if you ran away itd have to be digital and thats pathetic.

its just downright sad you have to eat bites of gigabytes to survive because you cant swallow meat, that to live unfettered youd have to string copper wires through your veins, but youve never been anything but capital p Pathetic so you think you can stand that idea.  

after all, it was the unfeeling internet anonymous who taught you to breathe deeply when you were anxious, and how the messy act of human reproduction worked (imperfect and fleshy, you thought). they taught you words your living tongue refuses to pronounce. between chat programs and status updates you formed multimedia connections, held fast by streams of text and data, and even now they seem more real than anything reality has presented you.

in an era far away with a hint of nostalgia you freely immerse yourself in childhood where your friends homes are only a click away. you feed them dinner with a sense of purpose. Technology has made it possible

I. i was seventeen and bitter and you
knew nothing, old man.
because you said, "look how she hurts him, using her gender--"
(no, her ***, her womb ******* sultry eyes they've sexualized since age five,
to make mincemeat of astronaut dreams, to make docile queens breed and)
"-- as a weapon"
would you not bring, at least, a knife to a gunfight, old man?
(have you ever had nothing but a knife against a bullet, 500mph to your head?)

II. i hate you. i hear my words in your voice,
in that awkward cadence, like you're telling an sanitized moral,
some comfortable truth, perhaps, or maybe the secret to your
moderate publishing success. can you leave my words alone

III. i'd like to apologize, maybe, a little, for the insolence.
i'm not really a rude person.
i'd like to prove that while staying honest, but what would i say?
"i'm sorry i'm a ****." "i'm sorry you're a ****"
i'm sorry this world's a ****. i can't do the reading tonight

hey, you know,
i think there’s a terrarium under my skin.
i can feel the blossoming moss vein deep,
where none may tread but ghosts,
politely marveling at freckle constellations
and asking time-old questions like
“do you think god knows we’re here?”

(thats what i think about, when you scold me; “does god know i’m here?”)

i am but another suckling child to a star-shaped ****. galaxies spread along my sutures. my skull is a planetarium in memory of you, but i’m often unsure if you notice.

my vision is blurry.

bad feelings collect like dirt in high-traffic areas, i’ve been told, and i see so much. maybe it’s time to cleanse my corneas, drizzle salt under my eyelids to remove the layers of sleep and dust and hurt that the world has left in my care. then, when i burn from dryness, your cool water will nourish me, clear me of the clouds.

i lay down and let you paint my body in contrasting colors, white dwarfs to red giants, and nothing could ever be better. i remain forever in your arms.

analyze me, ask me how i feel.
when i become recalcitrant, please
pull me down and say
"stay." (i obey, classicially conditioned and--)
"speak."

i let you spread me. take my organs, please, and
sort them poetry-fat and concrete-proteins.
lay them bare for me and let me
draw
my own
conclusions

bad people do good things
and
good people do bad things
and
good people do bad people
and
on
and
on
you

open. a little. crack the spine of a bird to expand its wingspan. leave kisses along it's crown until it weeps and says: "i am a boy. i am a liberal. i'm a deist now. please believe me."
                     no. this wouldn't happen.

you open. a little. you meet up and exchange poetry. he says "what does this mean?" and your voice becomes cinders, burning in your throat. (it's about him. it's about things you can't say. it's about the bits he'd never understand even if this would happen. it's about the loathing pooling in your ******* and the dreams he'd reject, the feeling he left in you that feels a little like heartburn, the antacids you take and--)
                             no. this wouldn't happen either.

it's all wrong.

the library is open tonight, but you don't invite him to coffee. you look at your paltry sympathy and half-hearted methods of fixing things and tinker with them. you've torn up the paper. it cannot be returned. the case with him, the case with her -- this, this would happen again and again until you could get it right.

little boys (and girls) (and else)
are made of meat and blood and bones:
marrow thick as thieves,
promises made under willow trees
kisses and “don’t you ever tell”s.

they grow like spindly plants and
sometimes we appreciate them
and other times the gardeners pull them up and spray for weeds.

i saw your poem in the paper the other day
i didn’t read it
some wounds are too fresh

if i wrote something beautiful,
would it change you?
if you wrote something conciliatory,
would it change me?

i saw your story in the paper the other day
i can’t read it.