Heavens wrought
and oceans blew
a golden glass antique as you

For ages past
and known no end
unspoken to by any wind

Reality
your sculpture bends
my iris drinks forth from a skin

The likes of yours
my only truth
you've turned my black

Into a blue.

sitting across from you
at the white kitchen table
or cross-legged on my side of the bed
is someone hollow.
not as sweet as a fig. not as dead
as the inside of a black rotting trunk
but close. i do not hold beautiful things
like a terracotta vase. inside my head
is a seam ripper that splits everything
down the middle. sometimes
you are standing in front of the bright window,
glowing like a saint. sometimes
i let you fall into an algae-lined pool
that i will not pay to have cleaned.
everything is floating within me.
i haven’t figured out
how to anchor this stuff down.

no one ever taught me how

As I walk into a dark cave
I am not able to see
Until I turned on the torch.
I am confronted
By the sight and presence
Of fierce deities
The energy
Demonic
I realize
Am
Looking at my own demons.

Unfortunately
Some scars
Are
Not
always
Seen
By
The
Naked eye
Or glasses.

keep me awake
i keep falling asleep

i keep forgetting 
that i have
fearfully crawled
into places filled
to the brim with
heartbeats and
suffocating heat
just to find myself
with dry palms
and a soft jaw
minutes later

i hold my tongue
only to cut it off
when i hate
the feeling of it
inside my mouth
and leave it for
him to hold
all pink and slimy
and frantic and cruel
and wonder
why it’s hard for him
to read my poetry

and every night
i lie my head
against the chest
of indifference
and swear that
i can hear the
lazy thump of
his affection
resting shallowly
below thin ribs

i am kept awake
through the
loneliness hours
considering
my own
self-inflicted
wounds
instead of dressing
the deep cut
we both share

If I can identify the problems with
the actions that I take, and the moves that I make
mere seconds after flapping my lips, or
twisting my lips, then

why do I do what I do?
I don't know.
If you're asking whether I think
it's a good thing, or
a bad thing. . .


How long   is it before
"just what I do"    delivers
you to prison walls from paradise?
How far   is too far, to
let my personality drag my brain around?

If I'm self aware, I'm on the borderline.
Control me, will you, my rampant ways?
I have you centered in my sights better
than I ever have, and it's now I think to tell
myself, Action must yield choices more
than Piety or Wantonness. As a for instance,
if I see myself clearly, can I drop the gun
as long as I develop disclosure and transparency?

I'm ******* you, I already know my answer's yes.
From my experience, honesty invites
the utter end of communion,
and from this, you inherit an abject loneliness.

She was hungry, peaked and breathless
“I’m starving”
Words meant to manipulate
I capitulate
“How big is the salami?”
“Roll it up with cream cheese, have you ever
Had it like that?”
I go to the kitchen
And carefully, lovingly roll the soft, silky cheese
Into slices of bologna.  
This was not salami.  
“What the **** is this?  This is not salami.”
“I’m sorry, baby.  I didn’t realize it until...”
“*******, you’re stupid.  Get out of my face.
Now two pieces
Of bologna have gone to waste”.
I look over gently, “I’m sorry”.
She says “shut up, don’t touch me, how could you?” with venom
I was guilty of not knowing my lunch meats
And wasting the precious cheeses within them.