You are stuck in their world,
you are mommy and daddy’s little girl.
Once you are in the wild
you will drown,
the second your feet hit the ground.
You will be scared
with no family to be found.
That is when you will reach out for those that were close.
But hey look at that!
Are they around?  
Nope.
And when you look back to see who is around,
there I will stand
with my hand reaching out,
to pick you up off the ground.

Let's talk about the letter x.
It's one of the weirdest letters we have in the English alphabet. It's a prized letter in the game of scrabble. It's a stumper for some kindergarteners who need to know that one word that starts with it to move up a grade. It's a symbol for a spot. Sometimes it's treasure, sometimes it's a target. Sometimes, it's a word. Sometimes it's a rating of a thrill or a cheap way to get off alone with some tissues. Sometimes it makes things extra small, and sometimes it makes them extra large. Or sometimes it's a way to describe someone.
Ex.
Like an ax to the wood we severed into thousand of splinters. I never thought I'd call you by that letter. I had a different future in mind. One with yellow green and white. One with your forehead pressed against mine as I pushed out creation. One with a chalk board wall full of poetry, lyrics, and sketches of light houses with suns rising in the background.
Now all I see is a big red x over all those dreams.
My treasure map is torn and burned and I can only see the target, but will never find the way to your heart again. My scrabble board is missing letters, and as I search for a way to forget them I keep putting down the letters to your name. I can't move on, like a child stuck behind their innocence and unable to comprehend what is next. I have to only imagine our bodies touching like those two thin lines on a paper. Intersecting like a comet to the atmosphere, colliding but burning up with terrible destruction.
My poetry doesn't have rhythm, and the rhyme has gone awry. All I keep seeing are ******* x's over every line I write. Because none of them put me and you and love together again.
The letter x is so strange. It's a weird thing we chose it to be a way to describe the end of something. One line going one way, the other a different way. But somewhere they meet and for the brief encounter there is hope that the lines will curve into love. But the lines have to move on, and so do we.

I sit here and type
while
the sounds of alcohol
dribble in
through the netting
of my screen.
The pseudo-intellectual noise
of the painfully stupid
absolutely
infiltrates.

I sit here and type
while
I wait
for the camel to burn.
For his blue feet
to go up in
small,
mighty embers.
Resisting their
ultimate
culmination.

I sit here and type
while
my cat blinks at the
iridescence of nothing;
glinting
in it's
all-encompassing
emergence.
The invisible fields;
designs of the
archaic.

I sit here and type
while
realities flatten
in lives
everywhere.
Tragedy unfolds
upon more
tragedy;
leaving no
survivors,
no triumph.

I sit here and type
while
the Oroboros
eat their own tails;
solidifying their
eternal return
and
cyclicality.
Serpents,
in movements
of blindness;
displaying their
ever-lasting existence.

I sit here and type
while
domesticated peoples
everywhere
bypass the phenomena
that is,
our humanity.
Giving in to
temporal compression;
eyes bandaged.

I sit here and type
while
nothing in particular happens.
The terminally mad
go mad,
the desperate prisoner
remains imprisoned,
the lipstick stains
the mouth
and we all
go on,
as if we weren't
the wiser.

the holy home (and possibly strict)
has its dining adorned with a sign:
Pray before you eat
The sign may be literal, or invisible

at the grocer's today I saw
this sign pasted on to a big box
of loose sumptuous dates:
*"Pay before you eat"

Paint left, humidity purgatory,
Sticky but practically peeled off, while

Water and lime, the kind you hear about
On infomercials promising to rid
You of Built Up ****, is trapped between the
Panes they said they replaced but I don’t know.

Clothes piled with invisible coatings of
Dust from the floor last swept ten years ago,

And sweat from leaving the AC off
(Because saving a few bucks is worth it),

And sweat in stained dresses when you touched me,
And sweat in damp briefs when I touched myself.

Paper stacks, three years, busy work
And scholastic articles I should
Have read, say I will, but won’t pick up,

And verses I wrote that go nowhere but
Here and to a real poet, happily
Trapped at an average liberal arts college.

So instead of dressing or cleaning I
Call you, naked, a fattened odalisque,
Silent for hours, my thin mouth, a suture.

A fit black girl cut across the dog park,
She saw my bare shoulders, sloped pudgy pale,
We gazed in the other’s faces, but now

I can’t think what she wore, and she knows
I’m just sad, still: a ghost in the windows.

Paddles lap softly
against water, dark as coal.
A calm mind within.

The cry of a loon,
eerie and hollow-    silence.
Red sun gently lows.

Water color scene-
water blurring into sky,
uniting as one.

Foolish gulls argue
for the remains of our catch.
Eagles claim their fill.

With each paddle stroke,
drive shoulders and back against
ruthless wind and waves.

Dull red pictographs-
reminders of the old ways
abandoned by time.