Phaeton climbed his magic gold ladder,

but when he reached the clouds they crushed his very soul.

His head exploded into orange stars

and he died.

As thousands of years passed

those cosmic creatures turned blue

and became what we see today.

The sun is made of Phaeton's eyes.

I want to write a story called
Pink Heather
about a soul that felt blue
A girl not yet herself,
an entirely wrong hue

Little kernels converse
with my hot, oily blood when I
think about what you did

Stuck to the wall
with a pirate cringe, positivity illegal as sin
good vibes that almost hurt
like a wife-beater's undershirt
Tough to clean, hard to keep
even when the ground is getting steep
going up

They say it doesn't slam, gives you chance
it lays the land ahead
But I find the blue skies like to turn scarlet
and slip faithless from my wake
It's all me, all me
driving a stake through every chance I get

At regaining decorum--
which is hard to keep, tough to clean
after a massacre, a true disaster
The lawful bickers
of a girl curling in disgust because...


Because positivity feels counter-productive
Not to mention a little too...

Seductive.

These words are brought to you by a petty fit,
not a frolick, nor even
a moment of in-betweenness--
A ******-darling particulate fire
going up

I'm a lost soul, fingers cold
Stuck to the wall and let out a pirate cringe--
why don't you--
satisfy me with positivity legal as sin
Give me those good vibes, make them hurt
like a lover's wife's lacy undershirt
Nice and clean, hard to keep
especially when you're in. Too. Deep.
But you're only going up.
From. Here.

To take an image
Cut it open, step into
A pretty coven

Let the world know that poetry
is great.
There is passion in its rough, gilded grooves
(I've seen it all)
Dance shoes under
(I've tried them on)
And overall, wicked smiles
(they have shown on my face).

I've read the Alice blue tears of a grown man
lined up like a tree so that
each line is a branch.
I've read all the things
that you think don't love each other,
but they simply do.
Poetry loves you--people and poems are
just the perfect
dance partners.
I've seen it all--

I've seen that crazy look
on a poet's face.
It is the best form of every thing
which is only tangible

through a poem.

Famous or known, wise
or grown, gone or just zero?
Grained or unraveled?

I always forget
Just how heavy
Water really is

You can't just
say deep things
Deep things come
naturally

Scarlet, come to me
shine on me, want me, drag me
to a white altar

Paint my lips
Scorch my soul, bring
Me ointment for the burn

Don't mind the gradient--
Colored heart swooning on
My shirt sleeve

It is supposed to be in
My breast pocket. It leaves
Quite frequently--
This is a woeful truth

I wish it were not so
But bear with me, dear, and
Don't forget the flowers.

I like flowers.

Gone again Here again
Gone again Then back
Gone again Here again
Returned so out-of-whack
Gone again, again
Again Again
Again Again

Welcome home
Where you are madly
Brilliant

Because you're down again
Here again, up again
All around again again
Then you win
Every turn of phrase, all the days
Every phase beginning
Every morning
And ending every morning
You mourn for no particular
loss, you are lost only
a moment, but you hone it
Yes darling you cherish
that smile
The pleasant weather says
Please stay awhile and

You do because the weather is nothing new

Darling you
Grow again Shrink again
Gone again Then back
I disappear again
Again...
Again...

Yet it seems life is not repetitive

The bathroom is white
And bright like heaven.
I fill the tub with Epsom salts, bubbles,
Some essential oils
(emotional vaccination),
And bless the water like a priest.
Then I disrobe,
Fold my arms and dip myself in,
hair weighing me down.
The water is womb-temperature.
I float a little. I think about why I’m here.
I ask God
But the tiled walls
And the shower curtain
Don’t answer.
Then I rise,
put my robe back on, moisturize
So that I’m like a baby again,
And go about my night,
Helpless, teary-eyed,
Begging to be held.

I tend to

Hope something can be done

as if nothing will ever be done

Wishing

I could've gotten something done

as if I've hibernated for the 15th year in a row.

I'm wishing

Wishing

Wishing

I would just die

as if believing that I may as well.

