Grandmothers hanging, trembling hands watered the tomatoes with red wine
I watched her fill the can, which never truly emptied, and helped feed the garden bed wine.
Seven years old in a barn house there was dancing. I kissed her hands
which stained them blue, she tasted sweet,

The blinds were shut, but the moon
still shined through the thin cracks, falling
on the rising dust,
dancing like blue smoke, in the distance
of two clumsy, sleeping lovers.

It took him three hours
to finally shut up and fall asleep.

his breath, warm, hitting against my neck
I can still taste the wine in his exhales
It stings just a little.

after I kissed him he told me I had turned him to stone
I wish I could say I know every beat his heart
makes, I dont.
but I know that it does

When I kiss him, I swear I can hear the clocks stop
their ticking hands and then slowly turn
backwards until suddenly I'll find myself standing
at earth's edge. My feet bear and now hardened stone,
and my clenched hands
hold teeth from grey wolves.

his lips, stutter. in slow
motion. forwards to
under these nervous skies
The rocks in the water burn darker
like his eyes. They watch me while I sleep,
while I dream.
Even the sirens cannot ****** me so gravely.

Please

Fill my lungs with his exhales
My veins with the waters
he swims in. Clench
his breath tight in my hands
do not let it spill out like the grains of sand

How could I have written 332 poems,
filed away in a little cigar box
and only two are remotely, slightly good enough?
and they all say the same thing that has haunted
me for the last two thousand years,
the way his fingers haunt my thighs
the way his lips tell clocks to rewind.

On the darkest nights you can find the moon
hiding in her right eye. The wolves will cry still
The iron ocean tides will fall and rise
and fall again- against opals and faint oyster pearls.

On most mornings her voice sounds
like water drifting
between the black stones.
Her oak palms, open and raw. Still, her fingertips
touch like the way raindrops drip
onto the smoked, burning ground.

And if you dare to love the way she loves
the trees will grab to the end of your sleeves
until they uproot. The sky painted in lilac
and copper evening clouds, spins until
your feet cannot help but lift
to the burning Aspyn skye.  

On your loneliest nights she will empty
herself, carve a hole in her chest and rock
your abandoned heart gently to sleep
and in the morning when you wake
you will wake with peace,
The moon wrapped around you,
the world spinning,
hearing nothing but the soft,
soothing, sound of water
drifting.

The last time we talked I laughed so hard I spilled
Raspberry Jam all over my white dress shirt.
Now, dry cleaned and pressed, hangs
In the darkest corner of my wardrobe.

The third button down, missing.
Her poppy red lipstick stained on the left collar,
and my heart still, untouched and silently
left at the end of my sleeves, it hangs abandoned
in my dark chest
filled of old and worn rags.


the same color that she painted her nails
at 3 am one autumn morning.
Drinking Plum wine
and singing Kurt Cobain.
On the second verse she pulled me close and kissed me,
The taste of wine on her stained my teeth blue.

He could feel the way water moved
when it stuck to the windows, how it slipped
and dripped off the poppies
onto his cigar box filled with ******
escapees. Even its softness can drown,
He was drowning.

Inside the greenhouse the found
him already emptied, lying
on the ground with the white hospital
wristband tied, shotgun resting
beside. His face missing.

I understand
why he did it, “It is better to burn
Out than to fade away.”
He wanted to stop the sinking.
He wanted to burn.

No one saw the water tangled in his teeth,
pressed up against his lips, consuming.
Or heard the drenching within his voice
as he sang. If I had known he had a gun,
even when he swore he didn’t.

Now all I can hear are pulsating echoes
Of strings that no longer sound like waves crashing,
and his raw, gunge screams now mute  
And rippling away.

Our legs knotted together, hers to mine.
Bare in her blue sheets, finger-painting
her finger tips. I inhaled all I could.
and then she kissed

me for the first time after we tangled
together. I tasked her love, burning,
traveling down my throat.
Right then I remembered

when I was nine year old, holding the gun
my father gave me. His eyes watching.
I pointed its nose toward the mother doe
and pulled. My heart beating

heavily as it is now. Her raspberry
wine lips, tasting like the pain
of many men, still burning
in my throat. Knowing if I stay

my heart would burn too. I gathered
my clothes from the ground. Looking
back only once, leaving
out the door. I held my mother’s

hanging face eight years after I shot the gun
my father gave me. I kissed her eyebrow
and she told me, People are selfish. They take
and they take until nothing

is there and then they leave. In the morning
I woke in my bed. Alone. Feeling
hollow and sunken as the lying, dead doe. I exhaled
everything out and tasted

nothing.

