We sipped boulder rock from refrigerators doors
and watched the heavens hand out food stamps with IBM logos.
“ode to Mehmet” we sang, and licked the Mossberg—
fixating on the blue collar philosophy that lived in our empty wallets.

Trash cans filled with water bottles stared at us to find our essence—
the one we had lost while being fed quintessential American idioms
in state-of-the-art classrooms sponsored by slaves and Popol Vuh blood.

Six million years of human existence trivialized down to a single sentence—
* Man loved God, man wrote, man conquered God, and now man loves science* —
scribbled on SmartBoards afforded by fire burning from Prometheus’ female liver.

Trees sing with oxygen no more for the sake of making paper,
and eyes soak in the words on paper for the sake of making paper.
Trees make the avenue but the future holds an Avenue of no trees—
… for in the land of the free, anything but freedom ain’t free.

I see you over the tops of uneven books.
I see your golden brown hair,
as wild as the tall tundra grasses.
I see you drop the musty book,
onto the pale grey carpet.
And you are unaware, of my peering eyes,
sneaking glaces from under my Algebra book.
And that the numbers are carved in my mind,
as if ingrained onto the bark of a dying evergreen.
PS700-PS3499 you are searching for great American poets,
as your hands glide over the worn leather covers.
Leaves of Grass, Sorrows Built a Bridge, Works of Poe.
As you glance at the Dewey Decimal Numbers,
Numbers flourish in my mind.
The probability that you would like me,
Numbers are more cohesive than the words,
that I have written to you in the margins.
In the distance I see you surrounded by your books,
deeply focused-serene,
I too am a poet,
I am a poet of logic.
Fixating on the truth showed by facts.

Mirrors paint the town tonight,

And the sad funhouse-

Where I kind of pace real slow,

In that backward way, where no one knows.

The branches waltz and sway,

In developed taste,

Sky as black as day,

The pressure tied to love, rearranged.

Always, always open.

Pulse’s,

Always, always open.

In dried creekbeds,

In the voices telling me, listening,

In the reflection of skyscrapers,

In the ghosts of 743 N. Elizabeth, clamorous,

In the wine and scotch bottles, emptied, on the counter.

There is a pattern on the shelves,

Wooden bells.

Imagine tugging at a loose thread on a sweater, expecting it to break off, problem solved...
but instead that thread unravels and unravels until the sweater is a sweater no more,
but rather a mess of string in a heap on the floor, a chaotic tangle that
resembles the contents of my brain when someone asks, "how was your weekend?"

My thoughts are replaced with the blare of static on TV and I can't hear myself think, so I say what I imagine a person is supposed to say, a preprogrammed response I construct for situations like these when my brain decides to check out...

Because of course the only time my mind -stops- is when I really need it to go, not when I'm laying in bed at 2 a.m., fixating on that cringey thing I did four years ago.

But anyway, I would tell you about my weekend, except it seems that the wires connecting the language part of my brain to my mouth have been cut. My weekend probably ****** anyway, but I manage to say, "it was good." And even then, those three words struggle to get past my lips, and any words more revealing hit the backs of my teeth like a car colliding into a brick wall.

By now the elmer's glue holding me together is losing its grip, so when you tell me about your weekend, the words wont stick. How your breath is wasted on me, when I can't concentrate on not falling apart and on tales of your tomato garden at the same time.

On the surface I look so cold; my painted on smile is a thin sheet of ice, concealing the puddle that hides underneath, one that the sun can't reach --
People will often say, "if it helps, you don't seem anxious". I want to tell them that anxiety is a tormented ghost that drags its dagger like claws across my skin at night, whose presence I can always feel but never see. A monster that feeds on vulnerability, and knows it will never starve.

But, I don't know what to say, so I stare at my hands. Because making eye contact feels like facing a lion, and facing a lion means facing death. But then there are times that death doesnt sound so bad, because I know that as long as I'm still breathing, anxiety finds a way to make that hard for me too.  

Anxiety is a broken appliance that the store wont take back, the Annabelle doll that returns from the trash, so it made a home of me instead. And in return for the shelter I give, my heart pounds like its full of angry bees when I finally press 'send' on the 8th draft of a text message I've been working on since yesterday and I want to hide, but why bother? when in a game of hide-and-seek, anxiety always wins.

It is my shadow during the day and my blanket at night, one that that drapes suffocatingly around my shoulders while I'm pacing the kitchen in the dim glow of the stovelight, worrying that the next day could be the " someday " that the ones I love finally leave me. On these nights, anxiety comes to my rescue everytime. It slithers up my back where it can softly whisper into my ear : "I promise you, chelsea, I will never leave"

Fixating on the emotions you provided
But only for a second in time

Before you had me falling between the cracks
With a touch of your hand

Moments pass at accelerated speeds
My heart flutters.

Vibrations rush through my perplexed mentality
A loss of affection transpires

Beneath this dark facade suppressing my energy
A troglodytic character exposed

The inception of just another fantasy you implemented
Like any other dream I envisioned

A borderline ecstasy of pleasure.

When I was 17 I watched a man **** himself,
I remember the morning like it was yesterday,
the air bit at my heels
and it was too cold to be at the skatepark,
there was a lounge area of
weathered tables and pine trees
about 50 yards north,
I still remember the look in his eyes
confusion filled mine,
he was old, around 70
and I kept skating around,
he just sat there with
saltwater in his veins,
holding a long barrelled
30-30 it looked like,
I kept skating and fixating
my eyes on what he was holding,
it manipulated my vision,
reached out to hopeful ignorance
and yanked it through my throat,
we never made eye contact,
his eyes were buried down
a steel thief,
I kept rolling back and forth,
and I never knew thunder had
the ability rip the bearings
from the wheels,
the crack turned the bark
on the tree behind him
to a yelp,
and I’ve never saw blood fly
until that point,
I still remember how fast
it turned from a picnic table
to a crime scene,
how aimlessly the yellow tape
flew in the wind, as if nothing
ever happened,
time forged a signature
on a death note to man
who never felt the chill
bite at his heels that day,
that barrel screaming for forgiveness
knocked at a door with perspective
standing at the peephole,
I saw myself in his shoes
when I saw the life leave his body,
I went back that day
and saw the city worker
spraying the pavement,
running an eraser over
the pen-painted picture
in my mind,
the chill shattered my
porcelain heels that
day and shooed me
away from the
griptape forever.

