Ain't that a sin
to make the body with soul Suffer
in the name of cure treatment.
Are they still believing its love
ain't that the only sin ever laid
to meridian hearts.

Hike up the hill
There a piece of plane land
Rotate the view
Not you not me anymore!
Nothing else other than jungle does exist.

At the ripe age for plucking.
To be plucked
right off of this eligible branch.
But such a stem stays fixed.
Stubborn and stuck fast—
happy to be connected
to everything that makes me grow.
And others ask, they ask how
I can possibly remain
so incredibly unplucked.
And the others, I tell them,
my heart swells and breaks
with every breath and blink.
I dip it in the bright pools of
those slow-peeled grapefruit sunsets
and use it to finger
the bruised blue leftovers
of the time just before sunrise.
I air it out in the currents
of wish-made gusts from thousands
of floating dandelion seeds,
and I stitch its holes shut
with scraps of  mother thread
left behind by moth-eaten fates.
Every day, all over again,
between beats, I learn to ****
the poison from it
with my own lips,
so it can swell and break
at its very own pace.
I remain unplucked, I say,
so when I find a soul
that matches mine,
he won't have to teach me how.

steeped my
skin in ginger
a bathtub brew and
sweaty forehead

but i was
the teabag.

when i shut
my eyes
all i could see
was red lines

rubbing where
they should be
remembering
squinting my eyes
in main street sun
thighs burning

(dear goodness
i don't know how
i ended up here
again after so long)

opened my eyes
saw my wrists

white and
whiter scarred
but i always
picture them as
red and
redder slit.

gasping for hot
and humid air
motivation is
strangely illusive
but visualization
forever inclusive.

i'm boiling alive
or bathing to die
in scalding bathrooms
of appalling apathy.

Humans are ants
Humans are wolves
Humans are machines
all of these by degrees
we build ourselves homes
that restrict the freedoms we crave
so we destroy to build again
that can't last forever
but then nothing can.

i had a houseful
of old friends
milling around
a lakeside town

their summer was
my half of a winter
and they spoke things
that i believed in
but had absolutely
no reason to say.

they were
alive to me
more alive
than anything else.

i don't know where
they went
trapped somewhere
inside a screen
buried alive under
my own problems

are they still
sleeping
in a graveyard?

or is she in jail
and is he seeing
someone else?

they were my
friends
just pieces of
fiction

and i'm hoping
that somewhere
inside me he's still
strumming a
ukulele and she's
standing on the side
of a waterfall and
looking down
i hope they're
alive and well

(knowing them
he's probably
sad but fine and
she's probably
just as crazy as
when i left her.)

but i don't know
i can't promise anything

i lost them
and i lost who
i was when i was
with them.

take me back
a year
take me
ridgeside

i can only promise
one thing

that i haven't
forgotten you.

clad only in flannel sheet
her supple ***** partially exposed
gave me pause
as I gathered gear for the work day at hand
in the delicate pre-dawn glow
her pale skin seems a perfect hue
both enticing and entrancing
my eyes lingered ~

if only to be late
or play sick
options pass through my mind
as her steady breathing
and barely perceptible
falling and return of her chest
invoke a myriad of delights
none of which involve
going to work today ~

pulling shoestrings tight
and buckling a leather belt
I glance, once again, over my shoulder
longingly gazing at a her sleeping body
in the back of my mind I hear
the tell-tale words of strength,
“it is only a few hours…” ~

inaudible sigh slips my lips as I close the door
her slumbering undisturbed
my heart full of love
I am ready for another work day /