We lied there, between her sheets,
finger painting on each others skin.
and then she kissed me for the first

time after we- and that is when I knew,
that her love was the kind of love that burns
as it travels down your throat

And all I could taste were the lovers in her past,
the hearts that she broke,
and I knew that if I stayed my heart

would burn amongst theirs, so...
I did what I do best.
I gathered up my clothes that fell

on to the ground an hour before we-
I walked to the door and twisted the
glass stained ****

and left

That morning when I woke upon
my sheets. I kissed my darling, promised,
girl next to me and tasted

nothing

I first kissed her when the moon was red,
her lips tasted of vintage 1997 Ornellaia,
Which burned my throat traveling down,
I closed my eyes to let the sweetness savor
And when she pressed me to her heart
The stars hit the ends of my nerves

She took out guitar stings to light each strand
Then smoked amethyst clouds into the blue
night sky. When she spoke, each syllable was
cold and I kissed her again to taste the
Warm red wine.

In the morning her kiss became a sin.
She tasted like suitcases and train tickets.
I had to close my eyes to not watch her go
And when I opened them she had already gone.

2am is so unkind

She runs through a crowd of loud
Mouths and impatient feet.
To a greasy whistle  
And a speaker that vibrates on the train.
She hands a ticket to the Conductor.
He smiles sweetly. Her stoic porcelain
Weakly reflects, and he notices the ochre
Tangles nesting in her eyes, and lilacs
Stained within her skin.
Her glace froze and she sends
Fingers to adjust the jacket over
Her unkissed collarbones,
Composed, but fingers tremble,
Hiding bruises of
Black and blue.

The rain had just finished
Falling. She draws on the atmosphere
Stuck to the glass.
The streets became unlit and lonely,
She looks to her left hand at the ring
Which reminds her of the knuckles the kissed
Her cheeks.
She tries to forget,
Pulling out pages of Hemingway
And lays a bag underneath her heavy, pounding
Head, reading to her wounds that
Shed her once-loved-skin.

She cries
And then she cries
Again.

He returns to a house that no longer exists.
Once upon polished floors are now painted scuff-
marks that can never be erased. Where there was
once a breath of pleasure and life that pumped

freely through the pipes. The locksmith turned off
all of the facets and the valves are now frozen solid.
And blemished, burnt walls cast unforgiving
shadows from the ashes. Where each spark

Started at her lips, like cherries thrown in embers
against his. Satisfying her hungry ardor. Watering
his eyes. His fingers that sweetly caressed the pale,
Porcelain cheeks are left blackened and charred.  

He gathers his love that fell and broke upon the ground
In smoldering piles of dust and shreds, and hides the
Warmth pressed between pages of books, Like flowers
in the winter. A place no one would look to find.

He brought in barriers, to board windows and doors,
And placed them where they needed to go. Shutting
Every window and closing every door. Leaving no knobs
and no key holes. And every time there is a knock,

He returns to clean the pile on the floor.

ia m     s     o
                           sca
                                 t              t
                                                     er                   d

We told our stories to the demons
that hid in our ratted hair
and carved out secrets beneath the black bark
of trees, They bled every stroke and our secrets
were never told.

In the night we collected the broken
pieces of corvine hearts and kept them
warm within the casing of our pillows
Every night that our mascara fell became a lullaby
for the love birds to sing in their
mourning.

We danced with lilac vines
we kissed endangered ivory
we loved evergreens
we flirted with death

Monarchs came to our slumber and
whispered sweet nothings to the demons
and in the morning the bark regrew on the
trees
and ever since
it hasn't been quite the same

Pink light
fresh sent
candle lit
finger tips
petal pores
black swan lash
river laugh

Wings on caterpillar
Hide behind white door
Mute for 3 weeks
no one knows what for
new eyes
Weaving out cocoon
Empty veins
kiss bathroom tile
Paint over smile
Face buried in swimming water
wishing candles
wet pillow
dog barks
oiled moon
death stars
words
Breathing quickens
Heart rate pounds
Breathing stops
lullaby
to monitor sounds.
Hospital lights
Asked questions
“She’s normal,”
Black spaces
Familiar places
Love me love me
Don’t forget me.
Wings tare
Innocents never was
Cry the way mommy was
Wear sun can’t burn
Squints and flashes
They won't know

l

My body is a typewriter.
There are starving scrolls hidden in my hollow bones
and sable blood that paints my rib cage broken sentences
and my heart punches them into stories
and poems everytime I see you.
They drip down to my fingertips and
escape everytime I touch you.

