everybody
is the sum of their parts

and some of us dream and dabble
our various parts

nip and tuck,
Botox and Ozempic

refresh, redress,
the obvious errors made


by a God-in-a-hurry,
***** got 8 billion  of us

that need care ‘n feeding,
loving and breathing

I know, I know,
this is a simplistic

my poetic tomfoolery,
What? My fav part?

the one on my head,
that separates east & west

an old familiar friend,
not very chic, but comforting

keeps me grounded,
for when I look at me

in my kindergarten
class pictures with

no front teeth, but my best
part,
still extant!

I am true to myself,
which is the most
important
part of truth

How many times can I write a break up poem?

Just screaming into the page that this is it,
I'm finally
                          DONE.  

But then I still don't leave.
Is this what its like to be crazy?
        Am I'm insane?
Whos to say?

I guess I could be in an asylum right now, rocking back and forth in a corner,
just talking to myself.

How would I even know?

So maybe none of this is real. ...

...Maybe HE'S not real...

Maybe we never fell in love,
never had our child,
never planned our future together.

But that was all before the abuse.

                       ...The abuse..... 

                        Was that even real?
   Maybe it wasnt.
Maybe, we never even met.

Well if thats the case, and we never met,
I guess thats good.

Because never meeting me, is what you told me you wished for right?

                    ...Or...
                    I don't  know.
Did you?

She doesn't understand her
biology.
Her need for extra attention.
Her desire to
chirp and meow
constantly, and raise her
**** in the air.

She gazes out the
window with
longing in her
golden eyes.
Her calls through the
screen bring no
visitors.
Little lonely orphan.

She sits with me while
I write at my large
maple desk.
She swats at the
purple orchid.
It drives her batty.
I've been there.
Lost in the
smell and taste of
flowers.
She wanders over to
the Starry Night
painting and looks
dizzy at the sky.
She lifts her **** in
the air and stutter steps
rapidly with her
back paws.

When I got her and
her sister, I thought they
had *****.
I named him (her)
Bukowski.
She comes to the
name
and seems to like it.
Pray for me.
Buk's in heat.

Silence is a weird thing
Too much can make a man crazy
Too little could do the same

Yet here I sit in silence
Dreading the past
And forgetting the present

But what about the future you ask?
Why worry of what’s next
Why plan a next step

To live is to die
I accept the moment for what is
Which is grateful for what was

I have no code to myself
Just a rule or two
Mostly rewritten

So go ahead and cry today
Save your energy for what may
And try to save your pity

i am only
just pretend
like an
imaginary friend
there is a me
somewhere
that exists
but i don’t think
anyone has
ever been
introduced to her

i play games
with myself,
with strangers,
friends,
lovers,
with family,
coworkers,
and others

i don’t take
anything seriously
and it eats away
at my stability
it tramples me
with insecurity
and keeps stimulating
my curiosity

i’m like a cat
waiting for something
bigger
and better
to **** me
but looking at my watch
time never stops
and none of these
******* got
bigger *****
they can’t get this crazy
**** down
long enough
to set their clocks
they just keep
******* and wishin
they could touch the scars
i have gotten
from all the times
i’ve reached up
for the stars

yeah, i’m really ****** sick
and i don’t know what to do with it
i could let it break me
or let it take me
where i really
want to go
up high
down low
back and forth
to and fro
i’m gonna puke
i think i’m dead
where’d i go?
which way is home?
where’s my mind?
what’d i do?
oh ****
oh no

the clouds float with a sense of melancholy this day,
leaving a lingering sensation of unease echoing below
the well of my insomnia...

the eclipse has cast a dulling shade upon my adulthood.
Where I once felt the ember of passion,
there now lays bare a garden of wilting lavender...

if I told you I died 5 times today,
would you believe me?

now,
in the horizon there,
my passion hangs on
a weak branch
stained of copper.

oh,
so timeless is the upset of ruin...
feeding the crows who leave
their feathers upon me,
making me black...

spring has taken
the shape of a wounded coyote...

forcing a layered film
of something very dangerous
to hide in the bulb of each joss flower…

a brutal coercion made pure
by the ghost of the ending winter...

each day has forced warmth
upon me as if it were a ritual,

the annual harvest of my sanity.