Hands twist and tremble underneath the sharply waning moon
Eyes fatigued and sagging
Neurotransmitters eroded and ambitions annhilated
Fleshy cheek interiors raised and bumpy from anxious teeth biting
I am ready to run
with the pistol pointed at my feet!

You greedily guzzle honey with the gusto of a great grizzly
impervious to the stab wounds of wasps swarming your head
Heedless and hasty -

Soon I will be more than thorny paws fumbling over slippery stones,
Soon I will have ambrosia on my tongue and tearing through vines I am king
oh humor me with your spittle flecked lips flapping

PLEASE!
I am queen of my demons, guardian of my devils and proprietor of my hell holes.
Slide down my vertebrae into the vortex of sirens wailing
Come and let's get lost together -


take my hand

I am the autotroph
A series of chemical reactions
Every time I close my eyes
I am myself
B-bump, b-bumping through a neurological traffic jam
Ready to pop like a balloon
Smiling with faded gums I am victory
Emptiness that radiates power
But still now.
Quiet trembling and aching eyes
Don't you see my screaming bones?
Can't you hear them?
I am the autotroph

Reticulate my mistakes
Entwine me in the filaments
Of one billion years of algal growth
And allow me to explode into
revered ******* nostalgic bloom
So I may feel once more
The fossilized whispers of love
On my petrified wooden ears
Smooth down my hair so that
I may lie beside you like a guilty dog
Incapable of culpable tears
Just the fear of
Our sound raves refracting
Like shattered light
Into the pedantic lexicon of lives
Leaving this world
Thousands per minute
But still your sweet
Sweet moss on my grave.

I am a survivor of the social media apocalypse,
though my shortcomings are of significance.
My life is unfinished lists,
and
I am
Wilted and dressed in black
Bemoaning my innocence
Grieving its cruel and untimely death
And
On a twelve hour drive I mourned
Swamp plants throttled by snow
I am on the same roads as ever before
And dead like choked plants

I am
Transdermal nicotine
and
raptured caffeine
and
seven pills hastily swallowed
hooked on sadists and social delinquints
but
fatigued behind thickly painted bedroom walls
I am
Cinderella scrubbing the remnants of my face
And memories mourned for their untimely and cruel passing

Tick tock goes the clock
And every child its keeper.
A door on which we dare not knock;
Swarming ants beneath a log.
Stay blind to my leprosy, dreamer;
You know not what you seek.
Addicts dead and dreams to bloat,
Do not save me when I float!

I am
Slowly dying but the satellite dish doesn't blink -
Just one pupil dilated
imploring why, ever upwards.
And my own hair, stained with grease

Berries stranded on naked branches age like a fine wine tinted rouge, poisons helds tightly behind fleshy walls
I am the puddle that does not know any better than to throw reflections of rosy sunset bathed brick buildings up to me, the viewer
Powdered dusk gathers in crevices under my eyes, monumental and fixed.
In the space between my sanity and my psychosis, you found me and now I am
a winter scene:
Your snows silence all that vibrates with life
and
the light from your street lamps glimmers deceitfully on reconstructed ice crystals coating the meaningless powder underneath
The poplar, by now long dormant, remains indifferent to the pseudo-charm of the perceived purity of it all and I am the satellite dish with one pupil fixated on the sky above, imploring when?
And we cycle again, and my oil stained hair is no match for the clouds of ash above, the ash I so carefully tip from the lips I am parching with reasons unfathomable.
In the darkness I wonder who sleeps, who labors, and who is stricken awake with questions unanswerable.

Oh, vagabond! Come to me and show me the way out!
Erase these pale purple vales fluorishing under eyes fatigued and point me in the direction of trees singing overhead so I may be part of everywhere.

Oh, rapscallion! Wipe your dirtied feet and embrace my soul, so weary with travel.
Smooth the wrinkles from my eyes so I may see clearly once more!

I cannot tell you what I am,
Besides a bag of knotted entrails wound tightly in the space between -
My sanity and my psychosis -
In the space between my bones -
I know not what I am, but I may be memories -
I am a wrinkled space with mattified nighttime sky in my crevices -
Do not call me for anything but what I am, for I am no beast of higher powers.
I am, perhaps, that bat tearing through inky space with webbed fingers -
clawing through the space between -
My sanity and my psychosis -

I know I am the hay fields, cracked and bent
I know I am not a thing to touch, to forget
But I know all things must end, my delicate one
and I hope you will remember all that I am and all that I am not
Every time you feel that familiar ache in the wind.