Ribbons calling against the wind,
stronger than our fences.
   Ribbons crawling to our feet
speak of our potential--
   They break our defenses

The wind tries to control our ribbons.
They blow across the dirt,
Not quite light enough to be lifted,
And they crawl at our feet,
Whispering of our potential
Trying to break our defenses
With their mouthless words.
The ribbons want to tie us together
In a pretty bow, on top of a big,
Materialistic present,
But we are only as vulnerable
As the expensive electronic inside.

Sometimes they don’t make a bow,
But weave around our ankles
And up our thighs,
Pressing our hips together,
A group hug of sorts.
We no longer know how to fight,
But we do the closer we get,
And we can’t decide whose
Fault this is.

We can blame metaphors or love,
But either way, we are just too
Knotted together,

Our only weapons blunt scissors.
We try to tear ourselves away
Whilst making out.
How many of us are there?
It’s hard for me to tell--
I push one away and begin kissing another,
But they are all just friends--
Or friendly acquaintances?

Maybe it’s just me the ribbons have *******
And everyone else just happened to be there
When they did.

If beds of flowers
Rise from concrete for the sun,
There is magic here.

Every night was tortellini
when were roommates.

I complained about my chapped feet;
you bought me the wrong socks.
Black, mens, I clarified,
but you kept buying the women's.
Then one day you got it right,
only they were for you
because black is a warmer color than white,
and the socks of a man felt like cherubs.

I complained about my chapped feet,
you the heart of the world,
its cold silence.
But we remained "alright".
You bought new pajamas every night
and painted a beauty mark on your face
to match.

Years of x-marked places on our bodies
which no one saw because
we were cynics,
I the most.
No roses at our mat--we grew our own bushes,
ordered the ones with the extra thorns.
I charmed that snake,
you bit me on its behalf.
That I'd do such a thing
was shameful.

We were girlfriends in a can of salt,
tears in our eyes, mouths and ears.
We drank wine in bubble baths in our clothes
for three days straight,
or even four,
after that guy dumped you.

From then on
every night was tortellini,
La Dolce Vita, and--

and the freckle below your ear,
the horns growing from my forehead,
the way your falsies touched your cheeks,
late nights looking brighter
than they should,
than they normally would.
Pretending to be goddesses awaiting their gods--

while I awaited you.

Then you felt them too,
touched my head as though it were a fever.
I always knew you hated the suburbs,
and I did listen
when you complained about the gray rooftops
and the saturated green lawns--
"Give them a chance, please.
Then we'll get away--"
I begged, I relented--

The wine, finally, fermented.
You remember what I said next,
because after that you broke my heart.
I never doubted it was a bad idea
to say it



but I said it
and you left.

A girl wishes the wind
would blow the hair off her scalp
Strong and abrasive, it
struggles with her like a friend
hoping to get a little peace and quiet
For once would she just relax,
enjoy some Tonight Show,
some Late Night
and step out of the penitent
date nights.

Of the piano man
I've never heard, and
am gracelessly missing out
on him. Cannot thank
him for inspiring me
because I refuse to listen. He's
playing in concert only blocks
away, or perhaps on YouTube, but
who needs him? I ask myself
this on the surface--
deep down I know that
I do.
Walking all over the town in
other directions, still
can't get away from the
violin accompaniment, the truthful
tones. I've
no hope, I won't hear him
I've no hope for relation, I
won't listen. Run
everywhere, find myself there

He says, "Welcome home my
lost dreamer."

Teen sits in his room
reflecting on the walls and tables
Sometimes this place is a cafe
and is a little bit unstable
Crosses his legs,
forgets the dread,
self-hood brings him back
from the troubles inside his head
Take his hand, lead him out the door,
stoke his fire a little bit more

Adolescence,
Adolescence be free
Sweet adolescent boy, come back to me

Rests his head
upon the floor,
even the most grotesque things
won't bug him anymore
Young man doesn't watch them dance,
he knows he must grow his own steps before
they slip through his fingertips

Adolescence,
Adolescence be free
Sweet adolescent boy, come back to me

Young man, be your own man
You're halfway there, so don't disappear
again
The cafe is crowded,
yet you're not alone, not stuck in one place
like a drone
You move across the room, bright and tall,
and never again going to fall
Like you did the day before
your soul returned to just being a kid

Adolescence...

you are adolescent.

