I love this feeling on my lips
The molded preassure
Conflicted by the hard pressure
Of the table beneath my face.

calm down
his hands slip over my lips
the tips of his fingers
trace my jaw

close your eyes
open them

i do

his hand moves down
i feel your bones
your skin feels
absent
like air

why are you so cold?

They tell me that if I am unhappy,
I should start to think outside The Box.

I am The ******* Box.

How else do you think i keep all of my problems locked away?

For no nosey nose to plunder,

My head is my treasure chest.

Simply because my thoughts are of value.

i have always loved the summer who
walks through white splendor the hot
looseness of rough *** in a cheap motel
somewhere in Oregon.

your words drip incandescent glitter-trails
and pool at your feet
in a sparkling graveyard of shattered glass
and unheeded warnings.

today is sixty paces south of heaven
reaching skyward.
here is dust in my lungs
and earth on my tongue
and half a hallelujah
strangled somewhere in my throat.
here is the ghost of every god
i ever believed in.

i fill my mouth with
promises and dirt
so there is no space left for poison.
there is no space left for anything,
but some days even breathing is a chore and
staying alive is the best i can do.
today i choke the gravel down with water because
today i can do better.

today is sixty paces south of heaven
and the stars are only glitter
and every lie i ever told curls up through thick summer air
and dissipates like smoke.
here are outstretched arms
and ***** fingers,
and here, slithering through the tall grass,
is a soft unknown that feels an awful lot like
hope.