A world of filtered communication
Silver screens and robotic dreams
Our heads filled with visions of false identities
Ambiguous, superficial
Ludicrous, artificial
Mounting themselves above our fireplaces
We live the way we are raised to live
We see what we are taught to see

A flushed salmon rushes upstream
Thrashing and bruised when Ha'nih catches him
We thank the Gahonga, we break, we eat
The tumultuous quiver of the earth
As a spritz around the fire ensues
Peace, essence, and comfort is the way of life
We live the way we are raised to live
We see what we are taught to see

I think the hardest thing
About being an artist
Is all about inspiration.

It doesn’t matter how determined
Or desperate
An artist is.

She sits and she tries to come up
With something worthwhile to say,
Or to draw or to paint.

But all she sees in her head
Is a ticking clock, ***** snow,
An oak tree, and a brick building.

One of the issues
Of the common artist
Is as follows:

Nothing she says or thinks is important,
Or valued,
Or necessary.

She knows this.
But yet something
Pulls her to the keyboard or to the easel.

She could apologize for pretending like
She knows what or why or how to
Say dreamboat words.

But for now she’s content with
Pretending like she knows
What she’s doing.

And right now everyone else
Is content
With playing along.

I’m rummaging through the sounder parts
Of my brain trying to find
The important parts of
Where I touched you and where I felt you
How I touched you and how I felt you
Like old photos

I’m trying to configure every speck
Of color in your eyes that I saw when you looked
Into the sunset through the window –
There were blues and greens
And everything in between

When I roll over
To lie face down in bed
My sheets smell like the warm parts of your neck
So I reach down to grab your hand
And lace our fingers together
Like grape vines
But all I end up with
Is a fistful of duvet

This morning I woke up with the echoing
Of your voice calling me “honey”
Tonight I will fall asleep with the echoing
Of your voice saying my name
In the morning I will warm up
With a cup of coffee
And with the image in my head
Of how bright your eyes become
And wide your smile gets
When you talk about the ocean
And how the barnacles would get stuck to your feet
And how beautiful
The colors of the sunset
Looked against the evening sea

I like to think that I tried.
But at the same time
they used to like to think that the world was flat
and that green eyes meant that you were cursed.
I also like to think that I would go to the end of the galaxy for you,
just so that I could fetch a few stars and bring them back
to show you that not every light is burnt out yet.
I like to think that the scars on both of our wrists
will fade with time and will heal with care.
But so far, the redness has not subsided.
Your voice is still ringing in my ears.
I’m not sure what you are saying, but you’re there.
And you’re here.
For the most part, you are everywhere.
And if I could spend one more restless night
curled in your arms so that I could kiss the inside of your wrist
and hope for magic to appear, I could die tomorrow
and be okay with that.
My tombstone could be painted yellow
and my corpse could grow flowers.
All because I hoped for a little magic
while the howling wind touched the windowpane
and your breath quickened on my shoulder.
I would let the coolness of your eyes
take my memory back to the Bahamian sea.
I would let the flutter of your eyelashes remind me
of the rainbow parrotfish and the fire coral.
I would let the salty softness of your skin sink into mine
so that maybe I won’t be so sharp anymore.
I would let myself drown in you
and this time
I wouldn’t call for help.
I would save my last gasping breath
to let you know how beautiful you are.
Then I would succumb to your sea
and I would sink to the bottom
to let my corpse plant flowers in you.

I don’t want to feel like I can’t breathe anymore
I don’t want to feel like the wind feels
When it tries to pass over a vent in the sidewalk

I don’t want to smell like other people anymore
I don’t want to wake up with the scent
Of thirteen-dollar cologne and sweat
Sticking to my skin like starfish to the bottom of the sea

I don’t want to be reminded of my empirical downfall
When I haven’t any sleeves to cover myself
And I can look down and see the canal of flesh
That was left behind after trying to rot it away

I don’t want my mouth to taste like coffee,
Smoke, *****, and bad wishes anymore
My eyes are burning and my throat is sore
And now glass is bursting in the small of my back

I am living inside of an invisible box
And the walls are closing in quickly
And I’m starting to forget how to breathe again

You remind me of the window
You remind me of a mirror
I want to get drunk and
Forget everything
That ever happened
I want to get drunk and
Live life that way
Happy and meaningless
Why did you touch me
Why did you even look at me
I was never yours
You aren’t even yours
But I am mine
I need more alcohol
To wash away things
That weren’t supposed to be my problems
That weren’t supposed to happen
I can still feel you on my skin
I don’t know who I’m talking about anymore
Is it you or you
Or is it me
Please get away from me
Wait no please
Wait no you’re a coward
And I am strong
Ish
I can pretend at least
Why don’t I mean anything to anyone
What did I do in a past life
That poisoned me in this one
I must have killed a man
I used to do so many nice things
I used to make my parents proud
I used to be able to count the ones I loved
On many hands
And those I hate on one
It’s switched now
What happened to me
I’m falling apart
Or maybe I have already fallen apart
Maybe you’re just the last piece
You are the last switch
To be flipped
Then I lose
Everything