“The beginning is perhaps more difficult than anything else,
but keep heart, it will turn out all right.” ― Vincent van Gogh*

the grand canyon knows nothing of being hallow like the
depth of the space between my ladder ribcage, climbing
out of this rut would be like rock climbing mount everest
without the correct equipment, but beginnings aren't
supposed to be endless paragraphs of traps you made
me so oblivious to. my hands have touched hell's scorch
and have brushed your heart strings, but nothing compares
to the way you make everything seem like a dream, like
an acid trip that took you into outer space and made you
float, but i'm tired of gravity pushing me down and this
is just pointless suffering, i'm not healing anytime soon
and my wishes are for the closure i haven't received yet
i have reached my breaking point.
               it is a decaying cage designed for me.
                              i cannot see anything but good memories.
         h  e  l  p     m  e                                 i am going blind, i am terrified.
                           these monsters don't want to wish me adieu.
                bottlenecked like condensed traffic,
and stuck inside my head.
this isn't a place for you to call home, i am a prison.
you couldn't thrive inside of my heart, it would be
asphyxiating for you because my heart is like a snake
squeezing tighter and tighter, i am not a home for you.
leave before i take every good part of you and destroy it.

- kra

These bees
And this ink machine
Rumbling,
And the rattle never comes
But I wait for it
Come cut the gray screen from me,
The prettiest scissors I've ever seen
But oh, the bees
They, yes, rumble me
"You're okay,"
I hope today's the day
But my LA is full of rain
And so is its gold girl,
It's scene
It's party queen

make sure
they have fallen in love
with
your spirit
first.
your body
second.

Sometimes we are made aware of beacons in the rest of the dark.
Like stars littered across the attics we trap ourselves in.
Sometimes we chase rainbows with beggars eyes and wishes like children.

Some people are like soup soaked bread crumbs and wool mittens with the fingers cut out.
The rest of us are chimney soot.
And they are ‘chim chim cheree‘.

They are song filling every corner of the antique shop.
Silver under tarnish and weights and measures
balancing on the hands of the scale
suspended from the spear of a woman in white robes
with blue eyes that match the sky when we stare at it
and it usurps the corners of our eyes
and we are made aware of how small we are
as we get lost in how complete it is when it is with out clouds
with silver linings that never seem to follow through to rain.

And some of us?

Some of us are rain.

And thunder that shakes your soul.
And images of gods in black and white that burn themselves onto our minds
for us to study with our eyes closed.
And some of us are doing the best we can.
And some of us are not us.
But are the others.
And we would be lost without them
to point beyond red sails on sundown ocean horizons,
just before the world turns blue.
And some are the pops and cracks between the notes of Coltrane on Vinyl.

And you.
You smell of confessional walls and a nursery.
You smell of camp fire blankets and bruised roses.
You move like corner of the eye shadows
and windshield wipers with no chance of beating the rain.

You write like stone tablets and feathers.
Blown bubbles and spun webs.
And you feel like chance.
And love.
And strength.

You change like ropes on ship decks and tarot meanings from gypsy to gypsy.

And you are beautiful.
And beautiful.
And beautiful.

And everything.
And everything.
And everything.

Strong like ropes on yard arms of old ships in ancient seas.
And you go and you take us there.
And we go, because we want to see too.
And we want to be full on wild flowers and raspberries.

And we want you to show us the line on our palm
that separates the dark from the light.
And we want bed time stories and lullabies.
And with my eyes.
And with your own too.
And more importantly.

You.

You are the place where there is hardly no day time and hardly night. Things half in shadow and things half in light. On the roof tops of forever. Coo. What a sight…

we both work in the postal service
but neither one of us
has ever sent a single love letter
maybe it's the drill of the job
maybe its the grind of the machines
or the clack of the keyboards
grind turns to a drone
and i look around to what we thought
were industrialized patents
were actually what we had once considered our friends
was that where they disappeared to?
instead of quitting the dead end
i had assumed too fearful to follow the leap
they hid away in mail bins and P.O. boxes
i thought i was alone
maybe i was
maybe they really did leave
their souls gone
with empty shells of bodies
remnants of what once was
yes
i am still alone
those who i knew have fled the building
in search of a more meaningful existence
winding in up in god knows where
anywhere but here
these gluttonous pantomimes only accept hopefuls
midlife crises who leap
at the opportunity for promotion
like increasing payroll would reduce their age
same as the twenty five year old liberal art grads who need a filler
to help pay rent while they work
on what will collectively become hundreds of thousands of volumes unpublished
here i stand
twenty eight years old
and strip off my badge
as it falls to the floor
i walk out the door
say hello to the next boarding train
(last stop your hometown)
and goodbye to the dead end road.

It was dark and you were doing summersaults
As the church bells rang out in the park
And your dress was tangled under your feet
The circuitry of your emotional shadow was lurking in the backdrop
Like a less important family member in a customary photo
The dark was a haze covering us like coffins
With your hopes and aspirations buried in them like ground water

I hope you will remember someday this happened
And it will come back like a prodigal at his wits end
Embedded in your drawstrings
Like sound waves in a pitch bend

One day I’m going to have to stop doing winged eyeliner
and getting drunk in public places

And one day I will have to admit to myself
that I don’t really know what love is

One day I will get in my car
and throw my just lighted cigarette out of the window
because I don't really need it after all

I’ll stop listening to depressing music when I’m home alone

I’ll stop showing up to your house at 1 in the morning

And I’ll stop throwing up in toilets every Friday

One day you’re going to find out about me -

How I’m used up and selfish and *****

One day you will notice my scars
and you won’t kiss them and tell me you love me through it all
because this is not a movie
and pain is not beautiful when it’s as obvious as
blood dripping in your mouth

You will not compare me to a wild flower
and want to **** the nectar out like an active bee and pollinate me

You will pull my sleeve back down
and look out of the window until I drop you off at your house
and you kiss me on the cheek once
instead of leaving marks on my collarbones
and you will not call me right away anymore

so I guess what im getting at is my demise was our own
and no one likes pain they have to look at

No one likes darkness when its up close and personal