in my mind,
i work at a third world convention,
bleeding saliva and avocado paint
behind a mule's *** like
seeking coverage was difficult
or something.

now it's past
the pillaging of painted americans,
valleys once rolled with corn and feather's weight,
but seized by nation's serious fathers.

the table creaks as sister
literally screams, "Grace!"
and the cotton tablecloth even
bows its head in poultry's spicy scent.

i said it was past,
un-remembered after a
murderer (more than)
antagonized another's HDTV
(bold, high, pronounces, and shrieks
more shivering-ly
than when a spider stepped on my toe).

now there are halos
beginning to blush,
vibratos crescendoing to
the last of leaf's sultry breath.

Noel was large-eyed,
carols twirling lighter than snow.

they made the Lord
wonderous, because o,
my baby king,

the manger was not a velvet cushion,
and neither will his
(or your)
days to come.

Do you toss the novel lightly?
-- Does it pound like your warbling
throat?

When you sleep beneath your
brother's armpit in trembles,
an etch collects the final drafts
of sick glasses, smoke and
Scottish gin patting your cheeks.

They are light against
dark undertones, the folds
of a curtain tucked for a spider's habitat;
for you.

I trace pirouettes in the back of
seamless air, countertop
wished to a balcony.

You do not stand (here).
I waste and recycle my fruit,
and sometimes naivety makes way
towards dented knees,
calves flexing in grey scale.

Once, we intersected city sc(r)apes
through glowing letters,
bar blinking red and I still clicking.

That is when my scent imagines,
eyes but a clam,
lingering in your body's bread.

this is not a poem.
this is not a senten--

sometimes i ponder like
a young girl swathed in grey film,
earnest eyes bent to world's phrase.

sometimes i write like
a peering boy, letters of letters
and paper cut fingers
waiting to cause her lips to
crease while she waits at her locker

once i dreamed i was
suffocating in my cherry wood coffin,
preacher's voice scribbling
psalms on to his note cards,
even though my Bible died
by hiccoughing moths.

i will imagine my eyes
tracing the back of midnight afternoon,
a word scrawled, fractions of
letters gathering like sickened ants
anticipating pools of honey.

this is not a poem,
i told myself

this was not a poem,
and will never be;

unless everything is
a poem.

sometimes we get lazy
wrapped in the confinements of our own
so we send fellow seekers
to kiss the ground above.

and i won't say i despise kids,
because really, i don't.
i just like to misplace their laces,
knotted, rotted laces
and command the ants
to dissolve Hallow's candy

away they pray,
in God's sanctuary

i respect Him,
because really, i do--
just as much as politicians
when they decide to drop out.

you can say i'm causing
lust to pilfer upon a window,
or betting on the next
world war nineteen

but all i did today was
take a swig of bourbon
and drown my pen.

****** eyes enjoy fragmenting
dissonance above her tongue,
like the last regard of bids and
oiled bye's.

A facet mirrors a ruby glimmer,
the final of my curve
grimaced upon staggering eyelids.

And would you even dare
to pocket the ***** of the future,
slipping in surprising residue?

There are no empty reflections,
ones you hold in curled fists--

--at least, not for tonight.

ain't the bites like
ants drowning in pepper spray?
do your nostrils perform seizures of
a catalyst's experiment twice worse than
your sister's "idealistic" closet?

darlin', they used to call you
and pull at your curls with
stroking eyes,
beards even haughty with poise.

nips are like ten-folds of
scissor rapes for such a
smudged paper doll like you,

smiling sorrow in the
back of your dimples.

sometimes, mama would cut
willow spruces while summer blinked
and with each eyelash it torn,
i swear a piece of her apron
just disappeared, too.

then there were splitting ends
of cut-off stories, words in
snippets, laid in tragedy
with no sunset or
whatever the hell it is

i grimaced at books,
at glossy illustrations

and dawn's the vagrant tear,
evaporated into blisters.