Her fourteen days $?..........&

And what? And I am losing
some attachments
And____
is this our way
We should say is this my end today
My salvation
(Losing) wed long train
of thought
(Religion)

One day before
She screams!!
Such finesse of refinement
We all fall down 
Like children
of the **** torment
Statues the transformation
so real
Carve the deal on the 13th

Like the Gal Friday
battle Tut
masked out the
Halloween taking
out their spleen

Statuette Tut of
the jurisdiction
The fourteen karat teen
gold doesn't put a hold on me

How our minds
became off-set

My blocks are the key
to his heart mindset
The trade of the marks
her freedom
Her lips
quite a
surgery can blow
those bricks
down like a bullet

How it out knocks singing
over again
we all fall down
like ashes remain

Oh! Gee  V for Victorious Glee

How he couldn't pass
this
opportunity
deliciousness,
divineness
because of me,
there I went to the silent hill
The tranquil of quietness
Her weapon
the bullet dress - --
The coffee in the
King Tut shape
The curvy glass

Like a desert storm fires
Going First class

Not a block party second in mind
          "He" King Glee
Behind her walls, he reconstructs
Cheers of joy bullets one of a kind
Like a setup ploy
Her body fine weight
of gold
Eyes almond he's my candy
Second chances of joy
Her third timeless so hot
Is "She"
He's trying to nourish her heart

"With Glee"

Those love instructions
Like a bullet for me?

The King Oh! Gee

The Queen you
had to see
Like the golf clubs to putter set
The ball whole cup
The whole process stayed put
She was so enticed by his
bungee climbing
Seeing his first shot shooting
wasn't a star

The bricks to the end of the war
Judy the Star was Garland found
a different  time of Era la boom
reborn lady Liza Minnelli

The Empire of the Tut
(Bali Island Hut)
Her best to the
last stone paver layers
Like a Tut mortal dreamers
On her deck Golden Egg cards
King on top of the Queen
blocks bam the bomb ticks
The Joker having his last laugh
The war of fidelity like a plaque
of immortals
"And Please God' let it be over

You're my lucky star
No matter where you are
The ancient portal sip of wine
"All Glee" smile to trust
Come attached with loads of funds
His attache case modernly- eyes dim
Cashed into her twilight blank stare
Head over heels digging underneath her
gold - heavy heart and mind spins
into a migraine

His prayers are working
constructing a force
Something is emerging
racing for hearts
Engaging the space of valuable
objects of time

  We heard of the
one-day creation
the mysterious temple
Kinksters my heroes our fellowman
To the hipbone, those hipsters stick
  together to hustle

She is trying harder to please him
The gold to be seized
Thousand times over
to build
a form of loves the golden touch

The building could collapse
Heart together can relapse
If her love doesn't stand tall
The darkness can come to her eyes
The death of cards handed
like her corpse flying bullets

Such a massive stone block
She loved to be entertained
Let me make you walk my path
Solid as a rock

Like the Sun Gods map like the
Egyptian cat tongue
The strange pharaohs ancient
stolen identity
Layers and layers
Trumpet tower Presidential
Her bullet racer tulips
Lips bloom with gravity
900 feet getting a grip confidential

The ruins the strange existence
every time will there be next time
The new technology reveals
more secrets one bullet at a time
A silver bullet doesn't
compare to her myths Antionette


Her Anniversary all in gold,
to be or not to be
The silver award bullets
His mighty treasure
for poems of the sonnet

The largest space to build
in Egypt
Look up its a plane
King Tut bird
Super bullet giant beams
Going once or twice
70 Ladybird feet
Pharaoh timeline
so many wives

The column layering
checkerboard
She the sweeter cake
Had life sliced itself

Her layers the feed
of his smorgasbord
The name Ramesses 11
To reveal the evidence
stolen identities this
wasn't the (Providence)
Laying bricks in
my stone bed
Like a heart of stone

Building a gold his
mind like a block-freeze
It will take lifetimes
Marlon "Brando"
The commando of the waterfront
try to be upfront
It felt like a hard cement

Two bricks intellectual speaking
The goldrush her heart racing the
bullet of time
So thick-headed 
The Queen just sit
beheaded

The golden bond have
  guns will travel I Glee I pads
  The speed of bullets meet
my heroes what lads
The kingdom was
holding women
Joy to the
tacky glue magnet

Not the carnival of
cotton candy soft gold
The King got his ladies like
The Funhouse King Tut
no detention to have
Like the speed of lightning
never to hold
More love to build intermission
The kings only private
Gold VIP Theatre

All smiles the build-up
   Another mysterious setup palace
Those bricks of brown
warmth orange-reds of fire leaves
Falling over her milestone of
Mink hair
the fairytale of
Rumpelstiltskin
 Are we in to know
  what really clicks

More layer and layers of her
goldilocks of hair 
 stronger than any bricks

My lover has a scar
Just above her hipbone;
It's not a small ****,
a forgotten accident.
They're words -
Straight lines she etched
Deliberately,
Slowly,
Painfully.

