Treat me like i'm wild.
Like i know the stars by name
and wander far away on my own,
digging my nails in the dark red clay

But remind me of our home.
Where you will feed me cake
and hear my bright-eyed tales
with patient ears and lips.

But please please please -
Treat me like i'm wild.

You sat in my chair
against coats + sweaters + pants
with your shoes on.
And I couldn't breathe.

I went to my funeral last night.
They all talked about her
and she was like me.
I knew I was dead
by the twist of your mouth.

Now we're lying together.
Naked. Between cheap sheets.
I don't know if I'm living or not.
I hear the train whistle
And wonder who wanted to die.

one two three with fire
heavy with your memory
thick silhouettes peer
&
the sax next door sings
you, blown away by fusion
of my tongue to you

My lips are thin
like the cheap sheets
we slept under last night.
Noses cold and pressed together,
transforming the AC into waves
and ourselves into nobodies.

Nobody sees me punish my lips
for being so small and disappointing .
Tiny pale flakes lie lifeless
on the barely pink slits;
a testimony of my brutality
and the precision of my teeth.
..........................................................­..

Teeth clenched and eyes wide,
I hold the goods in my palm.
Firecracker, Ravish Me Red, Red Door Red.
Ravish Me Red sounds like a good time,
so Ravish Me Red it is.
but I wish I had a fourth.

Four minutes until I see you.
You're always exact.
The clock pleads for me,
but I'm busy glaring at
the familiar rouge strangers on my face
that I can't deny are mine.

My teeth try and fail to resist
The taste of my scarlet-smeared skin
they gnaw and gnaw at their treat,
dressing themselves in Ravish Me Red.
They refuse to be satisfied
until they taste blood.

Blood doesn't match my ruby lipstick
It's smudgy and ugly and I am ashamed.
My face is wet when I open the door.
You ask what's wrong, but you already know.
Through your smile I hear,
"Red isn't really your color."

Color now on your wrists and nose and knees
The red marks you as mine.
It fades from me to you
and leaves my lips naked
but you kiss the tiny pale flakes
that I used to hate.

I can tell I'm depressed
When I don't take the laundry
Out of the washer,
Where it has been cleansed of its sins
Of passion, or rage, of greasy fast food.
My filthy hands would ruin them.


So I wait for my roommate
To baptize his own spotless hands
With MY damp boxers.
The habitual thuds of my soggy clothes
Against the back of the dryer
Are a nice distraction.

My favorite flannel dances
With her tiny lost sock.
But 45 minutes isn't enough.
I don't want to end their fun,
So I leave them there
And hope that they'll fuse forever.

He tosses the clothes onto my floor,
Scattering them, wrinkling them, freeing them.
Corduroys atop henleys under crew socks and tees.
Folding them would be a waste
Of a catastrophic masterpiece.

My jeans between the sheets
Feel like strangers on my legs.
All six of my dollars,
Wadded and shoved in the front pockets,
Smell like last night's soiree.

I get up,
It's 2 pm,
And glare at my half-naked body
In the blurry mirror.
I like myself when I don't eat,
But I swallow a handful of cereal from their kitchen
For Mom.

I can still taste the cigs that he hates,
And old beer is sticky between my fingers.
I can't remember getting this bruise
Or this one. Or this one.
I bruise like a peach.

I do remember sloppy kisses
With my roommate,
How her lips were softer than mine
And I remember feeling full
Of love and of *****.

I am happy.

Two cigarettes
Because  one is not enough
To forget the void
Nor discover the luxury.
One cigarette leaves my mouth watering
For the bitterness of us.
One cigarette doesn't cloud the sky
For me to drown in you.

Two cigarettes
Because three is too many;
I'm alone with myself.
"I'll **** this up" and "I'm not worthy."
Three cigarettes, and it's easier
To burn myself with the ash.
Three cigarettes leaves a taste too sweet
And I crave more and more and more
and more and more and more
and more and more and more and
more and more and more and more
and more and more and more

I'm growing old.
God don't plant in straight rows,
And weeds won't hear my temperate pleas.
But harvest comes, wailing like a freight train.
I thrive in the ghost town I built.
Regret crowds the crosswalks.
I wait for you.
Hurry.

We call her name like she's the queen.
Lips quiver with understated pleas.
So this is what "your highness" means.

The analog clock wails 4:18.
Our voices muffled in this cool sea.
We call her name like she's the queen.

You, my own porcelain figurine,
Each tiny chip of you impales me.
So this is what "your highness" means.

No room for time here in between,
All else I've known has been set free.
We call her name like she's the queen.

Quake my pulse like a tambourine,
Let me teach your mouth to see.
So this is what "your highness" means.

Powerless when she intervenes;
Royalty lives between the knees.
We call her name like she's the queen.
So this is what "your highness" means.