it could be said that the constructs of grammar are a akin to
the constructions of the unconscious with sleep the dam,
   and the trickling of both the waking
hours and the concerns for dreams -
i'd say: it's not exactly the interpretation
of dreams, but a concern for them:
last night i was exposed to the most
fascinating comic, if i wrote about it
in the morning i'd reveal all of it -
but i do remember in a subplot
a Beretta and fiddling with a bullet...
dreams? unwanted distractions...
            they only possess depth's worth of
analysis for entombed people -
      for whom life has no meaning
they have to seek alternatives: i.e.,
in dreams...
                         because their lives are
so uninhibited they seek monastic
meanings, they are on a knife's edge
of slicing through cryptography -
                        they want to seek deeper meaning,
rich or poor, if life isn't a centimetre's
worth of depth of drowning, your escapism
is bound to dreams...
                             which is a secondary
excuse concerning apathy
  and the shaking homeless man...
               i'm asking for a mass exodus
of the homeless from urban areas...
                       only a fool would sit in an
urban environment these days...
               those glum godforsaken looks of
seemingly ****** superiority...
   meritocracy hides a variation of ******
it doesn't seem to recognise -
          it's a gigantic mushroom fog-cloud
and bypassing talk of the guillotine chop
to mind the Antoinette cakes for fear of
reprisals...
                        thinking never equates
to being conscious...
                                       i don't know how
this happens...
                              the divergent parallelism
states that
                   we shouldn't base our
censoring on obstructing nouns,
but the majority of politics bullies this
categorisation of words with the most
sensed purpose of it being necessary...
nouns don't do jack **** in ontological
parameters, but verbs do...
                  trying to change human
behaviour by stretching it back far enough
for cavemen to appear,
      or censoring the use of nouns
does not affect our actions -
                                     it simply doesn't...
censoring our use of words
         means we cognitively stutter... to
appease misguided pieces of information
lodged within each word...
                       we are deliberately
not engaging in the full vocabulary grasp
of things...
                          on a humanistic level
the involuntary desire
                                  to write a book rather than
learn to make toothpaste...
   outside of theorems in rubrics of
repetition:
                   what is the active ingredient
in being conscious?
                  thought or the senses?
   for me thought is the active ingredient
   and the senses are a passive ingredient.
               on the ready...
but how to make the world make sense?
  well, given the five already not making
sense, thought alone suggests a counter
question: how does the world make sense?
    i understand that these words
belong in the torture chambers of libraries...
people prefer practical problems
sourced by practical questions,
rather than preferring no problems
  sourced by impractical questions...
did i mention taxation? no.
         did i mention immigration? no.
hence i've asked impractical questions
         because i don't want people to
experience them as practical concerns
when they do not invoke practicality:
precisely because they invoke an impracticality
i'm asking them...
                              because they do
not interfere with what's impractical in life:
other people's sedimentation
into power... my questions interfere with what's
practical in life: not getting in other people's
daily affairs...
                         the more the question
is impractical, the more practical life becomes...
and then life encounters what others deem
to be the practical question, which makes
life all the more impractical...
       time orientated: on the altar of television
where everyone has enough time to
zombie-it-further.
                               with thought the
active ingredient of being conscious (double
value, two functions, one open, the other closed)
                the inactive ingredient of being conscious
is ego (hence the many theories and sub-divisions
of possessing such a thing) -
                     that doesn't necessarily translate
into                               the origin of things...
                 i'd state that grammar is
in equal measure a conscious quantity (vocabulary),
as a subconscious medium  and an unconscious
            suggestion...
                          grammar speaks of the universal man,
we speak alone or among ourselves as
men: particular...
                                      to me grammar is a medium
akin to the psychological three tier cake...
                              it's a fourth dilemma...
                 if thought is the active ingredient
of consciousness,
                                it's no wonder
   the constant sought-after identification procedures
with passports, national insurance numbers,
                   reincarnation...
    THE WEST KNOWS NO MYSTICISM...
        a common mantra...
   THE WEST IS IN A STATE OF A CRISIS
IN THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED ALL
                           SOURCES OF PLAGIARISM...
          IT IS IN A STATE OF BABYLONIAN
  PLAGIARISM: A PERSISTENT SELF-RENOVATION
            BY PLAGIARISING ITSELF
DUE TO THE FACT THAT IT HAS EXHAUSTED
      PLAGIARISING NICHE ENVIRONMENTS...
              the white man knows no mysticism...
whatever comes from his mouth is wobble-blah...
               still even fewer made that statement
than venture into the Masai territories in Kenya
to hear a mystical burp...
                       yes... so many provocative sentences...
psychology expands into what will always be
airy-fairy Mary Poppins to me...
                        i can write about it,
but the rubric of fixating on words
                                 that are stimulants more than
additives in terms of cohesive argumentation
will always remain a mile away from my
serious interests in prolonging an argument
  for establishing a theory into it being schooled...
that'll never happen with me...
                        when i write about psychology
i am foremost to remind myself:
     you just inhaled a balloon filled with helium...
   oh god, the relief of not making more from this...
                  me, never the dodgy soul-salesman
of the naive few...
                             a penny is worth a pebble...
but is a page from Tolstoy worth a £5, a £10,
a £20 or a £50 banknote?
                                             i really wanted to
expand on the verbiage... but even i encounter
moments of true spaghetti demanding me to end
the supposed: on to it...
                                        to me psychology is
verbiage... in the back of my mind i'm looking
at grammar as a punching-bag...
                 upper-hook -logy
                        lower-hook -graphy -
          or pristine physics and chemistry...
      as one granny said: some kind of -logy
   or: a term deemed appropriate to denote
    a vocabulary fixation of some sort.
                      because that's what's called the attache...
fixated vocabulary -
                        i'd really love to expand
on this... but i don't see the point...
                 the original idea fizzled out
after i heard enough entertainment tongues
blah through a bubbling bottle of champagne
into Lake ****-on-the-Geneva-Convention flat...
                   as i am adamant on
creating Narcissus looking into the sea...
                           but that's the beauty of
poetry, it's not bound by paragraphs...
           it's open, like the ******* of literature
that it is...
                                 your payment?
just your attention...
                                           hence no paragraphs...
                your payment?
   just your attention...
                               because if they didn't cough
up for the skeleton... i'm not
           giving them my strained larynx...
                         sometimes...
   it's best to leave
                                something unfinished:
there's no melancholy surrounding
     a perfected and complete construction...
                     