Am I doing it right?
I took a bath with eight capfuls of eucalyptus bubble soap
Instead of the recommended four.
I ran the water fever hot.
I wonder how long that feeling will last on my skin.
It doesn’t last long.
The next day,
I read a poem about this bath
To my creative writing class.
Call that vulnerability.
Gold star for me and my vulnerability.
I make tea with my vulnerability,
And sometimes I let other people sniff the fumes—
Raspberry-pomegranate-flavored-matcha-green—
But I never make a full ***
Because I guess I don’t want anyone else
to burn their tongues on my scalding vulnerability.


They like my poem, I think.
I don’t really listen to their response,
Am glad when it’s over.
I answer their questions about it without
Really answering their questions.
I don’t think they notice.
As for me,
I absorb their comments like vitamins
And, as such, the excess is filtered out
In the middle of the night when I’m trying to sleep.
When I do sleep, I try badly to stay awake,
When I must sleep, I am kept awake by various physical sensations,
Which I may complain about on Twitter
(Gold star for my vulnerability)
But maybe not, because I’m trying to detox,
And by that I mean I’ll stare
At Duolingo, the Atlantic, YouTube and Netflix,
Instead of Twitter, Instagram, Tik Tok and Snapchat,
And when I talk about it to my friends,
I feel the need to compare myself to an addict
in rehab
to get over heroine.
Because, in my mind, they are the same thing.
Call that empathy. Gold star for me and my empathy.

Am I doing it right yet?
This poem makes me feel good,
When I write something that makes me feel good,
I feel as though I could be talented.
But do I like myself for it?
If I get too cocky I might have to cut my own **** off,
Cut myself down to size.
But it’s no use, my ego haunts me
Like a bad childhood memory.
I didn’t feel guilt for the first time until I was fifteen.
It took that long
To feel sorry for pruning the leaves on my relationships,
until the plants disappeared
And I forgot what species they were.
Even now that I have friends I can admire,
Can I be trusted not to rate myself more highly?
Call that self-confidence.
Goldstar for me and my self-confidence.


When I get home from work,
I take another bath, hotter than before, with wine.
The wine and the heat make me dizzy, which is good
Because I can’t fall asleep unless I’m dizzy.
But later I will not be able to sleep
because this is my third hot bath in a row,
it’s winter, and my skin is so dry that it will itch and burn
As if every fabric I touch were made of fire ants.
But for now
I am comforted.
Call that self-care. Gold star for my self-care.
More of a participation trophy, really.

Don't wait for me
to come to the surface.
There is a lifetime of possibility
here on the ocean floor.
Let me be
the bottom-dweller
first discovered by submarine.
The darkness is not
as intimidating
as it may seem.

Don't feel around for my body
with your feet.
You won't find me in the shallow end
of the sea;
walk down the gradual *****,
where there is no air left to breath.
Over the mountains and hills
and great plains,  then you'll find me
Seven miles deep
in the Marianas Trench.

Then you'll understand my immense stress.

If I grow weary
by the end, do not come back.
Forget about me.

I'm supposed to be in school
yet we bring ourselves here
Friend, we bring ourselves
here to write
They call me irresponsible
yet I felt sick this
morning, throat and mind red
And so I grabbed you out
of there, in need of a
little help to make this day
worthwhile
Let's make this day
worthwhile
I pulled you out of the
burning house up there
to write

That is a lot of gold,
Missy.
Everything is metal,
it attracts me like the
reflection.
That is a unique thing,
Darling.
It brings me to
introspection;
is life vast? is there more,
for instance, than
that shiny--?
The word jumps from my lips
but you,
Sweetheart,
are bought for a high price.
The bidder is my heart.
Please try not to  object
to my being so objective.

