the magnolia was a bit of a *******
(as far as trees can be *******)
and like very many other things—
like japanese candy from the Fugi Mart in Greenwich
                                      (across from the McDonald’s and next to
                                             the music shop where I got my viola)
and like pokemon cards and nintendo gaming systems
and like Avril Lavigne’s “Sk8er Boi” on a pink CD in a Hello Kitty radio
—that ******* of a magnolia was a distinctive taste
of the years I spent growing up in my house at the end of Wyndover Lane.

the ******* thing was almost perpetually in bloom.

it barged into both spring and autumn
(it didn’t give a **** about timing)
those pink and white spongy petals padding the ground
and at first you think it’s ******* beautiful
sitting in the crook of the trunk where it split into
                                                                two large
                                                       separate branches
tilting your chin back to catch a glimpse of blue between fat blossoms

then the petals start rotting
water-retentive little *******
and you can’t sweep ‘em away because they stick to the patio
brown clumps slipping under rubber soles
my dad lets loose a string of curses
and the magnolia shakes with laughter

I tried pressing the petals in a notebook once
while I was in that naturalist phase it seems all little girls go through
when you make fairy houses out of bark in the backyard
and put flowers between the pages of books because it feels
oh-so-much-more significant
than picking a pretty thing and showing it to mom

but the magnolia seeped through my spiral ring
and when I opened it up a month later they were dry tan papery things
not at all velveteen and rosy
and there were garish pink bloodstains all through the ten pages
on either side
magnolias don’t preserve well
except, honestly they do don’t they

then of course there’s that childhood tragedy that everyone has
when your dog got hit by some soccer mom’s suburban
or your teddy bear was lost in an airport
or maybe you just liked to cry because some things
were just really worth the tears at the time

but when I came home and found out they cut down my ******* ******* of a magnolia

I bawled

there wasn’t
even
a
stump.

and i've been tired for so long i can't remember how alertness tastes
because boredom with life is a habit i could break
with a bullet
and a lapse in cowardice.
and when the planets align i know i could
but mars is falling and pluto,
pluto crumbled while i watched the rain.
my roman candles are alight under the clouds
and i let the rain drown the fuse -
i'm afraid to be awake.
stillborn child, i was d.o.a
why change that now?
all these pyrotechnics just
reek of desperation
so i drop mine in the lake where they belong.
with bullets on my breath i watched the rain
while pluto crumbled above
a negligent god let the universe fall,
a negligent god let words of love
be scribbled on the walls of his church.
i'm tired of life and death would be a nice vacation
but i don't speak the language
and the exchange rate is too high
so i sit by the runways
and pretend i'm leaving too.
i watch terminal patients die
and put myself in their place.
dark tattoos below the eyes
like a bad decision
another fight lost.
throw the fireworks in the gutter
and hope the sky stays dark
tonight
roman candle heart sodden with rain,
i wouldn't know what to do with consciousness if i had it.
i fell asleep by the runways and dreamed
that i lived forever
unrequited adoration,
a one-sided love affair
with death.
all my idols were runaways
and i worshiped them like an eclipse
i worshiped everything that devoured itself
and anything that dared approach
they said **** your heroes
and i dropped cyanide in a whirlpool.
the balance between insomnia
and narcolepsy
is fragile
and my inner ears burst when i tried to retrieve my
fireworks
from the bottom of the lake.
too tired to stay asleep,
i watch the rain
and catch fragments of pluto on my tongue.
dead nerves, damp fuse
alexithymia and apathy
lie along my veins like cyanosis
blue lips,
blue lips -
neptune in my mouth like a bitter aftertaste.
pluto below my eyes,
mars drowning at the bottom of the lake.
if the planets were aligned this would fly true,
but the threads are tangled
and it's another casing at my feet.
infinity is not a number, only something you can
reach for
or run from,
cowering in the safety of ze
ro.
the heresy of nonexistence,
the concept of nothing vs the promise of heaven.
in a whirlpool i found my calling.
in a whirlpool i devoured myself
and spat myself back out again,
dissatisfied with the sour taste of
stagnation.
i missed boredom when it was gone,
ached with the hole it left
and the sudden shock of
consciousness.
you know boredom has a smell?
it smells like honeysuckle
and fog
and apples rotting on the ground because
the harvest always passed us by.
i found one of those apples
and filled up the hole boredom left.
rotting autumn in my chest,
apple-heart,
ennui like a second skin
or first language.
i tried to learn another but it remains,
the language i think and smother in.
      you know
in all languages but this
my name means nothing,
just a collection of syllables to spill
out of a foreigner's mouth

in the language of death my name means nothing
but it's all i know how to say

She was caught in the crossfire
Holding the trigger
Undone, panicked eyes; she was sliced by a wire
She folded and could not move a finger.

Relapsed, she was a broken liar
Each time she faded, she faded faster
Underneath, masqueraded, she was a fighter
But inside, where she hides, she felt herself shatter.

It was like waking up from a dream, bleary eyed and breathless.
Shielding her eyes, she stood there, no longer picking her seams
She had defeated her sleepless dependence
Her mind may have fooled her, but she was no longer a machine

For a time, it became her, changed her, fought her heart out
But when she surfaced, she breathed, and there wasn’t a doubt.

Dear
Lacey,
I should tell you how much
I hate your name.
too close to that ringing moniker of the dead girl in Colorado.
I didn't see you in her
didn't see anyone
and of course she wasn't more than a face laid out in
ink on a page
set to dry like I'd never said a word to her
of course.
I'd be a fool to think
that you have anything to do with
that look on in her eyes when they slammed her to a wall took out a gun and

of course you didn't know, I'm just a poor soul
looking for a living on the streets, don't think I'm one to
jump to conclusions.

Dear La
cey
my fingers hurt to type,
I don't want to talk to you, it might
trigger, you know.
People sometimes say I have
problems with other people.
please forget my number tomorrow.
and the next day and the one after
that.

L,
I leave this note on the hood of your car, you'll see it
before you drive away
don't look for me
I have a gun for you if
you do.

metal cools and hots, Lacey, your name is Lacey
and I cry to you.

what is eloquency
how can i spin a ribbon made out of letters do i get an instruction manual all bound up in fake leather with thin smooth smooth pages and tiny creeping lines of words upon words
if i read enough words, maybe they'll leave a mark on my heart and then i can spin them back out again
drop them on the page, a drop of ink landing as type-written letters all smudged gray and printed on thicker strong paper
and the words, oh the words, i'll soon know them all
i can spit them back out into candy colored shapes whirling and twirling around in the air
mesmerizing people with the sound of their letters
i'd like to be a wordsmith, a manipulator of words

The stars are above.

The earth is below.

The rain is a present.

The sun is a show.



The moon is a treasure.

The dirt is engaging.

The water is plenty.

The air is stimulating .



The wind is strong.

The living is a circus.

The dead is six deep.

And yet the gravity refutes us.