Oy! My poor heart!

It's expanding just as

the sun is setting

a golden glow awash

capturing light as

it brushes each object

reminding me of golden green

fields alight!

Oy! My poor heart

expands as the sun sets

becoming a whoopee cushion

in which to sit on after it's

blown way out of proportion.

After Hell and back

to hear your voice

all deep and gravely

on the other end

of the phone receiver

makes all the difference



When my belly's empty

and I'm about to collapse

Oh yeah, I already did!

I called you up

biting my lip

and you answered

on the second ring

enthusiastic about

some new job thing



I'm a foodie, I said

I noticed, you answered



I'm a girl with a BIG

appetite, who cares so much

about other people's well-being

that she burns out quicker than

a single sheet of paper

to a lighter's fine flame

when the going gets rough

her thin skin gets tough

what a shame!



After hell and back

there's no more of

the same



is there…?



What's left is but the ash

stuck to the bottom

of the bin in fine dust



and after hell has burnt me

to a crisp and worry seeps in

I try to not cry

but tears invade the corners

of my eyes

stinging and ringing

a fear so contrite



but if I avoid the things

that scare me

I'll never find freedom

and that's all my charred

feet want--release from

first time jitters--



and you're real



you're actually real



and that's the scariest part of all



it really is time now

to break down my wall

Loads of bubble wrap piled behind

and it crackles like how a stomach

gets twisted on itself after

eons of sleep

decoding it's diaphragm to follow

the blips and beeps and bleeps

encrusted on trusting

a tight gut reaction to

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



Loads of suds creep up

forming in cysts or scabs

upon stomach encasings

all slimy and orange inside

with a stretchy cover all

deep royal purple with

dark pink veins coursing

through it encoding the

rapture of film recording while

the lining inside gets all clammy

with arousal secretly clenching

this yearning and aching just

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but



it is a necessary step to

colloquial banter within

the clustering of organs all

internally arguing while the

overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums

all quiet in the corner

because she knows she runs



the show.



And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to

the actual world of living folks

and climb out of his bundled

fabulous fantasies in order to

make reality plausible.



And in wanting you



and in waiting



I've found myself in visceral shock

to the point where I panic and

all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter.



And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch



and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much



I'll collapse under the weight

and never get up.



Loads of words hide beneath me

resting in tubes that resemble

the small intestines in looping

nests of unbridled questions.

Will it be enough to see you

and not touch you?

Will it be enough to talk

with you and not kiss you?

Will it be enough to be chaste

and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you?

When all my brain wants to do

is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?

Ah! how the memory of

those pretty green eyes

enlighten my senses

making them parallel to

round ***** of safety.



Ah! how those eyes

regurgitate and bounce

pupils widening whenever

my eyes meet their gaze

wavering and moving from

person to person in an intimate crowded group setting.



Ah! how those eyes

which resemble soft moss

or the slick flesh of kiwis

stare at mine catching like how

flypaper catches mosquitoes

accidentally but intentionally

awkwardly but inventively

and ultimately intentionally.



Ah! how the memory of

those pretty green eyes

throw me off balance

when they lock into mine

and for a good ten seconds

merging a little too long

unnoticed by the crowd.


Ah! how those eyes

are like ghosts in my

memories so valid and

plausible they seem to

drift yet knowing they

will be seen tonight

creates a fidgety hope

splintered and shaking

within this hubris heart.



Ah! how those eyes

are framed by the

curliest of lashes

so cute they bloom

ripe smiles within this

here empty chest cavity

which seems to be defeated

at the moment but somehow

waiting to witness

orbs of stegosaurus skin

shelled and shellacked and unbuckled am i

at just a smack.



Ah! how those eyes

are like a slap

to my psyche.

Every part a swirling mass

of unabridged uncertainty.

And no matter how it seems

those irises of gold and green

will always be downright dainty.

A bullet

so small and strong

struck right where

my lungs met.

Embedded itself

this insult of occult

fake tidings riding on

elitist ****** attitudes.

A bullet

or was it an insult?

Either way, I am plummeting

towards humiliation street

with my tail between my legs.

A bullet

was that woman's sharp words

cutting through my skin

like a paper cut gone berserk.



She was a joplin spider

stuck in a ditch

and I should have

smashed her spindly

weak legged body

under my heavy black boots

creating an ugly stain

that looks like gunpowder

or left over oil

spilled over

with the utmost disrespect.

The first of any month

is strange like

the peeling of a

hard boiled egg

where the sharp shards

if shell get all

stuck up

in cold fingernails

and the rubbery white

sphere of molded egg

jiggles and slips

plopping hard

on the white tiled floor

but it never breaks

just keeps it's shape

staying whole and

rolling off past the kitchen

and onto the warm

living room rug

where it stays

stuck and melting

becoming one with

the ruby red color

like a round white eye

glaring up at the world

unable to blink.

Riding this horse past oblivion

feeling wind shout past

sharp shoulder blades

long hair whipping strong

grinding both thighs

into these browning flanks.

This horse is built from

sticky pecan sugar

such spice sprinkled

and dusted whilst the rider

flits past us stream like

arrow fringes near the cusp

all harrowing and musky.

Horse of caramel and nuts

sticking together like childish

tar painted gold and copper

colors shining past in rounded

muscles as the horse pushes

through the gulch he glances down at us with coal inlaid eyes as rough as sandpaper against raw wood

trying not to get caught up

in sliced splinters but careful now

before the horse of brown mud

runs us down trampling us to

wet ****** pulp so wait until

he has settled down to sleep

and then we can climb the mountains by escaping his

cramped cave of dreams

which only reveals how tricky

slips can be.