Butterflies and crows circling the water
Dive
headfirst, closed eyes into the ocean.
Fly.

Rest easy
my
dearest;
how I've missed you
but only the physical things
only the ****** things

I'm objectifying you
(....how rude)



I'm riding on the waves of creation
fixating on free form and relation
with Self

Life is animated now, see the things
that we missed?
Life is kissable
It tastes salty and beautiful like seafoam
and sweet like spring blossoms

I'd offer you my hand again, but
last time you drug me down
This time I'll offer you sand instead,
and castles and sunshine
and smiles.
They're free,
you should try 'em out
sometime, baby.

There's no rush.
The sun will be waiting whenever
you wanna mosey over.
The time for moping is over.
Your misery can be over,
snap
That moment is over
That second is over
Your entire lifetime up to this point
is over

What's that you said about new beginnings?
Finding new things?

Dive in, head first, eyes closed,
towards those things you're seeking.
Don't ever stop

Don't
ever
stop

dreaming.

He whispers sweet nothings into my ear
His quiet musings that lull me to sleep
His teeth gently graze my earlobe, pulling at my earring
He's almost like a raven, always fixating on the shiny parts of me
Except instead of repeating never more, he screams forever from the rooftops
He's taught me how to fly
How to leave the ground
How to soar above the earth, into the clouds
He's given me hope and serenity and peace
And for this I will forever be grateful

the wrong atmospherics of transmission
move in uninvestigated chaotic archives
red and pink turbulent storms swarm across
deep space frequencies in imaginative
currents of pulsars
that are translated into phases
each represented in diverse
conflicting modes of expression
in obsessive grooves of consciousness
cut up components of recycled narratives
audibly fixating on vibrations
that sound across the universe
in diffused spirals of manic fluctuations
converting archaic symbols into equivalents
of dust surfaces that oxidise in intermittent epochs
and deposit a rediscovered earth
an expansive transferable construction
of accidental providence
that allows for expression in artificially generated realities
hallucinated images that float
across the consciousness of the cosmos
producing visions that punctuate rational thought
become preoccupied with the conception
of  interplanetary transpeciation
counting the chronological diversity
of those that occupy the black, blank
vacuum of space

more often misunderstood than not
i dance in spectrums of gray
where right and wrong is blurred
and faded edges
complicates this maze

i get lost in my own mind
blissfully wandering off
fixating about trivial things
staring at the moon for hours
waiting for it to answer me

perhaps im too different
beautifully broken yet starry eyed
quiet demeanor with a chaotic mind
and you, unfortunately,
are too the same

oneday i will find the soul
that finds peace in all of me
and we will wonder
and wander
together

My thoughts are always wrong.
Rehearsing things to say so long
that I'll never respond.
Too hard to take my time.
Too quick to jump this gun.
Fixating on all the most inappropriate fascinations.
Holding tongues on all the worst occasions.

Let's play a good old fashioned game of Russian Roulette.
Rushing to do all the things we'll regret.
And forgetting all those words we pretend to believe.
I'll always have one more deception up my sleeve.

That might just be the old me.

Shaking the fur
off the holes in my skin,
microscopic, little dens
for every fox that comes my way.
They release,
instantly,
and I stand in the room,
bare and naked and bleeding and screaming
for the whole ******* world to
hear and hurt and hug and help and
love
me.
I'm crying and laughing and singing and dreaming
for the whole ******* school to
stop and see and sting and string
me
up
into the jewelry
wrapping their pretty,
little necks.
I am
inexpensive jewelry
to give to your
finest French *****.
Read me like
one of your nudey books,
I'm just a spreadshotted eagling on the
bareskin rug,
bearbottomed with the brutish blues
of the bruises and the bites.
And maybe I
want to hide,
to run and whisper myself
into the secret,
hidden spots behind every
shadowy curtain--
but when you're up and out
and over and through
and wrapped around their evil,
little eyes,
there's nowhere to go.
You're trapped in
every word they say,
the kind,
the cruel;
you're trapped like a rat
stuck inside a cat
stuck inside a dog
which was eaten by
a North Korean man last Kim Jong-il day.
You know,
they call that day
the
Day of the Shining Star--
and maybe the man
plastered on every poster,
draped carelessly on the street signs
and erotically fixating a nation
didn't want to be the Star, either;
maybe he never wanted to
be the constant, single thought
on each of their hateful,
dreadful little minds,
dredged into the
swamps and mires
of their moist
and
sweaty
dreams.
Maybe,
he, too,
didn't want to be the
*****,
drunken,
distasteful
STAR
of their hate.

At a young age,
you laboriously worked on complex puzzles;
completing them, with an unnatural ease.
Distinguishing  yourself from others.

Your passion direct.
Fixating on numbers,
calculating your future.
You try to find a formula for happiness,
although it is incalculable.
As an irrational number, unable to terminate.

You extract formulas,
despite the odds.
Conveying your theories,
constructing logarithms.
intent to prove it is not abstract,
to be a female actuary.

Seventy years prior,
Catherine Prime opened the field.
Disproving the infeasible claims,
that women could not excel to this level.
Faced with reasons not to give her rank,
amongst the stunned men.
Who claimed she was good,
for a woman.
-Marissa Navedo

Matt opened his eyes when he felt the shift in the bed. He turn towards Eve frozen he watched Jake kissing what was suppose to be his. Eve laid there as Jake kissed her. With heartache accompanied by disbelief Matt regained his ability to react but instead he left the comfort of the warm bed. Just then Eve slapped Jake.