I trace my fingers softly,
Not to wake my love,
But I can't soften their bite.
Words of cruel warning,
An order, imperative.
Commanding, even faded,
Echo a silent scream.

They mock me, mock us,
For they still have a hold:
She is only half mine.
They hurt me, cold,
Like unblinking eyes,
Knowing that she stares back
Every day.

I barely brush them,
Intruders on soft skin,
Indelible scripture
Of darkness within.

And they keep whispering:
don't eat.

Ah ah ah. Not yet.
Popcorn ceiling instead.
Eve curls up. She's got
tiny ankles. And he,
whoever he may be tonight,
does what they always do.
He traces that funny, bony
sphere. He apologizes.
Tells her it's because
she's so beautiful.
His forwardness is
a compliment.
She reminds him of
this character from a Fitzgerald
novel -- not an obvious
one, of course.
She says wow or oh yeah? or
you're just being sweet.
She asks him if he smokes.
He's trying to quit.
Yeah, I have some in
my hoodie pocket there.
She usually removes the dress here.
Just out of his reach.
Taking more time than necessary.
Bent over, digging through the pocket,
she listens for the heavy exhale.
She walks to the bathroom.
Light on.
Door open.
He gives it a moment.
His shirt is off now.
His elbow is on the door frame.
Eve, you know you're not inhaling right?
And here, she let's him teach her how,
as she did with the last one.
By the end of the cigarette,
she's french inhaling.
Had a good coach.
She runs water over
the tip to put it out and tosses it
in the trashcan.
Of course he brings his body against
hers.
He starts with a shoulder massage.
You can go lower.
He skips the bra.
He runs his fingers
just under the lace waistband.
Asking permission.
Are you going to **** me or what?

Jay wants to say he loves her
when he sees her trying to smoke.
He's not sure if he does yet,
but he hasn't said it in so long.
She's got these small ankles.
Her abs are uneven.
There's a mole on her hipbone.
No, no it's just like breathing.
Just breathe for me. Without smoking.
The lungs, right? Take the smoke
into your lungs.
Oh my gawd. Ha ha ha. She coughs.
Jay rubs her shoulders.
She smells of tobacco and coconut-based lotion.
And he goes lower.
And he doesn't want to be too forward.
But she says **** so softly it makes
his hands go mad.

He's shaky. Panting. At the end of it all.
They made love atop the comforter.
Eve burns. Calls it afterglow.
She feels like she's absorbed all
the room's energy.
She puts herself to the edge
of the bed to cool.
You're so soft, she says.
Surprised, genuinely. He made love
so slow. Maybe a little too much eye
contact. He lifts up the blankets,
and asks her to crawl underneath.

She didn't say his name during ***.
And Jay's afraid he said hers too much.
She bit him. Too dramatic for his taste.
And at the end, he feels cold,
as if all the love inside him
has been deposited.
She tells him he is soft.
Probably the loose skin, he says.
Used to be a fat guy. Well, fatter.
When she doesn't respond,
he lifts up the comforter;
crawls underneath.
No thanks, I'm on fire, she says.
He decided not to say I love you.
But he reaches for her.
She faces him.

Patience. You're alright, Jay.

I'm a bald man now. Ever read the Book of Job? I like how he copes. The change is not purely aesthetic. That bothers me. When people cut their hair, tan their bodies, or lose weight for the sole purpose of hearing blinking friends and distant cousins say you've changed.

I'm sorry to hear about Tim's dad. I'm sure he'll get better. I'd say, I'm glad you two are getting back to normal, but I don't feel optimistic enough to lie. Tonight, I'm tending to a toothache. Covering one end of a cocktail stirrer, dipping it in scotch, and using it as a medicinal dropper. After typing that sentence, I realized the absurdity of this situation. Trading surgical for savage pulls from the bottle.