Every snow day she leaves stains
falling from her broken leg.
Then her wound dries into a coffee-stain,
it's warmth wishing for spring.
A long feud--becoming crusted from the wind--
ruined her day's nymph purity.

     The spirits grow weak
while prematurely birthed
and about as far-gone as Future.
That's the woe if the kingdom.

     Her doctors BLAZE
"It will stay," prescribe a
cup of gin
for those who think they rule Sundays.
Weather, whether bronze or silver, will always
give fate a gentle PUSH.

"Write with blood upon the snow," she says
to herself and for herself.
Flitting across a brightened lawn, a girl painting
the window. Then wiping it with an old cloth.
Thought the fairy, "If it must go--if we must move--
best it be to the rhythm of her
father's blues, her mother's industrial, funeral
porch-garden.

But
Yells of travesty aren't nearly as
stagnant as the physicians say--
because their rouge, fruitful words are sign
of another day.
Seemingly still--not"

I first saw the wheat in the morning,
smelled the wind blustering forth--
Wondered that it must taste like
that very morning, in what complex way crops do.

And when the bear-locusts eat them,
what they would say
if they bled pans of gold to romance their amber,
if only then
would they be jubilant
if only on their death beds!

"Don't admire the fields," says Agricoltore.
Why?
"Because they like--they don't change."

You don't know
what's going for you.

This is good.

Give it a chance.

Get your hands out of your pants
There is no need
to feel a little more
at home
Get a **** hatchet for
Pete's sake
open that melon of a face
Watered-down?
Add sugar
"Home isn't what's up"
Even ask the rice cooker
It broke eighteen years ago
so now it just burns everything
the way the mom
burns the dad's bacon
And doesn't it just make your head spin
how meat passes through
without making you
any stronger
than the day before when
the neighbors
got everyone drunk on their
very own cyanide?
But give it a chance
Hell,
any new place is an adventure.
Please.
You don't know
what will happen you're not
a freaking oracle, a job left
for debate
in the same category as
freaking poppies
and whether or not they
should even be flowers.

Smell them.

Fraud.

The universe is organized
in a way that is unpredictable,
an alluring contradiction
with the eyes of a madwoman
trapped inside a laid-back cat.
She tries to ****** you, she doesn't move you.
You watch her only when she is still,
calculating and dormant.
You study her, calculating her patterns.
But she is nine separate entities;
Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn
etc., etc., etc.,
and perhaps too many other species to name
yet you may think she is "tame"

It's true that she does less damage
than she is capable of--
test her limits, but remember

the universe has no edge.

Science can pluck as many heart-strings
as poetry, and it can break as many too.
Maybe I didn't want your body,
but I wanted to comprehend your laws
and I needed your laws to apply to me--
I need to be explained
No, I can't explain myself to you
I need you to explain me to me
But would it make a difference in your field?
This imbalanced psyche isn't a new technology
I am ancient, the fate of my health is sealed
You must choose
Only two options, etc., etc., etc.,
Doomed to insanity or sanity
After the last glacier melts into ambiguity

will your understanding of me matter?
The fact is, no, it will not.
So don't sit there and examine
the pulse and pull of my heart-strings.

The milky way doesn’t know
of its own existence,
a cat doesn’t know of the sentience
we’ve given it. In almost the same way,
we don’t know who we are.
We are opinion, and opinion is relative
My magnificence isn’t relevant to you.
I’m something to admire from a distance--
apparently too chaotic
to see all the details up close.

I don’t remember what I thought of you
when we first met; all I know is
I like holding your hand
whether I want to or not.
Interpret that you want.

Your eyes are like supernovas
When certain lights hit them
Once they caught my attention.
I was a photographer for the National Geographic
capturing a solar eclipse, a comet, a meteor shower
every time you talked about something you loved.
An ash cloud from an excited volcano,
your eyes made a natural disaster of my heart.
Except, well,
it turns out everybody’s eyes are like that.

