Synchronicities coalescing
like an orchestral crescendo
bubbling up all at once
no longer guessing
no shorter waiting
the *** is boiling
moreover
I might
   be synch
                    i                        
                      n
                  g
            ...
a pod
of killer whales
crash-splashing
quite a commotion
up, out, and back
down into the ocean
born into the storm like
a frightful forte
a front brake
endo
the

feathered
fickle angel
screams pianissimo
on tiptoes, reaching out
toward tomorrows

continuously
contagious incapacitation
tells me it straight like an arrow through time
like a taught fishing hook line
and sinker —

trying to figure out
your reason your rhyme
parsley, sage, rosemary and crime
please, let me in on your
pickled paradigm

a stormy sea, all your own,
decides for you, where
you're thrown.

i am
all that i see
all the beauty is me
the flowers, the Sun
& its dance upon leaves
of the trees that we breathe
that lead us to our dreams
there’s just no better scene
as the Light seems so close
like it’s bursting from me
i swear the Sun sings
of my warm melody
i watch as her glow
grows right out
of my seams
i am all
that i
see

And when at last she fell asleep,
For my sweetheart i kept vigil.
Synching my life breath,
With her rhythmic heart beats,
For her I wrote,this song.
But she couldn't listen, not even once,
Though only for her I weaved it.

Night had her rendezvous with dawn,
At the end of her painful journey with little light,
My love left without a word, never to return
To gift me that lingering,tantalizing, sweet pain,
That makes me real; keeps the lover in me alive.

My orphaned song of doomed love,
Lost all it's meaning at that moment.
Like a lover who lost way to the rendezvous,
It kept on knocking my door, ever after.
In the insistent beating of the sea waves' passion
I heard my lost song ringing once again.
On a night the melancholy moon,went hiding.
I sat alone soaked in pain and sang my song.
It made me melt, I deeply felt,nature too sang along,
In a frenzy, I never ever did witness before.
Then, the pale moon, on an apparel in transparent cloud,
Danced forgetting all her pain , that found expression in many ways.

I now realize,that song wasn't just mine,
It has a life of it's own,in tongues it spoke.
Day and night to lovers, jilted, all those lost by mistake,
Now, it has a life of it's own, independent from all
Anywhere it  would  go alone.

                             I wrote a song, for none in particular,
                             Soon did I realize, it speaks to all pain filled hearts,
                            Love created the wistful mood,
                            My time alone with her filled the words.
                             And one day everyone who heard
                             This song sung,  will leave, but the song won't.

                            The night air will be filled with it's mute waves of pain,
                           On it the distant stars will float.
                            The wind will hum it,the interstellar space,
                            Will echo, it's cadence aloud.
                            Neither the words would  fade
                           Nor my passion for her ever would die.

Humans are capable of the biggest hypocritical ideas.
They don't do it on purpose
Yet we do it.

Some love others more than they love themselves.
Well, I believed I also did
Yet it is not quiet so.

Think well about it, I love until I bleed and even more after that!
Well, I believe in love more than most do
Yet, should I quit my dreams for it, should you?

                               Would I blow my brains out, would you?
                               Is this even a question you're allowed to make?

I believe, I've learn, I've seen
And love is learning to love another by learning to love yourself,
Love is synching your dreams with others' dreams,
Love is bending and straining to reach out to the other,
                                                      to share the pain
                                                      to lick the bruises
                                                      to laugh whole in harmony because you found IT
                                                      to be insane but never feel suicidal.

To love is to burn together
Not to blow apart for one another.

I

in the dark starvation is real.
In dark, the emesis that fills my
cheeks is a currency I soak inside, animal
coinage, the fine
bulbous talons of Sepiidae.

Savagely, pelagically
starving made me rich when
Muskrat’s claws pull apart delicate meat.
Sad Spanish blood, I would like you
to panic about what has been lost.
No body, no crime—we are all cannibals; so the muskrat ate
flesh from the dugong-heavy remora

a parallax of sorts occurs
when I cannot find my own entrails—
perhaps they are ruminating in my gut—
boiling in my optic nerve.