Heather came over on Halloween. I ran a bath for her. She nursed a fading cigarette while sitting on the edge of the sink and with a wet paper towel wiped off her stage makeup. She told me she had twelve piercings. Then she said people usually ask her where they're at. Some information reveals itself.

I could hear hummed melodies through the wall as she bathed, as I made my bed. Lit three candles. Sprayed some Febreze to cover the stench of my existence. She came in wearing my robe. Without makeup, she looked boyish. Lost, angry.

Her breathing didn't comfort me. She drifted to sleep quickly. As bizarre as it sounds, I could feel Karen in the room. She was the moving shadows. She was the branches scraping against the house. She was the light I left on in the closet. To spite her, I woke Heather up.

I traced her piercings like a holy diary pressed in brail. I sank teeth into hipbone. Sharpened. The *** was short. To be expected, I suppose. Three years of celibacy. She told me it surprised her that it took me this long to sleep with her.

Why did you let me? I asked.

Heather smiled a waving tightrope. Confident. Off-balance. She said I was warm. I was predictable. Like a country music song. I gave her my back. Turned on the television.

I haven't talked to her since. The thing about being born again is, sometimes when you've think you've died, you've only had a bad dream. A more final death lurks. Let's hope she killed me. Now, bald like an idiot babe, I'll try to start. No vanity. You were right. The adventure kicks off when I learn to love myself. Looking at the uneven bumps on my shaved head, I've already developed a crush. I'll apologize in my next letter.

She kissed your cheek and smiled widely,
the corners of her mouth almost touching her
impeccably tattooed eyebrows.
She was not what you had pictured
from the back and forth email conversations
on quotes and designs and sizes.

She asked you to take a seat as she went to
smoke a cigarette outside the shop with a coworker;
Anna was her name...with two jack russel terriers -
one of them is like a honey badger apparently.

It's funny how the mind remembers certain things...
the way the smoke on her tongue smelled as she leaned in
adding ink to her needle,
or the song she kept humming while you
bit your tongue and stared at the decorated ceiling.

But the pain of the needle depositing the
ink
into your skin was welcome...
It was nothing compared to the internal turmoil you were
experiencing the past seven days.
It almost felt good...
Not adrenaline good, but like good that you were capable of
feeling
something besides sadness and anger.

In the Barcelona airport two days earlier, you made your appointment.
One on your hip, one on your foot
100 pound deposit. No problem.
You needed something to occupy your
mind
from the pain it endured over your "holiday."

So much for a holiday...
Surprise! Your friend is a backstabbing *****
who "secretly" hates you and tried to
ditch you repeatedly.

The needle grazes your hipbone and you wince.
"You okay?" Tota coos in her Italian accent.
You nod, but you know you're not really okay...
You never were...probably never will be OKAY.

Your mind wanders...wishing you were home
and not in London, three thousand miles away from
the only people who seem to care.

"Done!" Tota exclaims.
You examine her work, smiling.
The first time you have smiled in days.
"Get ready...this one is gona hurt!" she says, half excited.
You don't care...nothing can hurt more than your heart...
Too bad that can't be tattooed...

"I've been doing so well," I type as I slide a thin silver blade down my hipbone. "I'm clean and I've been taking my medication and I've even been running." Blood gathers at the edges, draw swirls in the warmth.
Bright blue screen lights up my hopes and my heart does a flip.
"Can we talk later? I'm really tired."
"Of course! Sorry for keeping you up."
It's 3:49 in the ******* afternoon.
Remember when you were my best friend and you walked two miles to my house in the middle of the night because I told you I felt alone?
Remember when I was out of town for a day and you missed me so bad you bought me cupcakes?
Remember when you told me I was the only person you'd ever been in love with?
I'm so sorry.
I miss you.
Please.

The woman who stands behind you in line presses her shopping cart
against your hipbone until you wince and tell her to
stop. She makes a face at you as she pulls away. You sigh.
You stare at the magazines that surround you;
you read something about the president having a gay affair-
(That can't possibly be true! you think,) and even though you
know better than to trust the tabloids,
you're very gullible. God. The person in front of you in line is taking
forever to check out, and you're tired of reading, so you hum
Fritz Reiner's Concerto for Orchestra until a man behind you tells you to
'Please stop humming, thank you very much.’

