There are times          --like when I told my professor
                                                       ­  these marks on my body
                                      were just the last drops of intelligence leaving my rind.

                                               --where girls are women dancing across tickling sunshine,
                                                      f­elt crevices, hills, plains, cliffs of paradise. She and I love to fall
                                                    for ideas of people. Without looking twice--every memory isn't crippling

                                          --who I am is just a really big, personal word for someone sitting flat
                                                          on a mirror in my mobile home.

                               --crimson stains/the blades of a metal bird./It's beak dulled by the friction of battle.
                                   It's tail maneuvers/till bent and broken/and the body ruffles
                                           as metallic feathers sway/to the commands of war parasites
    There are times I realize lighting is wasted energy,
                                                         ­          just cracks and cuts
                                   changing out the insides of words as I see them.
                 There was a time I thought I knew what storms meant.

                                                   My old self knew what to do, just wait
                    --the crisp clock strikes its coldest hour
                            as much as the chooser's tick, but the rest of the endless regulation is warmer,
                          I promise.