I like to smoke,
which is to say I keep
my head high and my
eyes low

I'm scared of bugs
at times
which is to say I remember
the days that
butterflies
were birthed from my throat

you told me never to come back
which is to say if your
heart aches like a prayer
you'll always
find your way home

and I'm always on time;
which is to say I remember
the days
I was stuck
waiting for you

there is nothing more soft, close in my mind
than the mirth-full screeches that reverberate off the trees
romping around with curiosity and a marvel wonderment at the world hidden away
I haven't been there in a while, no,
just like Keats I feel more home among the palace of the faes.

If you leave behind the forest, the trees do make a sound,
even if there isn't a soul there to know what is being said
I've heard it in a dream of mine
It's the sound of child-like wonder being buried.
but just like all things rooted in something deeper,
it will take only growth to bring me back there again.

I looked down at my hands and they looked like they weren't mine
and if I did try to find the time I don't think it'd be quite easy to find
the real me - the one whose under the covers - yes,
the fragility of the lace on a wedding dress
a promise to myself and all that I am or will be,
a very dry look at my civility

so let the doves out, baby, let them spread their feathers
and when your head is gone I'm sure it will make you feel much better to know they have a chance at flight,
death
and the hunt.

being alive is odd and all, I feel the withdrawal from safety as I try to find it in cigarettes
and laughter
and *****
and the general jubilant wildness of being young
for today.

And if you from my last breath took
a lame and unprecedented look
upon my ribs of ethereal light
my blades cracked to signal flight
I could think of nothing more sweet
than to know, my love, that we shall meet
where the golden flowers grow
and it doesn't feel bad to not know.

pictures on a glass table
strewn about the place
I want to rip them up
I've got to have a taste

If I did rip them, what good would it do?
I'd still have the memories
held close by only a few

Today I cried in my car because I looked in the mirror for too long
It was awkward when someone walked by
I wanted to knock everything off of my face because it looked all wrong.

there is a certain beauty, an abundant kind of pleasure that comes with death
I know of the pain you went through, and I'll say your name until others know too.
Christina.
You liked unicorns and rap music, dressing up all fancy with gaudy rings and gold necklaces and wet n wild lip gloss.
Christina.
I know you were a practical joker. One time you smeared peanut butter on a pair of mom's underwear and showed it to her boyfriend. I can remember you snickering the whole way there.
Christina.
I know it felt horrible to confide in someone who is supposed to protect you and have them do the opposite. you were only a little girl. I wish I could time travel, so I could come and hold you and run my fingers through your soft blonde hair.
Christina.
Pregnant at 15. When I was 15, I was taking drivers training and learning how to come into my own. You had a child to think of before you even got a license to drive a vehicle.
Christina.
I remember you getting into a fight with mom and her telling you that she was going to take all of your Christmas presents back.
Christina.
If blood really is thicker than water, who was it that left you there in that crack house in Detroit?
we have our assumptions.
For someone who carried so much pain and ugly things in their heart, you sure did spread so much love and light.
Christina, my sister.
Christina, grandma's favorite.
Christina, the girl gangster who wore a unicorn pullover.
I love you, and I'm happy that you don't have to put up with the pain this life brought you.
But I'd be lying if I said I'd rather have you there than here with me.

i want to meet a very highly acclaimed french chef
but i want him to be ugly.

i want him to recognize the feeling of others walking past him and having not a clue how great he is, but making a remark on how he probably doesn't **** very much.

he'll want to turn to the speaker and yell with the force of 1000 chinese kettles screaming
"you don't know a thing! i make the best truffle oil angel hair pasta around, the girls can't keep their soft silk hands off of my body, plus you can’t even fathom the amount of money I make.”

in reality

he wishes someone were there to taste him instead of the food he makes
he wonders if his tears will make a good replacement for the sodium in the Alsatian Bacon ****
the ticket bell keeps ringing but his phone never does
and
despite all of the praise he gets, all he can ever picture is washing the dishes while She fills her belly up with his Cherry Gateau Basque

“the table in the mahogany section particularly liked their Steak Diane! great work today.”
he knows it doesn’t matter how good he can cook. he will always be ugly and ugly pairs with lonesome as much as tender lamb with root vegetables.

at night when the kitchen closes and everyone has gone home, he pretends he has his own tender lamb.

a Woman with soft skin and a heart that has been cooked at 280 degrees before

a Woman who doesn’t complain when he gets angry at himself for slicing his finger

a Woman who tells him to stay in bed while she makes him scrambled eggs and hot black coffee

And maybe she’ll feel a bit inferior with what she prepared but he’d eat it all up and act like it was the best **** meal to ever pass his lips
even better than the Foie Gras he had in France

but all of these thoughts remain dreams and he is ****** back to reality as the garbage disposal sputters and his soft tender lamb is washed down the drain with the rest of the food particles
and then it’s just him and his kitchen and the fluorescent lights and
the scent of grease.