Typical, now that  she sees i'm awake she goes into defense mode. **** she always doing this, ******* with my head. God your such a ******* ****, Eve!


He left the room quickly making his way to the recliner. His head was pounding feeling the need of destruction rise with in him. Unwilling to give into the desire he settled his sights on the television. He turned it on flipping trough the channels and raising the volume wanting to drown out the sounds he knew would shortly follow from what he had witnessed. He covered his ears refusing to hear her moans penetrate his heart as Jake penetrated her.


She would, that *****. Just give herself to another man, another man who isn't me.

As the unfamiliar voice floated unclear from the man on the television to his ears he remembered the first time he had laid eyes on Eve. He was with his cousin visiting  his sister at her friends house. Matt and his cousin were entertaining with their playful rough housing.  He had his cousin in a head lock about to take him down when she stepped out from behind the bedroom door. Her eyes met his and he stood still. She flashed a smile at him as he unsuccessfully tried to do the same. He hadn't even realized his cousin had escaped his grasp. He felt the corners of his mouth begin to turn up into a smile and she turned her attention to the right of him. It was then he knew he was going down. He hit the ground hard feeling the vibration pulsing from the ground beneath him where his back made impact. He quickly rolled to his stomach rising up on his knees and hands. He looked up at Eve, she was laughing, her eyes where lit and he was in awe. Her expression change  to match the feeling of the impact of his cousin lunging himself up in the air and crashing down on his back. Matt's cheeks filled with heat as he focused in on his cousin. He pinned him down then scanned the room for Eve, but she was gone. The memory faded with a crash that startled him. He looked around the room then realized the noise had come from the television. He turned it down, way down deciding he wanted to hear if she would dare **** him in his sisters bed. He sat in the recliner balling his hand into fists waiting, listing for the faintest of sounds from Eve. Moments later he heard a distorted laugh and turned his upper body in its direction. Jake stood there staring back at him with smug amusement plastered on his face. Matt's already tense body began to flare engorged muscles. He was ready to take him when Jake sent a smile at him. Matt could feel his blood boiling, pounding, rushing through his veins reaching his heart quivering in anticipation waiting for the slightest movement in his direction. He studied Jake.


What does Eve see in this ******? He cant be that great, its only been five minutes. I'll bet she'll be on to the next guy by tomorrow, or back to Derek. Ah ****!


Images of Sam's father plagued Matt.


She ******* knows i hate Derek.

Flashes sparked in his eyes and he played the memory's tune. They had been arguing on the front porch while Matt's little brother ran circles around them.


"If you ever let Derek come over here, ill kick his ******* ***!" ,Matt informed Eve.


"Whatever Matt! He's Sams father and if he wants to see his son, he's gonna." , she countered.

Matt bounced up and down with anger. Eve dismissed his primitive dance and went inside. Matt blinked escaping the memory, fixating his eyes on Jake. Jake turned his attention down the kitchen then back at Matt. Matt narrowed his eyes when Jake dared another smile at him before going into the kitchen. The destructive desire with in him ignited and he beat his fists into the arm rests of the recliner. Shortly after Eve appeared.

"Where's your sister at?" , she asked.

"*******, you hateful *****, ******* ****." , he said in a whisper.

"What?" , she said.

Matt was over flowing with the urge to devour her with hateful slurs. He slightly turned his head to her refusing to look at her directly.

"How should i know, maybe she's with your boyfriend." ,he said.

"What's you problem Matt?" , she questioned him.

Matt took pleasure in the irritation in her voice and retaliated with, "You should know."

"Whatever Matt." , she sneered at him.

As Eve entered the kitchen Matt inhaled and swallowed his breath. He fought the desire to slap the **** out of Eve. Matt bathed in relief when he saw Eve out of the comer of his eye a few seconds later. She walked by heading to the bedroom with Sam and a bottle. She looked his way only to see his eyes piercing her with a glare. She tilted her head up at him calling him out on his **** and stuck her tongue out at him before she disappeared into the room. With that his jealousy was extinguished.

You’re left at the back, anxious at sunrise
as day by day we drift through consciousness.
Ring the Bell. These thoughts are your demise

Act profound, fixating us with lies
Invigorate a prompt adress;
your qualms are back, anxious at sunrise

You’re mother’s boy, your father’s eyes
they know first hand, you’re prone to stress:
so ring the bell. Your thoughts: our demise.

Refrain from fear, nor anthropomorphise:
doe’s endear, their bliss is careless.
You’re stuck at the back, anxious as sons rise

and fall or fail to climb. Surprise,
surprise, with fear of death you now obsess,
over the bell. Our words: your demise.

They say you’re fine, you compromise,
it’s in your head, that last abscess.
You’re left to rot; absent at sunrise
they’ve all forgotten. Those thoughts, your demise.

I just feel so frustrated,
I can't focus at work because I'm constantly fixating
on our most recent argument.
I don't feel listened to;
and when I don't believe everything you believe or talk about
I feel judged and criticized by you.
I'm tired of being the mature one.
I'm tired of waiting around.
If you mention threesomes or DMT one more time,
I'm pretty sure I'll go ape **** on everyone.
Am I not allowed to have taboo topics?
Everyone has some subject they don't like talking about
or feel uncomfortable talking about.
Why can't you understand it?
Why do you insist on talking about the very things
I've expressed less than no interest in?
Why do you question everything I say?
Why do you make me explain myself
when what I've already expressed was all I wanted to say on the matter.
We're not going in the same directions.
I don't mind occasionally just sitting around
smoking until I'm too lazy to move...
sometimes.
But it feels like that's all we do anymore.
I need more excitement and spontaneity.
Lately all we do is smoke and ****.
And argue.
I'm sick of arguing.
Mostly because I know you're not listening.
And I'm sick of being ignored.