Well, **** him. **** all of this. And you can’t help but
wonder why they only sell weight loss magazines by checkout counters when, really,
they should be selling Harper Lee, George Orwell, Ernest Hemingway. You like
Edgar Allan Poe, too, but you figure that
he's maybe a little bit too dark for the supermarket.

Ah. Finally. After what seems like forever,
it's your turn to check out your groceries:
you place your items onto the conveyor belt-- milk, cheese, spinach, bread.
The woman behind the cash register scans your
credit card and asks you for your signature. Your mind is, for some reason,
stuck on some poem you memorized in high school, something about
disappointment and depression, and even though
you’re distracted, you sign your name on the little screen in front on you.

For a moment, your life feels thready and
vulnerable. But the feeling soon passes, and then you're back to
carrying groceries back to your car. What was that
poem you were trying to remember? Somewhere in the back of your
mind, you can recall the feeling of a woman pressing a shopping cart against your
hipbone. Something about desperation and desolation.
Ernest Hemingway? You shrug your shoulders. In the end,
you guess,
nothing really matters.

Come, my love
let us speak now
the language
of skin

imprint
your lexicon
in my every hollow

stroke that soft spot
above my hipbone
you love so well

linger there
like we have
forever

mold my body
to fit yours
wrap me in sleep

precious few
hours remain
imagine to never
touch again.

Truly, we are wonderful creatures,
drawn to light's undulating swells,
Sailors enthralled by the pushing sea's great shuddering
We honor these bright particles by our  presence

Yet we burrow away, mole men and women for
Our most primal act, instinctual to the muscle
But still insulted by vanities.
(The consequence of consciousness,
I suppose) you instructed, "Turn off the last light"

Do you not wish to admire me?
The tender swell of brain and breast sloping to meet
Crags of hipbone jutting promiscuously below
the natural waist, natural beauty
Wasted by electricity's end

I want to take delight in your body, your ****** tongue
Quell the minor indiscretions of the day and
Give willingly to honesty
My ******* two moon over campus, your hand the sky.
If the peering leaves won't judge,
The least you can do is look me in the eye.

digging in,
the way your teeth crawl.
and latch onto my heart
or my hipbone, when we
do our thing. digging in,
like the first shovel into
the earth when burying
someone you love. you
remember how fresh
the soil is, and you think
it's ironic and somewhat
painful. don't think.
don't think. digging in,
and you whisper in my ear
like you're telling me something
no one else knows while you're
having your way with me, or I'm
doing something to you. don't
think. don't think. forget digging,
forget the hipbone, forget all
of your common denominators.
don't think. don't think. and
you won't.
digging in.
digging into fresh soil
like there's something
worth finding.

At night I like to rest my fingertips on the protruding hipbone that is still covered by a fleshy layer of cushion. Of fat.
Why do we shy away from that description so often?
Fat.
Those three letters haunted me more than anything for the past 7 years, and I would hear it all too often.
And when I didn't hear it, I'd see it in their eyes.
I was not like the rest of them.
No Abercrombie for this pudgy middle schooler, and no eating candy unless I wanted to be ridiculed and stereotyped.
But not until my senior year of high school did it finally get to me.
I stopped eating. One almond at most and nothing else.
Fat.
Fat.
Disgusting.
Shameful.
Ugly.
All synonymous in my head.
Now it's completely different.
I embrace my beautiful body.
Every curve, every scar, every red engrained stretch mark.
I wear them with pride.
I take off my shirt for my lovers without fear or shame.
My body is bigger than societies idealistic and impossible standards of beauty...
And thank
God
For
That.

1.    I realized I could love him again.

2. It was after the accident. After the windshield turned to dust on the pavement in a pool of oil and gasoline, glimmering in the oncoming headlights. After the hoarse screams and the crunch of metal folding over itself like a paper fan. After the seatbelt tore the skin off my chest leaving bloodstains on my shirt and a ringing in my ears. It was even after the cops came and arrested the drunk driver who hit us head-on at five o'clock on a Wednesday evening, after the tow truck came and flipped her car right side up again, watching empty bottles fall from the open windows as it turned. After all of this, in the silence of the aftermath, I sat on his couch with his head in my lap. I traced my finger across the skin that stretched over his hipbone and listened to his rhythmic breathing as his lips curled slightly upwards. I imagined he was dreaming of days that didn’t end in shattered glass and tears. The calm, steady rise and fall of his ribcage as his cheek left an impression in meat of my thigh, safe. In the silence of the aftermath, I realized.

