When caught in questioning the validity of your thoughts and actions
that you need not to suffer over:

Let it be: as it is,
There is no past nor future in this.
Stick by your side
And feel the edge of the moment
Come to you.

What little a life you shall live
in submissive statures and spine-curled positions.
How large a world it can be
when you ask for what you need
and stretch through to the spaces before you.

How uncomfortable you must feel
with your mouth stitched tight
and your flushed, crushed knuckles,
resting under the weight of your body.
How luxurious shall you swoon
when ribbons flow from your hair
and bare feet glide over the dawn-dewed grass.

What powerlessness do you feel
when your voice is stolen
and words are said to be your thoughts
when coming from the lips of another.
How sturdy and turgid your reverberating voice booms
in the ears of plenty who can feel your Honest Tones.

Think not of those who shall drawn back from your truths,
But of those who are willing to exchange their own.

What to do with this brain, opposable thumbs, and time.
It always comes down to time.

Part of me says I have acres. The other part says I have feet.

Maybe time tonight should be spent in - cozy, calm;
Tomorrow, the roar of time will be able to shake my body; rattle my brain.

It is 10.
I am tired.
But somewhat fearful I am not doing anything -
not living life to the fullest.

But then I ask, is what you plan for these next hours fulfilling?
Party, chat, toast,
brag, ****, boast.
A rip, a drag, a shot, at most.
And what is it to bring me?

A fire aflame, "I don't know your names.
Who are you? Why us?"

God, **** this game.

Will it be expected,
my time to be held in their hands?

Or can it be rejected with the hope that time expands?

What are more moments,
How should they be spent?

How and why when I close my eyes does life seem so bent:
Twisted, obscure, impractically hidden.

What truth is there when no words forbidden?

What time can be lost in this truth
What can be erased?

How can everything be proof
When all I do is escape?

And last of all the questions, the last to remain,
The impossible,
irresistible
refrain:
What point is there in questioning if all remains unchanged?

Do you love me? She asked.
Of course. He replied.
No, I mean do you really love me?
Yes, I do.
I mean I know you love me, but do you love me?
Because I know you enough to realize you need touch. You need bodies, together, intertwined, bending, rubbing, friction, seeping deep, really feeeeling each other, but do you love me?  Not my hips, lips, thighs, rising chest, *******, teeth biting, tongue igniting the flame to the begin our acts of passion, fingers folding over shoulders, collar bones forced hollow with hollers of joy, eyes dancing, arms bracing, feet jolting up, down, sliding the sheets askew, back arching, pulling back, obscured view.

NO. DO YOU LOVE ME.

DO YOU LOVE HOW I TRIP OVER AIR, HOW I GO DOWNSTAIRS FOR ONE THING AND COME UP WITH FIVE OTHER THINGS THAT DIDN'T EVEN INCLUDE THE ORIGINAL, HOW I GET TONGUE TIED AND DROWSY EYED WHEN A DREAM DRAWS ITS BLANKET OVER ME AND I STRUGGLE TO STAY AWAKE TO FINISH THE MOVIE, HOW I SING WITH THE RADIO, KNOW ALL THE WORDS, MAKE FUN OF YOU FOR NOT, MAKE MISTAKES IN MY DRIVING, HAVE TERRIBLE DROOL STAINS WHEN I WAKE UP, CRY OVER ALMOST EVERYTHING, NEVER KNOW WHAT I WHERE I WANT TO EAT, TAKE EIGHT EXTRA MINUTES THAN THE AVERAGE PERSON TO DECIDE WHAT I WANT TO ORDER, AM A VEGETARIAN WHO IS AGAINST THE US METHOD OF MEAT PRODUCTION BUT WILL SOMETIMES ORDER A MEAL WITH MEAT IN IT JUST TO PICK IT OUT, HOW I LIKE TO BE LEFT ALONE SOMETIMES, HOW SOMETIMES I SAY STUPID THINGS, HOW I GET HOT AND EMBARRASSED WHEN I SAY SOMETHING STUPID, HOW I SAY I WANT TO DO A MILLION THINGS AND THEN NEVER DO THEM, WHEN I **** UP A BILLIARDS SHOT ACROSS THE BOARD, I WEAR THE SAME RINGS EVERYDAY, STRIVE FOR COMFORT OVER COUTURE, THE FACT THAT I DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PRONOUNCE COUTURE, THE WAY I WANT TO EAT EVERY SINGLE THING IN MY PATH, DO SO, THEN REGRET IT FOR FIVE HOURS, HOW MY BIGGEST UNEXPLAINABLE PET PEEVE IS FINDING LOOSE HAIRS, WHEN GET FAST SPOKEN AND SLAM DOORS WHEN IM STRESSED AND LATE AND SEARCHING, THE SHAMELESS PUBLIC DISPLAY OF INANITIES OF DANCING, SINGING, AND T-REX IMITATIONS, HOW I DIVE SO DEEP INTO THE MESSAGE OF A FILM THAT I TAP INTO MY 12TH GRADE ENGLISH ANALYTICAL SKILLS TO FIGURE OUT WHY THE DIRECTOR MADE THE CARPET YELLOW, HOW THE WORD FOR CAVING DIVING COMES OUT SURPKLUNKING, AND SPECIFIC IS PACIFIC, HOW I FINISH OFF AN ENTIRE LARGE POPCORN TO MYSELF, CAN’T STOP FIDGETING WHEN SITTING, SOMETIMES HATE THE THOUGHT OF MOVING, MAKE ORIGAMI WHEN I’M SAD, AM DEPRESSED AND BEAT MYSELF UP, MY SLIGHTLY-MAYBE-SORT-OF-SOMEWHAT-CRAZY OBSESSION WITH DOCTOR WHO, HOW SOMETIMES I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT MY HOBBIES ARE AND THEN TWO SECONDS LATER I WILL BE SIGNING UP FOR ART, COOKING, MARTIAL ARTS, WRITING, SEWING CLASSES, ALL FOR NEXT MONTH, HOW I REARRANGE THE ROOM ALMOST MONTHLY BECAUSE I GET BORED, THE WAY I SHIVER AFTER EATING FATTENING FOOD AND CALL IT A “FAT CHILL” BECAUSE I THINK MY WEIGHT INSTANTLY WENT UP 10 POUNDS, HOW SOME OF MY FAVORITE MOVIE CHARACTERS ARE VILLAINS BUT I VOLUNTEER ON SUNDAYS AND WANT TO HELP PEOPLE, HOW SOME WEEKS I JUST TAKE LIFE WAY TO SERIOUSLY AND OTHERS IM SO IRRESPONSIBLE I’LL FORGET WHAT SCHOOL IS AND DO NOTHING BUT LOUNGE, HOW I AM MORE THAN JUST A BODY
I am an individual.
Do you love me for me,
And no just what you want me to be?