Demons in your head,
monsters under your bed

Hiding in the shadows, a web of awe and wonder

Fixating to descend into that abyss,  
yet so terrible to fall in bliss

The calls of sirens draw you near

The wicked will laugh in dark ecstasy, ah blight--
try if you may, take flight

For in sorrow you hang your head, by your neck

Beckoned by the gallows
the realm of your heart gone fallow

Freedom is just beyond you finger tips

The choice of life is yours to steal
escape this ordeal

Let the darkness perish for your victory

And as the siren songs drown you in a blanket of pain
resurface with strength and rise again

Call your voice to smite the lies of the deceptive

Rise swift to the thunder of a living heart
courage and victory are never far apart

Hold breath fast in your chest never to be freed

Until your last day, to offer the world a parting grace
with last of life's embrace.

The succubus withers with none on whom to feast

And the dogs howl unfed by the spoils of war
the battle done and no more

Flee now to fleeting peace as you may, just remember:

How the wicked fought before evil crumbled away
and the good suffered in dismay.

But sorrow prevailed, yet after such dark toil

All was not so fair in war and in love
but reprise, there was not total void of

And all that seemed left,
perhaps bereft,
were shadows of the lost and survivors most deft--

Though victory it was
no matter the cause

And light shall reign again, Forevermore.

you are a form of poison
seeping through the rough edges in my mind
an immensity of nations I have brought out of this here.body.
to try and rid of the look in your eyes

your body moves swiftly on the ground
each step weighing a ton.you shake the ground beneath you.
and those surrounding you stop in awe. at the magnificent sight.
your exotic manhood. realistically condescending and ******.
you make me want to ***** and give me butterflies. simultaneously.

if I could sing my song, expand my lungs so that they explode
in the air fluttering around me like new born children
there would a girl standing at the end of the crowd crying
If I could play this tune on any instrument
I would make the hairs rise on the pores of some man
mourning his dead lover

you propose marriage

you dare caress the soft woman within me
you dare make some.almost.dead.suffocating. buried.dream.
a reality in my head once more you *******

you wrap around my pink finger like a sharp thread of Indian silk
you leave marks and my blood is not flowing properly
I can squeeze you with silence
I feel your body swell between my fingers
sweaty and frustrated

I see you sitting in your living room, lonely
so bent and out of shape. life's burden has came to you
with its heaviest distributer of pain. utter emptiness.
your forehead creases have become deeper
from endless nights of that deep hunger
the one that digs into your very soul
the one that makes you want to cut your stomach open
and stuff it with anything that will fill that empty void
that has taken its physical toll on your body

so you. the man that you are.
come to me. the woman that I am.
begging for that thing that you have lost.
the woman who gave you 4 nights of kisses.
shy looks,a nervous voice, blushed cheeks,a unpromising smile
and a very hasty departure

I picked up my imaginary wedding gown took off my
invisible Cinderella heels and ran like hell to the woods
after the day by the water you ranted
spoke in the tongue of a master
and I am no humans servant, you let the timid movement in my
hands deceive you of the power that strikes like a noble guardian

that day. you held my eyes in yours
and promised to never speak to me again if I did not get up
and leave with you. I retrieved what was mine, and did not hesitate to
shift a bone. silly of you to think that anyone can shake me
without my permission
maybe if you would have asked me passionately softly
rather than passionately angry
the past would be present. but our story did not unravel this way.

I cant lie. and say that you are not gifted.
you are in so many ways
you are a leader, and if you lived in ancient times
would be the head of any army. I see those lives that have lived
within you. old soul. broken. like me.

It almost hurts somewhere inside of me. to see a man of such
grace and honor fall apart in front of me like wood in  my
fireplace back home in the mountains on the coldest of winter nights.

I sit here fixating impossibility.convincing myself.
regardless of the promises you just made after 3 years.
You have been begging on your knees for so long
that I can see the bone coming out of the wounds.
You are leaking everywhere. your pride has crumbled beneath me.

I sit and think about how beautiful
the children we will never make
will be.

How do I tell my brain to stop?
I get in these moods when I should be happy.
So much is good right now,
but that one comment keeps sticking.
My dumb brain won’t stop fixating.

You are gone.
Evaporating, the fog drifting through my hands, I clasp at nothing.
But a fragmented memory of us - now just steam from the shower.
Your eyes never saw, like your lips never raced against time to save me from -
Falling down a deep abyss with broken glass on the bottom.
I was there before you meet me, but give me a light to find my way out
Don't re-lock the chains on my poisoned mind.
I am losing it - every bit of it - my poetry now spews blood
Good night, my love.

You are gone.
A flutter of wings from a hummingbird and I sigh once again
You were like an old friend - fixating on shiny drops of water.
When you took your key and left without a note, something snapped (perhaps a bone?)
My mind rolled from side to side, in a sea of emotion - My mind sinking lower and lower until
I realize..

The shiny drops of water were a storm brewing
Rain.

it wasn't the way that she said goodbye,
the way she
gently departed,
leaving no stone unturned.

it wasn't the way that she
did her part,
staying behind a bit longer
to make sure no lovers
were left unjust.

it wasn't the way that she wished all those well,
fixating them always
within her heart's reach.

it was the way she cared;
for she spoke with her heart
and she moved
with an aura of awareness
in every step.

it was the way she appreciated
all that was given to her,
years after
it was thought to have been detached.

it wasn't the way that she said goodbye,
but the way that her actions
ached,
"hello".

Fixating on tomorrow’s duty
steals you away from today’s beauty.

Mourning dove, set on black wires above
The cool, garden lawn, looks down on cat,
Who is burning blithe birds in greenest eyes,
He tastes them as he chirps in trouncing trance
Fixating upon fixing them, his pious patience
Is job like, steadfast, gracious as lifted wings.
Early next day, all that is left of fallen mourning
Dove, are a bed of feathers strewn on the lawn.