3. The next morning, I woke up with my head in the crook of his arm, my left hand asleep from the weight of my body on top of it. The impression of my earring was stamped into the soft skin inside his elbow. I turned to face him and lazily draped an arm across his chest, remembering that last night I had decided to love him again. I smiled. I lifted my head to speak, but he turned away and without saying a word, walked half –naked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. In the silence, as I stared at the impression of his cheek in his pillow, I realized. His love lay there, in the glimmering pool of glass and gasoline, still spreading in the middle of the pavement.

you are a giant
for me to climb over
i would climb, but
my spirit's broken, see.
so i crawl instead
over your legs,
you don't even mind
that i claw at your skin
sneaking glances
at the giant within.
when i make it to your thigh
i'm parched, so dry,
scared i'll disintegrate
and float away.
i push on, to your pelvis.
i made a camp on your hipbone,
licking what moisture i could find there.
you didn't mind when i set up my tent
made of ash and birch bark
i fell asleep for hours, awoke
with new zest
i skipped up your spine
until i tripped and you split,
exposing the marrow that tasted like wine.
i patched you up as best i could
then embarrassed, hurried on.
i played hopscotch on your ribcage
and got stuck there for days
until i was scared you were bored
and would wish me away.
i spent time
rubbing your shoulders
with my footsteps
as if to soothe you, because
i couldn't hold you.
i took a brisk walk up your neck
then stopped to stare
at your ascending jawline.
i thought of taking a strip of your tongue
and hanging myself there
from your chin.
but that's when you moved-
picked me up
and stored me in your cheek
and i learnt to nestle between your teeth
and treat you not like a giant
but like my home.
though, you forced me
to stand in front of the mirror
and say 'i love you'
thirty times a day.
telling me what to do.
forcing me to tell me,
and not you.

A ritual, I shape an acacia from your flesh and blood –
the fluff rather concealed. So are we, though your insides decorate
a globe just shy of blonde cornfields.

Tomorrow, you can be the columbine’s milk,
split drops deserting her center: now a park of petals on the edge.

But I examine every exposed hipbone, your clavicles rosy by me –
there is something around a jonquil about this image
you spread so I can embrace you, answer coils like a telephone
and want as much far away as I would close up to flaxen.

Hand me a celandine capsule or periwinkle bow –
all of this tied in a knot, originated from a bend of your hair.
I have recollections and joy from imminent meadows, girl and boy.

I catch a glimpse of skin,
Smooth and untouched,
As her shirt rides up
Revealing an expanse of milky surface
And I get an itch to bite it, mark it,
Watch red blossom up and out
Spreading underneath the layer.


I avert my gaze when she speaks,
Tune out the noise,
As my mind wanders back , imagining
A kiss upon the reddened patch
On her hipbone, the contrast
Sharp and painful
Enough to draw out a hiss


Only to transform into a sigh,
At the caress of my tongue,
Shy strokes tracing
The imprint left by my teeth:
A possessive act, marking
My territory.


The shimmer beneath your gaze,
As I return from my fool's paradise
Makes me wonder if you know,
And I wait
For you call me on it,
To reach out, or
Turn away in disgust.


But you don't,
And I am left
Disappointed, suspended,
Still waiting

There’s a reason why
dancing under moonlight is a cliche.
The euphoria is relentless

Pink behind the rising moon
Your hipbone beneath my right hand
knees clash to Latin percussion
Together we count  
1 2 3…5 6 7

Trading vulnerabilities over pork and pasta,
I feel, for one awful moment,
The pain of my daughter’s contempt
You reassure a mother after being kicked by her child
123...567

Supine silence on yellow grass mats. Faint from heat
I feel sad when you recount
how I charged your phone first
You deserve kindness.  I am kind
1 2 3…5 6 7

Your laugh resounds above all
A solo from the audience
As proud and loud as any Jazzman’s improvisation  
encouraging us all to do better
1 2 3…5 6 7

Earthy smell of your skin spread across the sheets
Curled up with tan litheness, I watch
green block letters rise and fall.
Wishing it was more than breath propelling them up and down,
I curse my own heart for swelling
123...