But–I found little boys betting quarters for eating bowels
of goat. I was small enough to fit through
playground gates so I could swing
swing in earthquakes, and portents
ride out this day on the waves—to succeed

foothills, grasses, and bath salts
by the creek. I got my quarters.
They asked me who made me as Mountain
Dew dribbled down my chest.
Infant teeth shattered my infant

fists and I did not eat divvied livers and
Victim watchers.
I wrote on
my protruding
viscera
proverbs from my ancient days


–extraordinary porch things, depleted
Phosphorus, and, on bendable limbs
I catalogued my windscraped knees.

How does one so young
become
so fed up with
hunger.

II

Starving made me easier to tie.
easier to lift.
my ancient autopsy of starvation
made me feel gutted out
like Finished
ice-cream containers.
Made me able to hold my breath for
up to six minutes—starving
made me full of Household Gods and rickety
rosaries,

small brown globular clusters,
1 arcsecond of stress
capable of aligning me
with spring-loaded washers

I pop one nut—two—
Dental Work can be a rhizome,
ordering wee-soldiers from
its tethered nodes without
lactation, laceration, infection into
my sleep-deprived throat,
Choking on bird chirps
and x-ray bursts

below the cradle where
my android sleeps. I
have named him The Alabaster.
(Synching The Alabaster.)
The Alabaster–Allie–is a kind of boat
that I have hole-punched into; like
children of the deep I have hurled
nearby rocks into its lungs.
I have wrenched crumbs of my honeymoon
sidewalk, for a beast that panics.
I would trade
the last of the dugongs
for a muskrat’s smile–
now there exists a cult for Plastic
that the spotlights started,

and in the night it will not
end with the filter feeder sinking
to the depth of the imagined water column,
spinning in the Gyre disposal.
There isn’t a colander large enough
to sift through the pejorative waste.

I knew the night would be fraught.
It makes my fusiform body necessary for
transport. Makes Monophyletic solid consumption
trucks and ACE arms reach for
well-behaved spearfish bodies.
Makes days disappear and cold
seem like simmering.
Makes staying out of sight
a trim.

And I told them,
the Fusiforms and Balusters, that
the spearfish would devour the hero who comes
from afar bearing the gift of travel–
Tully-Fisher, with his cottonseed oil
“Manufactured in USA” in
compounding pharmacies.
He made me.
And I told him:

to Tell me to trawl for something less
plastic than my second
self–that I which exists
in Mary Poppins cannons, compact
intimacies, medical and portable–

to dig within my throat, discover a nurdle
that failed to photodegrade during the the day
the Sirenia sang,
the Muskrat gnawed off his leg and hand
fed it to the remora.
III

My mouth is parched
for diagnosis of rickets, for
my un-mineralized bones.
I need RR Lyrae, Statistical π,
population “II”s
to stand in for my night.
I need Sweetened,
Spoonfuls of BB pellets and
Spoonfuls of cepheids to help
the tetany go down,

myopathic infants and
ricket Rosary symbols only work
in sacrifice–In this sense,
I have constructed a panic
architecture–Craniotabes are too
vast. Prions and viroids have seeped
through,

Infections more than dreams,
for injured muskrats who yearn for
the last real mermaid’s smile,
or tears if that would smash open
the cluttered ocean and scatter
the unwanted hosts multiplying
in my spinal fluid.

In day there is no more starvation–
the remora bring me
Libations and admire
my six pack rings mobile.
My connective obligatory.

Under my fingernails are thin
crisps that may somehow create equilibrium.
Although I nibble them regularly
I can’t always swallow.
Surrounded by a dense fog of fleas
my tongue is itching.
My teeth are scratching, scraping
away the space that will always be there.


The antique aisle at the local international
superstore is handing out shriveled
heads of past didactic patients.
But I tell them it’s not what’s there that matters
it’s what’s not there. And in my case
there’s a surplus of nothing that
I can live without.

