. My blood in your veins, my cut up hands on the ground. Everyone else has better blood, more heart and less metal, and they all love you. Their blood, their flesh, their threads in your barely broken hands and you’re smiling. I haven’t seen you smile in a long time. I can’t feel my feet or my hands and in my head there is a swirl of stars except now they are only teeth and ripped-out stitches. Cut my face. Leave the stitches in. It’s not my place to speak. Look at me like you love me.

7.

There is blood on the ceiling too and you still think it’s the northern lights. My face is wet with someone else’s blood. Stitches. Teeth. Back and forth rocking on the floor. Cover me in your life. Your blood, my blood, your blood. I have no right to it. Grabbing teeth from the floor with numb hands and chewing them. Swallowing bone. Knock out my teeth and I’ll hold theirs in my mouth instead. I’m licking the blood from the puddles on the floor and dreaming of bullets to find more blood. In rivers, in sheets, drowning me softly. Dreaming of bullets and bullets and metal and blood. There is no more blood in me except in my stomach. Look away. Stab out my eyes. Cut out the stitches and put the metal in my mouth so I can sleep.

8.

I’ll wait among your absent lover’s things, something for you when the rest are gone. My stomach is hot and I’m not hungry. Blood in my lungs and I don’t want to keep breathing it. Dead nerves seizing in my spine. All I smell is blood and I think that’s a sign of brain cancer. Cancerous hands and teeth and bones and eyes. Bullets for the tumors in the grey matter. Metal and blood and skin and nerves and metal. Just one of your absent lover’s things.

9.

I’m too tired. The teeth are stars again. So are the bullets. Metal and bone. Let me eat this galaxy. Watch me.

10.

Teeth and bullets and stars. My empty head and our ****** hands. Teeth and bullets and stars.

sometimes I wonder if I have ever really seen your face
there’s nothing left to explain
to this day I don’t know
if you were ever real (there was
nothing to say
maybe I just don’t remember) sometimes
my hands (my lips) still imagine your skin
the plaster of your ceiling hangs like blood clots
in my veins (the color of the walls mutating
before my closed eyes
I have never felt closer to neverland)
I don’t talk about you
I never did
no one has ever looked at me that way again
(maybe it was something about talking
to the other side of the world
that made me into a moment instead of a past)
maybe the thing I’m most sorry for
is that I will never regret you
(your name still tastes like peppermint) it is summer now
and I still remember your hot phantom hands
on my frozen cheeks
(I remember your voice like dragonfly wings)
maybe that’s why when I remember your eyes
my blood is lighter than it has ever been
I can feel your smile like starlight in mine
you breathed into my lungs once
and you have been there ever since
you were not my north star (though maybe I was yours)
you were my ocean (and
to a child’s eye all the stars look the same anyway)
maybe the thing I’m most sorry for
is that I don’t miss you because
after all these years
your anthracite eyes are steam beneath my fingers
(there’s a kind of purity in dirt and
there’s a kind of innocence in you)
after all these years my footprints dot your foreign soil
(there’s a kind of hope in me)
because after all these years of swimming
of air that tasted different with every breath
of eyes blinking against the epileptic cosmos
(stars lips teeth hips)
after all these years of running
it was not even strange to be in love with you