She tripped on it
rambling through
the forgotten field.
The grimy thing sat amidst
a pile of rotten junk,
The ***** halo.

She wiped it on her sleeve,
drab and hanging loose
on cold bones
like a mossy fern after
Winter’s damnation.

Spinning the halo
on a fingernail,
an eclipsed moon.

Clouds pinched at each other
grey, like the saggy suit
of a man
with a furrowed brow,
a bleak prayer on his heart
culminating into a trinity
of holy mystery.

The faded halo
now forgotten,
kicked and bent
like the neck of a sinner
who’s bowed head
could never
steep far enough,
deep enough
down
to reach
the pit
of
forgiveness.

It only took three days
for me to think
I'd finally found someone
perfect and I begged
you for your flaws
you discombobulated
my love flux capacitor
penetrated my apathy
and climbed my spine
with your diction
you made my heart
want
               again
you made my heart
think all the time
I'd wasted
wanting to find
my match
my someone
were the final yards
to a destitute race
but then you
called it quits
while I made
foolish plans
left me to wallow
in a murky shower
of self deprecation
and wonder
who gets to love you
and why she's not me

Is this
and that’s
all there is
before the thought becomes fleeting
like the next
and the day after,
the clichéd story your mind perhaps
upon
this future mystery of a happening
you've already started remembering

Is this
all we have to look for
forward to
wondering if this brain cell’s
thought creative nerd
to put forth on the edge
on the confrontational
abyss of a blank page
is enough
thorough
fair and still
contradictory enough
to ride the grind
of someone else’s nerve

We wonder
Is this all there is
because we could have
sworn there was more
         than this
to offer and accept and worship and appreciate and cherish and love and adorn
with tiny boxes of truth
on every branch
of something or someone
but we watch and wonder
Is this what I was ever trying to say
It just wound round into
this something of something
spilt on the page
A little dialogue of soul tribes
trying to call a little bit of themselves home.

I want to physically ****** my life
I want to take my life out with a ******
I want to tear it apart with my teeth,
gnaw at it with forgiveness blood on my cheekbones
I want to hold it between my fangs and sniff at it with my liver
I want to grapple it perfect,
and inhale the bitter bite of its wild corpsey stench
And then, I want to nurse it’s beauty
and unwholelyness.

There is more. There has to be more.

More than when you haven’t finished your question
and the answer is
I haven’t even finished my beer yet
you wonder
what was the question
that you heard
You want to hike through golden gate park and do some shrooms?
Have you ever climbed monkey bars at midnight?
Why are giraffes so tall?
Why is my internet connection so slow when is seems I need it most?

And it all shovel pours into the question
Is there some flux capacitor continuum
where time is enough
where time for me isn't separate
where time for me is always
enough?

He’s not a real doctor.
I thought you should know.
But you’ve probably figured that out.
The whole idea
seemed rather silly to me
But he urged, just hear me out!

First, was the cat
Always pawing and scratching
Making a mess of the house
And what’s even worse
Is that cat in his hat
Not once tried to catch a mouse!

Red Fish and Blue
they are here too
But kept in a separate bowl
I’m not sure why,
I don’t care to ask
The answer not worth the trouble

Books stacked high,
a rainbow of knowledge
tottering towards the sky.
As I cook, and I clean
One Fish and Two
jump up, trying to fly.

“The books, the books,” he shouts in a flurry
As I rush to steady the stack
With him for my husband
I’m never quite sure
just what will happen next!

You should’ve been around last Christmas time
Don’t worry, not a thing is missing
That green furry thing
is quite old in his age and
came by the doc’s inviting





They sat around talking
who’s who in the world
over a cup of tea

but what the doc wanted
was the mean thing
as the star
in his new movie

Then there was Horton
A big surprise, he found on one of his trips
He wasn’t so bad, it was just his size
That caused the disturbance

But don’t pity me
I married the man
And oh the places we went.
Just for the record,
When Sam made us brunch,
It made my stomach quite sick.