As the cold crept under my skin
so did your kisses
as you planted them softly
on the carpet of goosebumps
that covered my body

As the wind slapped my face
with chills
so did your hands
as they cupped my red cheeks
holding it still
marveling at the beauty
that has bewitched you

As the rain damped my hair
curling them with winter surprises
so did you fingers
as they hypnotized me to sleep
uncurling all the disadvantages of the day

As the flakes rested on my lashes
so did yours against mine
as you got close to me
synching your breath with mine

As January embraced me
with layers upon layers of wool
so did your arms
as I roll under
my sheets
feeling my skin
against
yours

in a sea of adolescent geeks and nerds grown to be adolescent college corruption
holding pistol shaped hands high above their nodding heads to form an endless ocean of "W"s
lip-synching every word to the sweater song in perfect drunken harmony
                           i'm stranded here where i don't belong
trapped in a  human cage of drunken fraternities and prudish sororities
pass the expiration date of such antiquated requiems
i stand shoulder to shoulder feeling nothing but the crushing desire to sleep
the crushing desire to escape out into the wild*

                                 Where are we going?
                                 We're going nowhere.

**** this
**** that , **** it all , i am eloquent when i speak and when i write so why is profanity rude?
tell me , if i was a guy would this be different ? am i meant to stick to some code , of rules that dictate how i share myself ? how i share my words or my body or my mind or my soul or what , is it because i'm young? or is it because you think i'm trying to ****** you? did i write this peace for you? primarily , i wrote this peace for me , for me ages 7, 6 , 5 , 14, 16 , 67 , 56 , 43 , 23 , 22 , 89, 900, 10

the girl who grew into a woman not knowing a father , having to be her own , and from experience how hard that is , how alone you become , how closed i became , i become let me tell you , this is it :

I am my own , i trust , in myself enough to be able to make choices about who and what i want to ****

because , to me , it's not just a ****, or not just a kiss, or not just a lip synching , heart racing moment of pure unadulterated bliss because if i touch you like that , it means that this is some form of love , ****** attraction is energetic and why define the love that is bolder than the stars , why hide it?

i don't mean to be crude but it's true , i've ***** footed around the topic,
but this is the father i saw ,

and maybe i'm not so eloquent when it comes to feelings but let's be frank ,
nothing compares to the electric field created when we touch

we touch in the rips in space and the rips in time and rips in all the words that don't rhyme , the misses , the hits , the highs , the lows , the missing link , the found , the soft inside the hard and the lost inside the found - i can feel you , the wounded healer

undone

unsure how to heal own wounds , a wounded healer on the run , until eternity's sunset rises

fatherless , our collective society took on this crucial role but counter balanced by a mother who knows her stuff and is loving but tough and clear but clean and who showed me hurt so i needn't be hurt so much , yeah ,

that combination along with the cultural deluge in my veins
it ain't vain to take care of the emotional realm - sort through **** so one may move on ,

and yeah change takes time so peace , peace until the liner merges with the rest , patient child,

not everyone can feel like you do , it's too much sometimes
you'll be fine , just breathe and do what you want to , you can't go wrong your heart is too strong

rest easy , you've done nothing wrong , it's all on the way
shhh , sleep now , sleep and when you wake the world will still be here , bright to greet you again , the love doesn't have to end - and when the time comes he won't let you go , watch for the look
it's in the body but manifests as

a wink

a mind after midnight is a scary thing
that undiscovered country of thoughts
throughout your brain & running in your veins
pulsing, begging to be acknowledged
but you feel your heart beat faintly
and it meets the pace of your steadfast brain
slowly synching into sleep
hoping to forget everything
the next morning

I am really not passible
Just **** as possible
For a well-worn *****.
And, they call me Missy
Because I don’t think I can
Act like a masculine man
So spare me your hissy fit
Go someplace and get over it.

I can walk well in high heels
Don’t need any training wheels.
My taste in clothes is excellent
Not the slightest bit recalcitrant.
I’m fully into the new club scene
About half way to a drag queen.
One more piece of women’s wear
I’ll be ready to go about anywhere.

My movements are very delicate
And that is, of course, deliberate.
You get more if you advertise
And some assets I can’t disguise.
I’m six feet tall in my stocking feet
As spicy as Red Hots and twice as sweet.
If you don’t like your she-girls tall
Then you don’t know what’s good at all.

You’ll find me in cabarets, everywhere.
We’ll be up at the bar or in a chair
Showing off our legs and swinging
Lip-synching the words the juke is singing.
We’ll appreciate a drink, if you are buying,
We’ll make your day complete without trying.
We’re full of fun and know lots of jokes.
We’re a short vacation for the right blokes.