Bleak bones crumble to snow covered soil,
Flesh floret wilted flower,
Empty bottle blood sinks,
and poisoned pills pour,
Swaying sparrow feathers
rot to feed my gentle grave.

When I sing to corvines to slumber,
I wish I could carve out my heart,
engrave it into a rose and rock it gently to sleep.
but birds are cold blood and travel south in the winter.
So now I'll just cuddle up to my insomnia
and wake 20 years later on a damp pillow
and my trembling body of the ghost thats left inside my hollow bones.

I like that I keep things hidden beneath my solar wolf flesh
and that I have organic pages filled with black howls
of melted moons and star dust that no one can encode
... not even myself.
I really like it when humans believe they
unraveled my secrets of deep ultraviolet tidal
waves crashing on the curves of my spine,
but they have only reached the shoreline of Europa's crust.
And even though no one really discovers what kisses
and revolves behind my cage of cosmic bone
(a stain glassed galaxy and a little juicy
heart that is a soft pressed nebula),
I like that the thoughts and passionate joys
are all mine and only mine,
and no human can steal the unnamed from me.
But I'm not going to lie,
I'm lonely and misplaced
in this vast, cold place
called outer space,
but maybe I’m just a little bit in love
with swimming in those infrared feelings.
I guess that’s why my sister told me last night
I am the lone wolf crying with the unknown.
And I fall in high respect and love
with the very few creatures
who like to carve me unlocked and
make me bleed my darkest constellations of shooting scars
hidden from sight
… somewhere deep in the outer space.

I have learned how fly
Though I maybe in the clouds, my feet still drag on the ground.
And I am having a hard time determining which is real and which isn't.

The walls speak to her.
They are so ugly and bare. And thats how she feels, ugly and bare.
She have no wounds to show, only wounds to tell.
And they become more and more of tales to tell,
surrounded by undistorted walls.
How does she not know these are not hers and they belong to someone else's?
How does she not know she was created and injected memories?
That sick little girl is no longer her,
and she is not and never was that sick little girl.

Morning forms, freshly rinsed and clean,
Virescent willow wood perfume, wild and despair,
New earth soil sent liquid sage and spruce,
Smoking clouds cover and caress upon rosy face,
My skeleton rest frozen on ivory keys,
While gloomy, glimmering raindrops fall on concrete prison,
Falling to their beautiful suicide
Another drop of life,
while another dies,
Colors splash on musical hammer resonance,
Angry shrieking sky, electrical impulses,
Terra trembles and aches,
Memories leaving now, transforming to atmosphere,
Float away and put to dreams,
Dreams for cryful children to fright about,
Terra gives,
We give back,
To our natural blossom bed to slumber sweetly,
To wake while silver sky melts over sable earth,
And put bad to demise dream forever,
Reach through soil, vines of fingers, eyes open

Pleasant shades of pink and purple flowing through my conscious mind today.
I love my puppy and the snow and my heart and my brain.
I love sharing Oxytocin, the green on the ground and burnt sienna in the eyes...
I miss mercury and his lavender 9.
I miss my candy and my flowers, tea tree and the excessive amount of Epinephrine that used to sway in my stomach.

Her skin is old and soft
Her face creased with salicin
She stands isolated on her bed, peering to the world
Her lone soul mates: the stars, whom watch her,
The millions of butterflies that kiss every strand of her hair.
And the casual visits of cries.
She sighs quietly to the soft, cold breeze
If only they knew how much of the world
She holds in her gentle, tender adoring arms
And her every root that touches our footprints
They rumor, “she’s just a tree”
And her spirit whimpers.
And her core sobs.
She’s the mother of our earth
Who guards our aches and yearns
Who catches our rivers of tears with her fragile vines
She weeps for our dreams that are neglected
She weeps for our love that has now vanished
She weeps for the change of compassion
She weeps for the nature and the world
And She weeps, Oh, She weeps.

An army of darkness dripping of blood, hunting for us, with throbbing hunger and aching eyes. reaching for our brains. The dead is walking pretending to be alive, blackening the world with our ashes. So refuge from the death that surrounds us all and live while you still can, otherwise join them.

My heart is protected by 24 throned rose stems that can be mistaken as bones that clasp together like 2 hands.
My heart rarely hides in the cage though, she likes to be free.
Only when people get too close is when she closes the gate

I woke with dreams and yesterdays still tangled in my hair, painting them back into demons and nightmares.