Fixing loose-curl auburn lockets, the pins embed
And turn again. Step, and forward sway the hipbone,
Thirty, forty, a flight of granite looming forward,
Front and back, past my skirt tail – laden laced, pearly

Quiet go the foot pads, front illuminations rest forgotten,
Past the small mouse scuffling four-paw: zigging, zagging
Along the stair stage. Past the morning call in woodpecker
Tongue, squalls and loudly names the dawning. Softly,
I ascend the cold rough stairwell;
careful
Not to spend courage whole.

Wring the rusty thoughts of amorphous dreaming, eat the
Bad thought before the stairwell – ******* orts and morsels thin
Of single tipped barbs, and doubted quenching
alas
Before they mean too much.

Wave with white hands a fare-thee-well, the apparition
That pauses; portentously grinding its nothing on the wall
Seemingly real the whitewash of nothing, he is voided
But lives existent in that other-world well,
Singing, and that much better for it.

Twitch the dreaming skull-bone loose, and question not,
As I mask my tooth-grin with knuckled fingers;
He spots me slinking past the wound in time
and calls me closer,
So that I may meet him.

sunrise
i'm stumbling thru a salt fog
out on the coast in a campground
with two tiny squares of paper stained
on my tongue looking for a patch of dry yellow
withered grass in the tall dunes to lay down in for a while
until the pressure of tears subsides or overcomes the corners
of my eyes & temples

i'll spend the day tight-chested
under the sinewy arms of a magnolia
tree with teeth clenched against hiccups
& clear snot running freely out of my nose
down my chin as green tea waves lick my twinkling
toenails with an open-throated warble & beads of sweat
collect in the hollows of my skinny knees & race down to my
vulnerable achilles

i'll be eaten alive by bloodthirsty
beach fleas after the sun burns off the fog
& i'll ride the high salt wave with the melodies
of sunrise birds like a sikh on a psychedelic print
karastan rug with hair to my shoulders & dirt on my
knees while the beer-hall bellows of tree frogs echo over
my stretched earlobes

sure i'll watch the girl weaving
thru the shimmering florida heat wave with
hypnotic green eyes & long legs that disappear
briefly into thin white cotton shorts & then emerge
again at the endless curve of the hipbone peach creme
neck adorned by a single shining jewel riding a thin rose
gold coiled rope

while i'm listening to
willie nelson & struggling to hold
back tears she waves i wave back in
the reflexive naked itch to be a gentleman
she slips thru the dunes with fluid grace & sits
down with hair smelling like orange blossoms &
begins to hum-sing like a pink finch in champagne
& i finally give in to the impulse to cry

when i do she holds me
with about an hour before the sun sets
where the shoreline doubles back on itself
we watch as the dolphins catch rides through
the breakers on the last yellow shafts of sunlight
before the cool night air closes on us like a fist around
an azure plastic doorknob

the ocean bit the sun &
as her lips found my butterscotch
cheeks & the trees sizzled behind us
the stars swarmed like a bright cloud of
bees overhead we danced in swirls of wood
smoke whispering secrets to the campfire & her
******* stiffened when my tongue touched her belly
& the flying embers whistled

tonight
we'll sleep together in a blanket
tangle of sweat soaked beach towels
like two organic granola humans fighting
to stay children forever & when i press the plump
button of her ******* she sinks deep into my chest like
it's upholstered in expensive leather & twitches like a moth
seduced by the glow of a kerosene lamp

when we wake up
wet & stuck together before dawn
she kisses my tumid lips with her eyelashes
& pokes holes in my morning breath with her tongue
she dresses in a golden chrysanthemum gown & asks me
to zip it up over her powder pale shoulder-blades so she can
escape across the crunchy wildfire fodder & wet pavement to dance
& kick in the frothy white surf opposite the dunes as the first waves
of heat bounce like vectors in a microwave oven but i am much
more comfortable here folded up tight like a lawn chair in a
hurricane in an alternate world where my heart hasn't
been reduced to the floor pedal of your mother's
foot powered sewing machine in the
forgotten attic an alternate world
in which my name became
more than a delicate
vocabulary flicked
from your
tongue

I've more curves than are fashionable,
And I love every single succulent contour.
'Pin-up petite' I like to call it,
A considerable ***** and bottom, fifties style,
Not the angled, jutting hipbone sleekness
That is so coveted, and Kate Moss-esque.
I like breaking the mould,
And dress to suit my out of era shape
In wiggle dresses, flouncy skirts, petticoats,
Red, and bold, and look-at-me,
Black hair, red lips, a look twice smile,
That's my style.