I've had one?...two?...many nights of waking up not knowing.
closing my eyes and imagining god was dumbstruck staring.
fixating at the ceiling and all i can think to say "It all started last week...
standing on a cool dark step she said words directed to hurt aimed at me.
I just took it not saying a word not defending a thing, still trusting her.
All the things we were just slipped away and my vision she blurred.
Imagining she needed space, i left for a bit came back and told her i love her.
she did nothing it rolled off of her as if hadn't even said a thing.
this is the life i made, i gave my heart, she smiled and gave me nothing.
flashforward, and she does something wild, makes a mistake and plays the victim.
she did something wild, and i was too afraid to ask if she kissed him.
you're reading this and maybe you know who i am talking about.
chances are and reality is you don't know this person, i didn't even

I feel guilty in hot spikes
Like I might be doing something I ought not want to
Or that by focusing on me you may feel I forgot you
That by allowing you to play in the back ground of my active brain
For day
After day
After day
I am not fixating on the way you say my name
Or remembering all the times you came
To save the day, I am not reaching out to touch you
In a physical way
And I don’t let myself feel sad with no distractions
I just fade and detach  when guilt feels like
Fractures.
Then I got to thinking
About myself and what I want and
I thought maybe we are perfect,
Perfectly in step with who we ought to be,
i,m moving,
And with you gone in all this change I felt
I was leaving
But i,m dreaming
Of standing on my own two legs
and of all the sweet things you always say
about my heart and my head and
that I accomplish great things,
you would be proud of me.
I’m just making my own place
My own bit of sunshine, my own oasis
So I can pull you in
And face it
All the bright light all my mistakes
Our first date and late nights,
Holding your hand and chasing loose dreams
Like pretty butterfly wings.
Like you run when we race
For the last of the swings,
I love you, and suddenly it seems like
Moving toward you and moving toward me
Are actually quite possibly the very same things.

Hello, Thomas.


The night is waiting for you.


The gatekeeper scans the clothes decorating your figure.
The doors are opening.

Are you ready?

Here you are.
the music floods into you,
washing over you like a wave of colors you’ve never seen before-
rushing past you before you can examine them-
simultaneously melting away
and ripping god knows what away from you.
The experience feels new every time.
It’s a good feeling.
Breathe, and walk in.

This universe is tangled in stardust, in lights and movement.
The ground you walk on invisible,
existing only in vibrations,

mechanical pulse.

The place is littered with sounds- faint and drowning-
of hard breathing, occasional quiet moaning.
(Although they are felt more than they are heard.)
The scent of two hundred and fifty six sweating bodies,
all kinds of different smoke
and liquor;
not so much intoxicating as it is calming.

It’s full tonight.

The air spirals into you- fresh, clear, thin.
Sharp, but never painful;
your lungs full of the scented energy.
Faintly bitter, but never losing that distinct fruity essence.
Ah.
That’s what it is- forbidden fruit.
Toxic and irresistibly sweet.
Your teeth sink effortlessly into the soft surface,
it’s laughing on your tongue.

Candy-laced acid.
Stinging love bite.
Sweet poison,
like a slow french kiss tangled in the need for more.

You walk.

Your body brushes against worn leather,
warm skin.
You make your way through the bodies that feel more like a single entity than separate people (or people at all),
alive only through energy.
Hivemind of young souls.

(You move so slowly…
drink it in.)

If there is a god,
it exists in the body of the human.
As an unexplored force
corrupting the man-made man,
reverting them to pairs of hands that kiss the ground shamelessly,
to bodies that speak through groans and whimpers.
Primal angels.

If there is a god,
it is in this room tonight.

Where are you now?
Where have your slow steps taken you?

Ah.

A throne stands before you,
a familiar image.
The king is another tonight,
but the role of a spectator is almost equally as satisfying.

“King.” you think. “Ruler, but not of the people.”

He needs no servants
and your eyes are the only ones drinking in his figure,
as the others are too deep in trance, eyes glazed.
Dead, but with the essence of the living.
You observe them for a moment.

They are not bodies anymore- their souls having inhaled the life out of anything you can touch in a human.
You swear you can almost see through them,
the lights kissing, pressing the surface of their ghostly forms.
They’ve probably already been here for hours- unraveling,
evaporating into divine steam.

And what of the king?

He seems rather uninterested, or perhaps some combination of focused and relaxed.
He doesn’t move much. It’s a strange contrast, but not too strange-
it feels right, as though the young man, so unapologetic in his sole state of being,
makes the subtle nodding of his head appropriate, despite the violent nature of the beat.

The music is powerful, steady, reminiscent of your own passionate concentration when the throne is yours.
He’s a handsome fellow.
You chuckle at the thought, maybe you should stop staring now.

Oh.

Eye contact.


For an excruciatingly long moment, neither of you can tear your gaze away- (you are, after all, the only observer- this was inevitable.)
eyes locked on a stranger, reality submerged in the thick liquid that is this knot of sudden, unnamed emotions.
You are unsure if the pounding in your ears is the music or your heart that has leaped into your throat.

He turns his head slowly, still unable to tear himself away, trying to break free form your accidental and- completely unintentional- spell.
He manages to do so (it wasn’t easy),
fixating on the machine before him, his cheeks slightly flushed now.
The expression on his face unchanging.
(You don’t know it, but you’ve cursed him.)

Well, that was interesting.

What a powerful spectator you must be, to distract a king in such a way.

He hunches over the machine, cradling it with his chest and shoulders.
His left hand presses his left ear- the messenger whispering secrets to him;
the sounds that are to come.
He twists knobs with his right hand, clearing the path for the next song.
The track blends with the fading beat and becomes another.
Worlds colliding,
realities woven into one another.

Your shoulders drop,
the tenseness melting away with the melody encased in this secret universe you’ve entered tonight.

“Mmh…”

The music starts to get a hold of you.
You are beginning to submit to it’s voice, it’s demanding pleas.
It begs to be let into your body, to possess and consume you.
You are allowing it to drink away your free will.
There is little left.
You aren’t new to this- but again- it truly is a fresh experience every time.
And how intimate, the vibrations that seem to stroke, caress…
the sampled melodies who’s home you now hear being foreign to them– ‘till they become entwined,
one with their new world, through the love of the people.
And how strange, you think- to come from one universe, but belong in another.

You close your eyes, everything you are coiling around the music now,
and accept that this- here-
is the universe you belong in.

The room disappears along with your body.
Sensation and soul make up all you are.
The king has been observing you quietly,
he’s taken interest in you.