The day we met
I knew he was special
Doodling all the time
“Those really are quite good”
I mentioned to him
After that, he made me his wife

He told me one day
what he wanted to do
write for kids
across the globe
I stood by his side
and what can I say
he’s done a really great job!

my tongue unfurls to the dry desert of my mouth
like a snake writhing in a dark cave,
unwinding slow
luring me from the abyss
that is my subconscious unconscious
escaping into the night.

Shades hide the shining forehead of the sun
as the earth rotates
birthing a new day
stealing the night away.

The dream fades along with the shiny flickers
on the backs of my eyelids
and I reach out to the empty space
next to me,
a breathy fear arises due to your absence
my palm flattens the warm gap you’ve left.

I turn away from the window
from the new day
from the hole you’ve created
shattering my complete comfort,
when I see your shadow emerge
in the cracked light of the doorway.

You come closer
holding a glass
a slosh whispers
as you place it in my hand
my fingertips, your knuckles
brush.

I close my eyes,
and put the brim to my lips
the snake writhes in anticipation.
I roll the edge along my bottom lip
before tipping it back
letting the water fall
and slide down the valley
of my throat
and hills that form my esophagus
surfing down like silk sliding off fingertips.

The water coats my throat
until it is wet
with satisfaction
My tongue dances
in the circumference of the empty glass.

My eyes open
and your shadow has evaporated,
next to me
your warmth delivers a shiver,
my thirst quenched
a new day drips closer.

This is not about you.
This is not about
the transmutation
of your jail celled mind
wrapped in self-help
and cellophane.

This is not about
your new found
discovery
discovering me
and my afflictions
according to the
white man’s diction
a dictation
of my past
extracted
and examined
under the microscopic
power of time.

This is not about
your self-defined
enlightenment
when you made
a deal to unearth
the truth of HeLa
coated in dust
covered particles
of HeLa
on your nightstand
and I laid
in a grave
unmarked.

This is not about
my big lips
and thick hips
under ***** covers
running a sweat
fever on my thighs
shaking feet in stirrups
and the pain was rich
after a tight pinch
and I didn’t know
what part of me
had been snipped
to grow cold
and never die.

No, this is not about you.

This is about me.
A historic legacy
left to thrive across the time
less chains of nucleic
tidal waves
Covalent bonds
could never rival
the strides of this soul
miles beyond
the distant
COLORED ENTRANCE
something brewing
inside dividing
inexplicable replication,
readying for harvest
behind a dried tobacco field

Is this
and that’s
all there is
before the thought becomes fleeting
like the next
and the day after,
the clichéd story your mind perhaps
upon
this future mystery of a happening
you've already started remembering

Is this
all we have to look for
forward to
wondering if this brain cell’s
thought creative nerd
to put forth on the edge
on the confrontational
abyss of a blank page
is enough
thorough
fair and still
contradictory enough
to ride the grind
of someone else’s nerve

We wonder
Is this all there is
because we could have
sworn there was more
         than this
to offer and accept and worship and appreciate and cherish and love and adorn
with tiny boxes of truth
on every branch
of something or someone
but we watch and wonder
Is this what I was ever trying to say
It just wound round into
this something of something
spilt on the page
A little dialogue of soul tribes
trying to call a little bit of themselves home.

I want to physically ****** my life
I want to take my life out with a ******
I want to tear it apart with my teeth,
gnaw at it with forgiveness blood
on my cheekbones
I want to hold it between my fangs
and sniff at it with my liver
I want to grapple it perfect,
and inhale the bitter bite
of its wild corpsey stench
And then, I want to nurse it’s beauty
and unwholelyness.

There is more. There has to be more.

More than when you
haven’t finished your question
and the answer is
I haven’t even finished my beer yet
you wonder
what was the question
that you heard
You want to hike through golden gate park and do some shrooms?
Have you ever climbed monkey bars at midnight?
Why are giraffes so tall?

And it all shovel pours into the question
Is there some flux capacitor continuum
where time is enough
where time for me isn't separate
where time for me is always
enough?