This planet can trek around its star a thousand times
And this will always be true:
I didn’t ask for you, I didn’t pray
I’m not asking for anybody else to save the day,
But I may have to settle for somebody else.
I’m not asking as a favor, I’m not asking the universe,
“Can I have this one thing? This is all I ask.”
One doesn’t ask for something that’s a given.
It’s more productive to say,
“Where are they?
Can I have a clue?”

I wasn’t expecting to find you.
Likewise, I wasn’t expecting to find
so many of you, and I wasn’t expecting
to throw one of you away.
I’m not expecting to find somebody else,
Nor do I think I never will.
Mother Earth will complete her journey
at least fifty times more in my lifetime,
and I may never be able to steal
that profoundly steady heart
from your high-security prison.
I’m not predicting our fate--
the stars are just gas,
the universe just organized chaos--
I’m just saying I might have to find somebody else.

Soufflé light massages my eyes
A cool oven breeze puts out the lies
I am a Goner,
no lives

Lived this day as
boredom gallops through.
Its hooves are in need of a deep clean
They don't allow the light to gleam.
So the light lets off steam

Horses halt, dragging thief feet in hope
of defeating this power,
wishing the paper would jam

But the sun, though none the wiser,
paints the walls and the faces.
Cooks a most creative meal.
Brings the stampede to a kneel.

Bitterness--
Like dried, expired chocolate--
Is duller than listening to
Him talk about politics;
Waiting for it to rain
Then watching the sun come out
And hour later;
Craving a new cup of coffee
Only to walk two miles
To the stores to buy new creamer,
And coming home to find the mug
Cold as a ten year old corpse,
And the power is out
So I can’t heat it up
In the microwave.

I go out again,
To Starbucks or to Caribou,
Whoever is more likely
To ***** up my elaborate order
(The former);
I ignore the barista’s niceties,
Disappointed by my own
Social skills;
I chug,
Twenty minutes later
I’m still tired.

More discouraging
Are the shrill voices of my
Authorities;
Angry stirred with
High expectations or, sometimes,
Just angry.
Teaching me their definition
Of quick succession
And looking before leaping;
Yelling at me too…
Smile;
Calling for some…
Appreciation;
Yearning for some
Uncalled for
Domestication.

My head beats its drum,
Because every civil war
Needs a drummer boy
And the battle starts
With a rhythm.

What a pleasure;
a woodland drive on the edge
of a cliff
with James Dean,
glamour by the sea
A star at work,
fawning over me
We will be
in the gossip magazines,
you and me
and evening chatter
about how things
are supposed to be.

I'm not going to be able to see you soon
I love it when you get a new song
And the rest of my favorite thing about it is not the same thing as the first place we went
The fact is that I don't know if you want me
The fact is the best way
For a long day
Is to make it so hard for us to reconcile

I'm not sure how I can see you soon
The only person who has been in my head
Hurts like the new version
Of a sudden urge to watch something burn
I love it when people are going out
I love it when I'm not going to be able
To see my friends and the other day
I didn't even get a job
Like I said I had

Air crushes ice crush--
--ing people, stabbing careless
Thoughts building madness

Clicking their way forward and back,
Flip-flopping into or hearts
If a girl can con money
Out of their fathers’ pockets,
who’s to say
They can’t sway politicians?
Their lips kiss pictures.

Pictures of cannabis leaves, yellow and smiling
They live until they die,
don’t live until they’re married
And if they don’t find what they want,
what else do they need
besides a crowd of fellow millennials
Caring, caring?

Caring about cannabis’ rights
and the right to carry a GBF,
their money, their frame
and, above all, pepper spray
These girls are the new
honest, hard-working man,
Their sweet scent is coming.

Sweet pea and Moonlight Path.
the top-selling fragrances at
Bath and Body Works
Their battle-cry is only
as loud as their looks
Daisy dukes and Katy Perry
whispering, “What the hell is she wearing?

She dons thin, rose-gold underwear
and she’s lazy yet keyed-up
in her own skin
Her lovers are all the same
but she blames all men.
Her wings are Pink,
they protect her from catcalls.

What a strange feeling
Treading across the Taj Mahal
Floor as it look back at me

Trouble has its own number.
This prank would be funnier
if you were by my side