she suddenly loses all control of herself.
her fingers are twitching and dropping razors
her jaw is clenched and her head is rattling
  with the secrets of her blood
  shhh,
     don't spill the (blood) beans

her eyes are unfocused and everything around her
  looks fifty feet away and yet
  inexplicably detailed
she can smell his shampoo
  on her fingers and
she can smell the scent of almonds
  on her forearms

her feet won't stop tapping the beat
  of a song she can't remember
her hair is tangling itself in her
  fists, bruised from contact with her hipbone
she wants to be
  destroyed
     by hands that she (trusts) loves

I have run out
Of people to run to
When everything is falling apart

I touch my hipbone
And this one spot beneath my chest
Ever so slightly
When I want to feel better
About anything

I wish the earth gave you an option
Night or day
For when you need goosebumps from the sun
Or a calm, cool silence

Sometimes broken
Is better than bent
Because bent might break later on

This is not an apology or a plea.

Instead I'm building a home in your hipbones where i was too afraid to lie before. Our hipbone home will be made of titanium and the softest Egyptian cotton i can find. Security is our solace, and although solitude is my familiar friend, I'm trying my very hardest to be good to you.

This is not an apology or a plea.

But if it were you would feel the sincerity in the marks I've left on you. My intentions are left in bruises, as not so pleasant reminders that i am inconsistent. I am not apologizing for my lack of empathy, or the fact that i know when things end. My hardest parts will batter against you and you will take it, because i know you.

This is not an apology or a plea.

If it were i would most certainly plead guilty, but honesty was never my strongest virtue— or one of them at all. I will never take blame for my incomplete promises or the messes I've made.

This is not an apology or a plea.

It is simply a warning for anyone who tries to fill a crater with a footprint. Maybe i am speaking to a nonexistent lifeform, or maybe i am speaking to the eighth wonder of the world.
To anyone who thinks their footprint will fill a crater: the first man on the moon matters more than any asteroid.

Feeling so tired but i can't sleep
isnt that a ******* cliche?
suffocating feelings that would make me weep
but holding onto every word you say

Your hand print on my hipbone
a bite mark on your neck
tonight we wont feel alone
and we sure as hell wont forget

But for the nights your lover is a cigarette
and the kiss of death is one you love
it's not her you want, i'll take that bet
it's not her you're thinking of

The food rots when it is already in my belly
baby mush, cinders from its graceless fire trail –
I dig my tonsils with ******* but
you will not return to our winter, the exterior.

So, hearts slip backward: a new abode
these intestinal earthquakes applauded in Hell
have stolen fruit I certainly could have froze.

In the woodshed, I discover a scalpel
and attempt to dislodge you from my hipbone
but now my stomach’s been kissed by Satan
I am birthing premature infants from a wound.

Another hour I shall give a funeral
for the apple core, swallow each seed so you
will grow once again safe and sound in my belly.

“’Have you ever seen a man?’ I knew he meant naked. He disrobed.Then he just stood there in front of me and I kept on staring at him. Then I felt very depressed.”*
- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

Afternoons while the dog sleeps
turned over on the side and i wonder what organs i push on
liver? spleen? clean the bile for me, please

and then I  shall leave extra gratuity.
Please don’t cry, I feel a hand on my hipbone
my eyes pressed against the olive cushion

The green and the wood of the trees blur into one outside my
june july window
much like the book of Esther i look for a place inside

myself to stop the killing of decency inside myself and
i cannot muster it much like anything else.
I wish i had never asked that December night to go

I stop the disgust cut it at the bud
find a way to necromance up my personality
the outside is smelling of charcoal

i stare at his flesh,
then at mine then
at the floor.

he says we shall wait all i want and
now he is looking at me with doe eyes and i
nod. I nod. I feel i am ok now.

I fight with my hands
so they do not begin
to trace deep rivers on my stomach
that always lead to my hipbone basin

I flex my palms
and admire how my knuckles protrude
when I relax them again

My cheek bones can be felt
with a light pressure
and everlasting insecurity
but my chin never thins
quite the way I want

I pull my hair elastic forward
so that it sits right before
my perfect wrists

I admire my knees
as I sit in a tight skirt,
eyes trailing upward,
smile getting smaller,
thighs getting bigger

I tell myself I am better
and then I am alone

Sneaking smoking into diseased lungs on wet lonely spring nights
Jumping! Free falling,
Heart in stomach
Twitching in sleep as birds begin to sing
And strictly internal weeping
On trails less travelled.

