the daughter of Apollo
whistles back at birds
reminding them to stay close,
she knows that Icarus
was a dense
bloke so it goes, they circle
in the overexposed
sky and come back just
shy of the shine, and the cicadas
always know when it's time.
then she says, "come along,"
and they all know to go,
following the whistle
of the daughter of Apollo.

Lady made out
of magic and mayhem
bottled along with stars
and flowers
and hurricanes
and volcanoes

A brutally lovely poetry

A work of art--
not post-modern but
pre-apocalyptic

and
if he lays his eyes on you
even Narcissus
will launch
his ship

A curtain of black hair
drapes across her
utopian face,
her lips pursed
in concentration.

I ask,

what are you
writing about?

and her mouth curves
into a deadly smile.

She says,

"A compilation of 21st century
horror stories and other
*catastrophes."

the aftertaste of loss and failure coats my mouth
as i slur my apologies to the wind and
stumble my way to my front door

i try not to blame myself for how things
turned out to be but when people say there's
a whole universe inside of you it's hard to sleep
soundly at night

because how could i contain multitudes
but not be able to do anything when people come
and make me feel like a house
being emptied out of its furnitures and picture frames

even ghosts seem to shun my presence but
wouldn't it be perplexing to say that it's because
i am doing a better job of being a phantom than them?

or maybe it's because of this camouflage suit that
i'm always wearing that is making me invisible
and i want to know if stripping it off means
i am finally surrendering

when you see what the inside of my head looks like
you will see a ghost town inside a snow globe
and there are fault lines everywhere

You did not even have to ****
that pretty daisy
and watch as its petals rain
on the ground to know that
she loves you
not.

your mouth is a door,
and someday you are going to be told that it's just better left closed.

your eyes are the windows to your soul,
and someday people are going to tell you to draw the curtains.

your heart has been unpacked from the basement,
and someday someone is going to tell you to put it away.

and your optimism is a candle in your windows, and someday everyone's going to try and blow it out.

i'm telling you this,
because when that someday comes i want you to know what to say.

you say,

"my mouth is a door, and i hold the key."
"my eyes are the windows to my soul and i'll wash them regularly."
"my heart will not be put away, it goes with everything."
"my optimism is a candle, and it keeps me warm."

when that someday comes,
i want you to know what to say...

you say,
"this is my house, and it's not for sale."