I have a strong urge
to purge fallacy
of my own and others
of my kindred soul
and my brothers
the shackles you see
are barely there
But those inside
your mind
rattle your soul
Using truth as sword
Justice as shield
Martyrdom awaits
In the holy battlefield.

While you might look
at the months ahead
and see feasts,
and shared tables,
and celebratory treats,
and memories made in the kitchen.
I see hours needed on the treadmill,
and calories needing to be logged,
and pounds gained,
and hours crying on the bathroom floor.
I no longer see the holidays
as a joyous time full of laughs
but rather as a 3 month long
depressive purge.

We'd be on the list,
he said

In days past,
that list for VIP-s only
was for a screening, a fashion show
A red carpet, a gallery soiree

But days before the Election
he was quietly referring
to a purge list
A VIP of a different sort

We'd be on the list,
he said,
if there was a coup,
for being artistic dissidents

The sun sets in Hollywood
and I'm in the VIP Room
which is my living room
praying, hoping for peace

Eyes lost
in waiting,
Silently
looking in vain,
Despite it,
He kept them
widely opened,
Carefully,
Silently,
He put it away
on the old
wood table.

Carefully,
refolding
his courage
lifting up
ferrous arms
stripping
Carefully,
a tinny piece,
rolling himself
in still noise
a cigarette of
Powerful
low-graded
rustika,
a variety of
great purge
hunger
killing
good reason,
one pack a day
helped.

It helped survive
the cold,
and everyday
toil when
soldiers and ants
starved,
Makhorka,
insecticide
of freedom.

Silently,
looking in vain,
Despite it,
He kept them
widely opened,
Carefully,
Silently.

Oh god...
Please no, not this
Just breathe slowly and
Hopefully it'll go away, then
SHIVERS spark beads of sweat
The pain inside you'll never forget
Hot and cold, breathe in and out, then
LURCH
   Oh God Why?? I'm
CH...Oking on my
       I n s i d e s
CO....UGH I can't FU....Cking breathe
My God is it ove.... Rrrrrrr...

Breathe... Just breathe
Spit and wipe the tears from your face
Sweat in my eyes burns like
The acid in my throat but
At least it's done...
At least I hope

Everyone has their addictions. I’m addicted to you. I’m addicted to the way you make me feel in control while you wrap me around your finger. I’m addicted to the emptiness.  Drowning myself in banana coloured pills as I stuff my fingers down my throat. I wash my emotions flush down, swirling away as my body cries for mercy. For me stop abusing it for a vision of perfection that I will never reach alone. I can’t stop, losing control is like a death sentence. You’re killing me but I love you all the same. Sometimes I wish I could be free. To go back to a time when there were more than numbers on my plate. Before the calculator in my head began to count. A time when I was happy. The only way to be free is to let go of you. But letting go feels like dying even though I’m dying anyway. I can’t get enough of you. This pain is all I know. I am nothing without you. I sometimes want to live but I can’t bear the feelings of being alone. I love you.

Buckthorn, as a med we ate
to ease a belly ache,
cascara sacrada, relaxative
peristalsis
pro-vocatuer, speaker to the gut beyond
first taste, you
spew
buckthorn berry purge, my gut

for goodnessake

swallow whole, don't ever
ruminate and appear
not to know
in
sacred
cow stupid-blissity, duhll, un
honed
to an honest cutting edge, behind
a persistent point
piercing,
insisting on forming, con forming me,
the ego in main-mode, re

maining reasonable in face of facts,
leaked:
liars prosper.

Good enough. Now, betting begins.

Will, mine or thine, one is free, the
other is me, a mind in a word world with

vectoring paths into any ever we image,
conversation, forms of words
filled with saliency,
line after line,
salutory aspirations to rise above the fray,
someday,
to see,

-- the lie exposed is the truth.
So simple a five year old knows when she's caught.