My soles and my hair,
Searching but never landing.
Sister Solitude

Discovering marks
that were placed in the darkness
before I knew you

"No, just stop. No, just stop. No, just stop."
How long did I live like that?
"I'm out of money."
"Most people would **** for that score."
This is for the other woman.

You enjoy breathing,
beauty and truth.
We do live in a place where the rain hits the windows.
I'll be there.

The future is on the next page.
It's so loud in there right now.
He looks ancient.
Getting what you want destroys you.

Cure me like poison
I never knew I needed:
Apothecary.

My first two hours
were spent scowling at the day.
Unconditional...

Run through the rubble,
Float on your cigarette breath.
Keep me; I am home.

The gentle lines of the coarsest neck
Where the vitals fall in line,
Where breath is held so restlessly,
The first sip of chilly wine.

The shaky fingertips that graze,
Calloused, but seeking gospel
Leaving me covered in the words of
Your author and your novel.

Knobby knees that knock when
Worry scurries through your blood.
That hallow place behind
Where no one thinks to touch.

The portion of your foot that feels
The extremity of the ground.
How fast you're going will always tell
How long you stick around.

(Our souls are where we find them.)

One, two, three.
I am stopping here,
But only to catch my breath.
Tear, rip, peel.
This is my transition

From getting
To giving. I
Am reflective of what you
Bequeath to me.
You are my Sirius.

Conversations with myself
Remnants of

Fleeting words
Leaving me pummeled
In their tracks.

Echoes of silence rippling through our veins;
The weight of the evening is shifting
From unseen words, lonely phrases
To midnight's twinkle and altruistic gazes.

You become my buoyant hammock,
With the surrender of sound,
My Maupassant,
But I am not found.

As you enfold me with one leg,
I am your darkroom so bright.
Gentle ticking,
Clockwork through the night.

As we bathe in the muteness of the hour,
I can hear your heart slowly beating
As I listen to our souls' casual meeting.

I am from a cluttered family tree and old wives' tales,
From coal-tinted clothes and the sound of our train.

I am from unridden bikes and muddy boots,
From gasping tears over puppies and kitties.

I am from The Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly
And counting cars on her tiny porch.

I am from "mmhm, mmhm," and "scratch my back,"
And "I love you bigger than the whole sky."

I am from singing when you don't feel like it and running to Granny's house,
From apples with salt and flimsy UNO cards.

I am from a chilly room that smells of old books,
From crouching beneath barbed-wire to gather blackberries.

I am from the house on the hill, the little back room,
From the gravel driveway and rusty Ol' Blue.

I am from the Frederick heritage, the Daugherty line,
From Isaiah 40:13 and "find your wings."

Why did she leave at a time like this?
Why does her house feel so empty?
Because it is.
How will I ever heal from this pain?
When will I -- what is that?
Is that a leaf? It's probably a leaf.
That green thing. Is that -- ?

A woman
Promenading through the trees,
With a scarf hanging down to her knees,
A handiworker's pleasant surprise,
It's one shade deeper than her eyes.
She's clutching her tote
As I try to stay afloat;
I'm drowning in this beauty.
She's gathering blackberries
And singing our tune,
The one with no words that oft' ends too soon.

I'm lying in the weeds,
Her green scarf clutched in my palms,
And it's getting easier to breathe.

Inside my four walls,
Not much is seen.
The same people day after day,
Their actions always precise and clean.

"What's out there?" I wonder,
"Outside of my four walls?"

"Only horrible things," my tenants explain
"It's a place you don't belong."
When my bricks were fresh, this was enough
To help me press wearily along.

"What's out there?" I wonder still,
"Outside of my four walls?"

My curiosity eventually overcame my build.
I needed to experience the outsiders' guild.
My bricks ached, my woodwork choked,
Until finally

clouds birds sun wind lights chatter

These sights and these sounds,
Some beautiful and some not,
Flung debris on the ground
And to my architecture brought

A beautiful hypethral view

Blue frock, blonde curls,
Honest Abe catches her eye.
A luster hidden in this ground dry,
She clutches it close to her pearls.
The pearls her mother did supply
One by one from a cloth unfurled.

This small treasure is worth, at best,
A million times its price.
This beauty that appears precise
Differs far from all the rest.

Its copper shines brighter than
If it were replaced with gold.
And, try as she may, its finder can-
Not leave this gift at home.

The photo, wrinkled and flavored with time,
That passed all too abruptly. But it shows
Smiling faces, eyes closed in laughter's rhyme,
The laughter that ever so smoothly flows

Through my past; it is my favorite mem-
Ory. It lingers in my lowest play
To catch my heart off guard. The waving limb
Of my family tree started with this face.

How blessed to have this fleeting moment caught!
My past, entangled in this candid shot.