The more you move, the less aware he becomes of his hanging jaw.
His lips are parted only slightly, but his curiosity is evident.
You are impressing him.
The contrast between what he sees now and what he saw in your eyes just a moment ago-
it’s fascinating- how human you were, how familiar- a face in a crowd.
Yet now, how unrestrained, how pure and animalistic you’ve become.
He lets out a huff- eye brows knit together- in what seems like frustration.
He blinks a few times, his expression quickly changing to something like a half-worried look
that is secretly sheer ****** pleasure.
You are unraveling before him.

Thomas,
he’s found God in your movements.

Something of you now belongs to him,
but he doesn’t try to take it, and you don’t consciously give it.
It is a silent, intimate exchange you’ve unknowingly taken part of.

How untamed, what you’ve become.

You smile
as you feel yourself let go of everything you once were,
making it possible for the universe to do with you what it pleases.
You don’t know it, but in this state, the universe is not the only one able to take you,
touch and taste you,
breathe the language of sound into the crook of your neck.
Anyone can.
Anyone watching, that is.

Who’s watching you, Thomas?

It starts off small, like a perfect tasting cigarette, a pleasurable breath-
but soon becomes an overwhelming addiction
wrapped in the fear of having to stop.
You’ve unknowingly given yourself to the king.
He’s unwrapping you like a child dying to know what his christmas gift is,
so desperately and so quickly, that he hasn’t been able to register the event yet
and this translates to a breathless, low moan escaping his lips along with half of his soul
as he watches you, still too shocked by the foreign emotions to manage paying attention to anything
but the gracefully savage mystery before him.

His eyes are on you
and you are not consciously lending yourself to anyone willing to take you,
but here you are, shamelessly exposing yourself without showing an inch of skin.
Similar to the ghosts surrounding you,
save for the fluidity of your movements distinguishing you from the crowd.

His thoughts grow hotter the more your hips sway,
the questions melting into more intimate ones the deeper he goes:
What’s under your shirt?
What would it feel like, to have his hands there? Palming at your chest?
Is your skin warm right now?
Is it sensitive, Thomas?
Are you sensitive?
What shade of red paints your skin when too flustered to speak?
When you’re moaning a boy’s name?
And what would his name sound like
sliding down your tongue, dripping down your chin?
What sounds crawl up your throat when being crushed by repressed desire
like the kind crushing him right now?

Something like pure hatred forces his chest to tighten.
He’s secretly blaming you for the chaos banging the walls of his brain,
yet no part of him wants this to stop.
What he feels is some mixture of hatred and barely contained inhuman lust.
He’s panting now.
Christ, what have you done to the poor man?
You bare your teeth, as if sensing the king’s needy breaths.
You wear a look that he’s seen in lovers who chant his name in bed.
**** it.
The image is too sweet to ignore.

He is suddenly reminded of an old girlfriend.
She was so shy, always hesitant,
but that made the night they had spent together special, sweeter.
She had stripped, baring herself for the king,
all for him, all by herself.

(In a whisper, the words lick up your jaw-)
Just like you, Thomas.

“You’re such a ****; you’re so easy.” he’d whisper, commenting on how she had been waiting for him all day,
just so she could have him breathing commands into her,
making a barely coherent mess out of the girl.
(***** talk was reserved for special people, the times he’d speak during *** were rare, and words like those were to be considered a treasure.)
You are nearly as exposed as she.

“…****…”
he mouthes, not referring to old girlfriends anymore.
He wants you.

The eyes that have been tugging at your clothes, stealing you,
they blink twice,
what seems like interrupting confusion painted on the king’s face.
His head lowers in shame of admitting his desires,
but soon rises to resume watching his new reason to visit this haven.

It’s somewhat amusing-
you are so lost in ecstasy, you’ve yet to notice him
devouring your image,
silently storing the material you’ve provided him with;
celluloid images that steal the breath from his lungs.

The song is ending. His set is done.
“That’s enough.” he thinks, finally breathing,
trying to convince himself that he’s chosen to stop this behavior out of his own free will.
His face turns a lovely shade of pink, the embarrassment sinking in.
He cannot quite understand what’s happened, or how, for you were merely
a pair of eyes that locked on his for a little too long.
He wouldn’t doubt the idea that he’s been possessed, or cursed (or both)
had he been taught to be superstitious at all.
“He’s just a stranger…” thinks the king,
“king” no longer a suitable word for what the blushing boy has become.

As if on cue, another is ready to take his place.
It’s time to give up the throne, let another rule the night.
Packing his tools, he remembers your image and tries spotting you in the sea of dancers.
(They’re much more human now, becoming less transparent and more grounded in reality.)
He doesn’t find you.
Where have you gone to?

“…oui…ah- merci.”

You sit on a stool, back facing the swimming lights.
You were thirsty.
The cold inhabiting the glass is transferring to your palm.
The liquid hugs three ice cubes,
it’s only purpose being to coat your throat in something other than saliva.
(You don’t understand why your throat feels dry, what, is saliva not wet? Ugh.)
You fixate on the glass, stroking it slowly with your thumb.

At this angle, there is not enough light entering the glass to truly appreciate the color of the drink.
The lights pound on your back, like waves crashing on rock.
Your body casts a shadow directly over the glass.
The color and shade of it’s contents are a mystery to all but you;

Gold.

It looks lovely when kissed by sunlight,
although the times you’ve had this drink in broad daylight are few.
You have fonder, clearer memories of the liquid glistening under the moonlight, or drowning under muffled lights
like now.

You feel a sense of power over everyone there for a moment-
the lights, ever changing, hide the liquid’s true form;
it becoming a myth, shrouded in doubt.
At times it appears champagne pink.
Laurel green.
Dull, dying vermilion.
Mustard yellow bleeding into a powder blue.
It’s true beauty is a secret nobody in this universe knows of.

Indeed, Thomas.
Tonight, you are the only one who knows the beauty of gold.

