Slowly, you are becoming less and less of my Milky Way
Less of my galaxy
Less of my night sky

You are proving your humanity
And it's blistered and ugly
And I can barely remember you glowing

My head hurts, and
It's unseasonably warm.
I read that a concussion
Can cause mild depression.

But what if I was mildly depressed to begin with?

Then, night two of the ******:
That evening ran rampant.
With ounces of beer filling each skeleton bone,
Flashes of indigo, and a friendly plate of pasta.
And us Hispanics have to stick together.
We made a home in the sand pits and
On the college buses, we must have been
Going one thousand miles per hour, and
I heard from a good source that the wheels
Weren't even touching the ground.
Bruises, baby. A concussion to match.
Still sprinting through the indigo, you know,
The night sky has never/will never be Black.
Blue consumes me. I am drunk.
My best friends dragging my lethargic limbs
To and fro. Warm ***** at the apartment party -
I am in love with each of them. My friends, that is.
Riding high on all that reckless rebellion,
No matter what happens, this was, this is.
(Forgive me, but - We Are)

The river water was in and around my mouth
As four silhouettes screamed through shiny phantom limbs.
Like the moon's reflection was the only thing keeping us afloat,
And there was talk of some radical ******* and a doctor's appointment gone wrong.

Then after the movie show, we thought we'd die in that torrential highway downpour,
And you let it slip that your ghost was ready to leave your body.

And, for all intensive purposes,
I love you.

Oh, my God.
We had it all wrong -
It was never Weird Honey.
No, it was Wyrd Honey.
It was Fate, honey.

We are beings of narration
Killing all those trees
Then turning into some
Demented Johnny Appleseed
And how do we experience religion?

There are reasons why we are
Moved by the art that moves us
It lies in the state of your own handwriting
The good music playing outside the clinic
The sound of where you are (were)

The idea of the uncanny
That clown was only scary
Because it's almost human
How sonnets singe my fingertips
And it's entirely illusion

And I've got this tragic talent
Where I can fold up my feminism
And stuff it between my legs
Torturous ******, it's toxic shock syndrome

Apologies to suitors as I run fast from their drunken hands
When really I should be cutting those inebriated limbs loose from the bodies they've succumb to
Because I was taught not how to defend myself from charming attackers,
But rather to refrain from setting my drink down at parties and bars and family reunions

How is it that the Boy's Club manifested itself into the bible? And how the ****** Mary is only remembered for carrying greatness below her breast
Giving birth to the boy wonder all while keeping her ***** intact

And finally, once that sacred space rock exits the womb
We must answer to that almighty lord of genitals
Like if Jesus was a girl, the Ascension would have taken place much sooner
And that archangel would have had to start all over