there is a wasteland
the abdomen of a swollen sea watching precariously as i bite into bits of dark chocolate and don't stop until the entire package is on the floor like a drunken dancer or a torn best friend
a candor that i sold auspiciously for a pair of high heels that i never wear, they just sit in my closet waiting for dirt to be pushed into the canvas of it's sole
i'll only wear them indoors when it's raining and i can hear the synchronizing of the drops on the roof top with each step i take onto the hard-wood floor -tap tap tap tap
i'll do this until the sincerity is gone from the momentum
eventually next summer they'll be forgotten in a cardboard box that has "free" written with a red sharpie and perhaps it's next owner will be forgiving, will take the loneliness of the esoteric feeling of wanting to be worn and introduce them to the vinyl floors of a cheap club or the cold linoleum floors of an expensive resort hotel
i'd like for things that I've known to have a continued story even after it's out of mine, and they do

there is a wasteland
a woman that constantly licks her lips because they're dry but they're only dry because of the constant moisture forced upon them
the reduction of catch-22 as if the joke doesn't fall smack into your clothes
trying to find something underneath the bra strap, past the skin
but you can never get through, can you?
she pulls your hand away and you're left feeling rudimentary
lacking, like the lackadaisical manner in which the lights never hit you the way you wish it did

my spine was assembled clumsily and with an erratic precision of a hand that knows the premeditation of everything
the swarm came in the shape of an air conditioner
it's the characterizations of overgrown lawns and memory foam on the side of the curb
like going to the laundromat instead of church on Sunday
I've said this before, repetition lives inside the brain that continues to step over it's own feet
foot slowly inching towards my mouth
i could kiss you with my ankle if you would
the air conditioner buzzes all night like i did that night that i couldn't find the entrance in a place that i wanted to leave
take me home in a Chinese take-out box
i'll sit in the back of your fridge until you forget
i'll grow my own colony, mold malformation on the creases where the warmth should be
Sweaty container and you throw me out before Monday's pickup trash along with the expired mustard and mayonnaise
oh the missed opportunity, the dedication i could have gone to have given you a stomach ache that leaves you at three in the morning dry heaving your memories
that electric buzz stays until it's unwelcome and still it persists
so the bees have started to congregate, digress and drink the synthetic honeysuckle it spits
they take off, wings of woolly yellow into a breath that i consume by lungfuls
i don't know where they're going but that's okay because they keep coming back
and it's the permanence of something so flighty that calms the hum

morning light is always the most beautiful
there's a kind of tenderness that borders on pure naivete
an inexperienced fracture of grace that
unfortunately the sunset does not contain
although i am never awake for it
i am acutely aware of it behind closed eyelids
There's an optimism I've never felt on the creases of my palms

i wish i could explain to you
how boring that art gallery was
i can't remember what color shirt i was wearing
there's a lot of things i'm only half there for
i'll drift to nowhere precise and my eyes will get that faraway glow of a look and you'll think i'm in love
but it's just my inattentiveness to stay in my body for long
i'm less devil may care and more jitterbug hiding it's own epileptic seizure

i guess it's all about forgetting things and then trying to find where you put them
sometimes you stop looking altogether and come to terms with the fact that some things want to remain lost
morning light is always the most beautiful

i've hidden a note in an old library book that i never returned
i ripped the sleeve off and wrote my name in red permanent ink
it smells of oak wood and dust
i felt a warm guilt that i haven't felt since i was 8 years old
when my shoe slipped on dog ****
and i went into class with muddled shoes that smelled of underdeveloped intestines twisting
i think you would understand the embarrassment
the itching sting that my chest surrendered to when everyone asked where it was coming from
this particular note was written in a momentary relapse of admonition
an answer to a question that wasn't answered
will you look in the rubble, where i told myself to stop talking about god all the time
the moon never replied to my letters so i drank my weight in wine
and when i woke up the sender's address was swindled between postmen whose hands were too crooked to open the mails slots

my belly grows the size of a bag of apricots
there is a will at the bottom of a lake that needs retrieving
the car sank but the body made it to the shore and changed her name by midnight
come springtime the ice melts and the water is back
crawling upon shy ankles
there are growing pains who find a home between nettles and
the hives of adobe wasps
i never could cohabitate with nature
when they ask at parties where i've been
things that are at rest stay at rest

there is scattered verse in tertiary reasoning
i am a vocabulary of one
my intensity is throttled into a
meek surrendering of gentle fastidiousness
surrounded by a momentary court
that announces there's only
you, your fingernails and the measured guidance of not accidentally choking
blessed am i in the house of good council
a concession stand of dried fruit
i stand in the ether

some people are born anxious
a tidal pool of dry-heave and spider bones
a conundrum whirlwind of seared tongue not tasting anything for days
i think there's a nausea that hides under my shirt sleeves
there's an unproven cluster of nervous cells waiting for my elbows to
suddenly start fidgeting
a dehydrated vocabulary of what to say
and is it appropriate to say it
autumn is forever around here