Synaptic explosion.
Unigue and bright..burns and crosses the chasm.
A new existence in the universe.

Like a fistfull of ligtening.

Never to be again.
No rerun. A salmon upsream. A creative anchor. A fitfull dream.

The stream washes both sides of the shore.
Draws inward and onward and downward and more.
Silt and bramble...a preamble

A fistfull of lightening and nothing more.

Look me in the eyes while you taste me
your head moving in shallow dips
I feel your tongue descending slowly
a prelude to your throat and lips

your eyes begin to water
your mouth now fully wet
breaths only come in gasps
as I delve in deeper yet

"That's a good girl"
"Show me what your mouth is for"
your lips curl in an obstructed half-smile, eyes pleading for air
but the sounds coming from your throat, say so much more

I grab your hair by the fistfull
firmly holding your head in place
I watch your face become  flushed-red
With each pump of hips and waist


You always look like you belong
below on bended knee
you blush then smile so innocently
As you swallow what's left of me

your eyes look to me for approval
I feel their lustful burn
my smile says "you've been a good girl
and soon, very soon, it'll be your turn"

I’m choking on a fistfull of bones.                   There’s a skull
hidden deep in the back of my closet,
maybe in the abyss beneath my mattress,
maybe lodged somewhere behind my bookshelf,
that reads aloud all my past regrets
like bedtime stories.

I found the dried up teeth of my grandmother
on my vanity and used them like dice.
There’s a rib from my great aunt that I use
as a clothes hanger dangling on a hook in my bathroom.

When I was little the playset in my backyard
looked like tomorrow,
but weathered down and rusted, it looks
        like a mausoleum.  

There is a lock of hair on my bedside table that
is not mine, but hers, and I can’t help but
wonder if she wants it back.  Does she want it back?

There’s nine-year-old smoke in my lungs and
five-year-old iron around my heart.
There’s a wishbone branded to my liver
to signify the what if? and a
skull branded onto my chest to
signify the what is.

I learned not to trust so fully the first time I
nearly drown and how to be independent the
first time I learned to swim.
I used to want to be a “daddy’s girl” until I
realized what that meant.  The roses he gave me
for graduation went headfirst into the trash.

I have many things left unsaid.

a fistfull
a bucket full
a well full of dollars
take it from a building that is
well full of scholars

indiana curry
is very helpful
i ate it in a hurry
and now im well full

forceful
hateful
liverpool joe
trying to get a story straight for
doctor Foe

rightful
wrongful
bedford simone
you ate your mam on friday
and now youre all alone

like a knotted fist squeezed so tight
that creases fall into crisp white lines
feel the heartbeat circulating,
pulsing through the membranes
etched into the tissue of this
fist-knotted remembrance,
hopeful succession into the white capped seas
a simple touch, a simple shove  
and a burden to keep afloat the flood
holding onto my own gnarled fist
I think there was a stalk of lavender
crossed in the palm of where
the wild things lay,
churning nightmares and twisted sheets
cast upon the dusty shaft of sunlight
and I'll be alright, this fistful of lavender
scented of my dreams to keep
and future to see, the love yet to be
to break into tears at the sight
of beautiful architecture,
the foreign language unsettling on my tongue
never let go of this fist,
the fistfull of lavender

The Middleman is at the start
with a fistfull of pockets.
He walks more than he talks it, with
empty hands.
Orange Peel knuckles; peeling, showing
A segmented truth. He mocks it.
   Wholly revealing hisself with
waterbottle lungs,
   Breathing, squeezing; knuckles popping
   cracking, rabble-rousing-
The
Jenga game of a rib cage -
   - sounding skeleton and shouting -
As the beating heart un-falls apart
Unprotected, Uncontained.

By what unscrutability
can a pure heart be blood-stained?
   As his vain-ed cadence flows below the stone
The stone; a frame, posed.
Humble, yet reigns.

Like, the middleman comes to the end and
By God! Someone's killed the messenger, By God!
   Inadvertent
   Changing channels, all this
   static passive
   staging Battles
   A rib cage match like unintended, homicidal rattles
      As spinal shivers, the Middleman Delivers.

02:09 An angel’s manicure taps at my window
14:09 I realize I’ve turned invisible, all is pointless
02:00 I pull out a big bottle, a fistfull of angels rests in my other hand
14:00 I cry out into the crowd for help over and over, screams silent as a song
01:40 Words run all over the page like an ant army, the paper is no longer dry
13:40 I can pretend to be okay for a little while longer as long as I don’t think
01:23 Sleep has become a feather in Chicago fog, as evasive as Love, Truth
13:23 All I can think about is sleep, my mind slipping into a hopeless abyss
02:09 An angel’s manicure taps at my window
02:10 My nightingale still sings to me

This has been going on for many years
It has become one of my greatest fears
Someone is chasing me with a gun
The only thing I can think of, is to run
During this nightmare I begin to scream
Then all of a sudden I wake from this dream
I'm standing by these sandy shores
As every wave hits, I can hear the roar
Now I'm holding a fistfull of sand
As life begins to slip through my hand