The more I search for you,
The less of you I see.
The more I wait,
The longer time becomes.

I’ve lost half my body weight
Straight out through my eyes,
Pushing my fingers into my forehead
In attempts to hold it together.

It’s been a while since my lips were smooth.

My logic tells me to do things.
Go places.
See people.

My emotions say **** that.

My body says move.
Enjoy.
Dance.

My emotions say **** that, too.

Looking at myself from outside,
I’m a wreck.

And all my mind can say is:
No one like a wreck.

No one likes, disheveled hair, broken nails, chipped polish, tear swollen face, lazy thighs, slumping slouch posture, unkempt clothing. Sad eyes.

No one likes what sadness looks like.

Thinking of the glory days,
docked,
floating,
skin wrinkling,
pruning,
smiles, smiles, smiles, cracked fresh,
fresh; fruitful.

Fish with flesh,
tiny nubs of teeth nibbling on dead skinned feet.

I bathe.
I bathe in water liquid smooth skinned fluid flowing flown.

I fly.
I fly though atoms,
push hand-cupped chunks of doubled hydrogen, hidden oxygen
I cannot break, though I wish.
Oh how I wish.

I feel.
I feel rocks,
rotting logs,
small, stumbling, mushy soil,
kicked up by those smiles --- Summer.

Summer soaks through my skin, sweet liquid comfort caressing senses, slowing down, softening blows of structure, society, starvation, stagnation, sending me to a sanctuary, to pure sobriety, serenity.

Liquid licking flesh speeds up my sexuality, my simple slippery sensual seduction sliding slyly between the sunken valley sitting between my stems.

Water fuels me.

Summer.
***.
Summersex.

I feel
Liquid
all around.
I am floating through my summer;
Swimming through ***.
Swimming with.
With: in connection to; in sync.
Aside. Astride.

Summer; swimming.
Summer; ***.

Stroke, stroke, stroke. I float.

And where the hell did you go,
Where?
Now is when I need you most
to impress,
stress that, yes, I have one hell of a cultured mind.
And I cough and cough
And hope the stripes are stripped down in front of me.

But still there are times when those stripes must stay,
Solid,
Strong,
Standing,
Holding back his chest from propelling forward,
Latching onto my arm, waist,
Wrapping around my fingers,
Planting seeds in my pores.

Sometimes I don't want him here.

He is too immense and heavy for me to carry.
Too enormous for me to care.

But others he is small
And a comfort to hold close to my neck.
He fits perfectly in my collar bone,
Puddled in to crevices.

He fits.

And I finally understand “purple mountain majesties,”
as I sit here on my perch.

And behind me: that woman with the white hair,
like sails of the boats in the bay, or wings of the swans in my mind,
red pocketbook;
red lips dripping with hope.

I think someone forgot her.

Or maybe she is content.
Maybe she sees the world’s majesties, too….

But her swiveling head tells me otherwise.

I ask if she has a pen to lend me.
Her eyes become glass
as her third eye scrunches into an asterisk:

“No, dear, I’m so sorry. I don’t….”

My teeth and tongue lick the air with sympathy:
“No worries, ma’am. Thank you.”

I slide back to my rock and ask the slivered moon for her company.
I feel regret that everybody leaves with the sun,
as if the show is over.
But with skies still blue,
and moon always dancing,
it has only just begun.

I sniff the cold in.
Vicinity barren;
If I were to fall, nobody would know.
I would slip beyond this world
and find an orchestra of
silence in the sea.

I sit here wondering where the birds go.

Turning my head right
vertigo lops me upside the head.
The waves have rocked my mind to the point where I feel
I might
actually
fall.

Somehow,
that would be alright.
Somehow,
I would be okay.

Because maybe then
I won’t have to see
the vivid pained look in people’s eyes.
Like that beautiful abandoned woman
with the wing-white hair
and her hopeful red pocketbook.

Bouncing from thought to thought,
Acting sporadically,
Making sure my mind is as unstable as a committed patient,
Checking out with 5 more disorders that I had checking in....

Rotting meat
Rotting carrots
Stench of time gone wrong.

A venue of wasted decaying hours
Ringing gilded bells -

Itching, scratching wool;
Facades of bright crimson lights
And silly white doilies,
All to distract you from the rotting meat
That sits in your mouth.

And even the shopkeeper has rotted:
Eyes swollen, hay hair,
Stray hairs in the soup,
Solid fists,
Words with a lisp,
And teeth always ready to bite a penny.

And all for a stubborn old life
Who cannot even seem to claim her blame
For this decaying shop.