An image comes to mind, sudden and powerful-
eyes of the king.
The thought pulls the breath out of you, your lungs empty for a moment.
You inhale shakily, shuddering at the feeling, but loving the memory.
Left. Right.
No one saw that. Good.

…Black and gold.
This sea of darkness, space.
Empty, soundless, but only when lost enough-
enveloped in the crowded, booming universe.

“Mm…”

In that brief encounter, something happened.
You can’t understand it,
but this doesn’t bother you in the slightest.
He was shining, you think, like the only star in a sea of black,
visible to none but you,
the only observer, his only spectator.
(The effects of the drink are settling in now,
the warmth nestling in your chest.
Loose and easy.)

Golden King.

Ruler of the night, star of your world.
Treasure, glistening with sweat.
Your treasure. Your secret. Yours.

“Mine…”

You don’t stop caressing the glass, it being held up in your left hand now, elbow resting on the counter.
You stare straight ahead, through the wall, into nothing, completely lost in thought.
Eyelids lowered in a confident, relaxed look.

Silver smile.
Gleaming, blooming before him.

What are you?- the words are silent in his mind
and he mouthes them without quite realizing it. (The movement is too subtle to notice.)
The king is seated next to you- wide-eyed- no doubt in some initial attempt to speak to you.
Mind-reading powers would be wonderful right now.
He doesn’t know what’s being unveiled before him, but it’s quite a sight-
you are unfolding into something he cannot fully appreciate, your thoughts a mystery to him.

“Oh…”
The shirt you’re wearing has short sleeves- a little too short.
Short and tight. It’s almost too small on you,
but no.
It only gives the boy a chance to better appreciate your skin.
(He doesn’t remember seeing you like this. There’s a jacket on your lap,
he assumes you took it off when you finished your… display.)
Soft skin.
He looks back at you, (deciding that your skin is not you- there’s more to you and he wants to see that.) your eyes.
Still lost in thought, still a mystery.
A warmth settles in him, a familiar feeling that’s usually induced by watching children play.
Hidden. Pleasantly amusing, delicate.

Delicate.
Beautiful, but in secret.
Moon flower, blooming only in the dead of night,
in it’s own private world.
He is not a part of that world right now,
but this makes your image all the more beautiful.

Distracting thoughts aside, the king truly does enjoy your current display (he almost thinks back to your other display from earlier,
and doesn’t, deciding this is much better).
It’s as if you’ve found the secret to stay forever young, he thinks
and remembers your dancing, what you became.

Divine steam.
The god in you evaporating into the bitter-sweet air.
Precious, eternal for tonight, young.
Forever lost in heaven’s labyrinth.

He hadn’t noticed, but you were speaking. To the bartender, most likely.
You turn and

oh-
oh god.
You’ve found each other.
He had forgotten that was a possibility.

(Golden star.
Silver lips.)

That’s him– that’s the king.
The very same you so confidently claimed as yours a few moments ago.
Did you say it aloud? Does he know?
It was just a fantasy, you think- trying to explain to him- to you- trying to convince someone that it’s not what it looks like.
You forget he can’t hear your thoughts, they bleed into the world and you actually begin speaking, trying to explain that no, christ, you don’t think he’s “yours” in any way.

“I–”

You don’t notice the absurdity of what you’re trying to do right now,
but nothing else comes out.
You are both simply lost in each other, speechless, shocked.
Someone has to breathe, and it’s him who does so first,
being the more lucid one right now.

“Is… is that real leather?”

What?

Your jacket, Thomas. He’s talking about your jacket.

Oh.

“Um… yeah.” You look down at it plainly, not sure of what exactly is happening right now,
then back at him.

There is an awkward pause, broken by a statement that can only be even more awkward,
or not. It’s soothing somehow, you think.

“I play here fridays and sundays at this same hour.”
He speaks holding his breath,
lest he drown in the moment.

Another pause.

“I’d…”
pause.
“like to see you again.”

You’

Didn’t dream I’d put my mind
To use this way, useless days
Spent fixating and fearing I’m
Unable to fix my broken head
Overactive imagination acting
Up and overachieving in wanton
Ways, I’m stuck in a rut to fester
Forever and a day

A parking spot is a location
A mug is just a cup
Why am I fixating
On things that don't mean that much
A shirt is not a statement
But these things are adding up
And I am captivated by
Someone who doesn't give a ****
I think I'm losing my mind
It's all up in the air
Our days were numbered from the start
And I don't know why I care
You're still driving me crazy
You insinuated things you wouldn't dare
You crossed every line I drew
Making me fall in love was never fair

My boy told me the other day
That he didn’t have a mother
He only had a babysitter

I say my boy--
The boy at my daycare
The boy with seven siblings
Ripped from five of them
Gained another in the process
Losing mothers like pencils

The mother he has now is a teacher,
No summer job,
But four foster kids to her name
Her summers are free
Her pockets are full
But my boys

They’re still in daycare
Six to six
Or longer
They come with bagged eyes
one in pull ups at the age of five
My boys

Their sister's in the other room
Their mother sits at home
Alone
Doing nothing
Probably drinking
Or anything but mothering

Right now
She’s out of town
There’s a babysitter at home
She picks them up late and drops them off early
They're cranky
And tired
They're getting six hours of sleep
Plus one at naptime

My boys never sleep at nap time
None of them but Isaiah
Isaiah
He loves to talk about his home
Not where they sleep at night
But at home
In Africa
He’ll tell you if you ask
It’s beautiful to hear
The joy filling his face is fixating

But then you see his legs
How they wobble in at the knees
When you see how he sleeps
He rocks himself the whole time
Rocking even through his dreams
It’s all from the orphanage.
The workers couldn’t help him to sleep.
He just turned five.
He starts kindergarten soon,
And he just learned how to spell his name
Everyone else here can read all the names
His and theirs
My boys

I love them with everything I have
And they know that,
But I leave soon.
In a few weeks we all go to school
I’ve been doing this for years, but them,
They haven’t
It’s their first
And I’ll pray
But I hate that all I can do is pray
They deserve more than that.
They deserve attention and love
They deserve hope and security
I can only hope that the next teacher will give that to them
To my boys
To my wonderful boys...