Thusly, I am
Cold like asteroids
and
out of orbit

Chardonnay until
I can reject reality
Sleeping naked sweating shivering
And teeth grinding into
My tree trunk soul


I will see you
one day
Worse for the wear and tattered
And I will be caulked and
stuffed like dead dreams

But with you,
I want
to curl inside your decaying cavities
And breathe smoke out of my own coughing lungs
to smooth you to sleep

Your head on my hipbone
Is time blinking her eyes
in a seismic convulsion –
The outlier of our data
and
we have finished before we’ve begun

Despite the marrow in our bones surging in the tide to

one another ourselves

Moss could grow on our interlacing fingers
And have more intention
than we,
Skulls and vertebrae
Click-clacking off beat
To the tune of no drum

Algal lined membranes
effloresce and become
rainforests of decay and renewal

drip dripping on the tip of my tongue

sticky grasping fingers
unsatisfied with holding lovers at arms length,
greedy to encompass
the entirety of another's being
face-to-face.

crawling up your heart's rickety fire escape,
they toss pebbles at the window
and pray
for a sleepy conscious to emerge.

daydreaming of caressing skin
bare to the blazing sun and gentle wind,
they practice tracing figure-eights
longing to skate
from collar to hipbone
drawing invisible treasure maps
and collecting jewels from creases of elbows.

twitching with anticipation,
swelling with life,
full veins racing to congregate at the tips that would
make contact with the your planetary surface.
they orbit spinning as a moon,
reflecting glow after midnight
and pulling in tides to kiss the rugged shore.

longing to memorize the rise and fall of supple valleys,
they would search like a blind man
fervently running over porous exterior.

hungry with curious wonder,
they purposefully linger centimeters from your edges
begging to be met by your fingers
reaching back to form connection.

1 . When I was born, life
cut the cord that connected me
to my mother. There's still a
tiny hole
in my stomach.

2. There's this faint, jagged line
between my eyebrows.
I have no idea
where it came from.

3. Three dark parallel lines
run down my ankle,
a reminder
of friendship
and barbed wire.

4. The skin on my hands, feet, forearms and shins
is decorated in tiny white flecks,
like a snowfall.
They mark me as a warrior.

5. The skin on my knuckles
is just a bit thicker, just a bit more silvery,
younger than the rest of my skin.
That marks me as an idiot.

6. Nine pale parallel lines
run across the inside of my forearm,
a reminder
of solitude
and razors.

7. There's a puckered, jagged line
on my hipbone.
I know exactly
where it came from.

8. When I was fourteen, death
cut the cord that connected me
to my friend. There's still a
gaping hole
in my stomach.

She managed to forge her way through my forest of tainted leafed thoughts,
Torn ****** memories,
And a ripped, corrupted bible,
She became the book I could read over and over,
While expecting a different result,
Am I insane?
The soft pillows of her smile crawled all over my body and landed on my collarbone, hipbone, chest, and forehead.
The small wrinkles I have around my eyes and smile seemed to always let her in,
Even when she's never asked to come in.
The curves I have fit perfectly into the cups of her sweet nourishing hands.
She left her fingerprints on me.
I swear I didn't see them sink in.
I don't know how they got there.
She left her thoughts in me.
I swear I shredded them.
I don't know how they got there.
How would I know that she could ruin me?
Her fingertips would fly across the frets and I'd sit there idly, wondering why she let me stay there.
The tips of her hair would reflect against the sun's rays and I would think they were little snowflakes.
She was the dark midnight sky,
And the trees would sway in awe because of  her pulchritude.
She was harmonious,
The way she blinked with her dark straight lashes fit uniquely with the way she stepped on the cracked, root showing, LA pavement.
The way she spoke and the way her lips moved made you wonder if she was singing.
And if she was singing,
Could she sing your name?
The way she wrote and the letters that were painted made you wonder if she was an artist,
If only she could sketch you.
The way she breathed with the slight sighs,
Made you want to breathe the way she did.
She made you want to write poetry.
And that all made you uncomfortable.
You wish you could just hit the restart button and have no saved changes.
You wish you could have just removed the tangling thoughts of her that slithered into your head.
You wish you could just walk away without second thoughts.
But there's only a tiny part that wants that.
Only a tiny part of this points to heart
Wishes she'd never existed.
The rest would let her slowly make your mind intact,
Even when you know that's not possible.
The rest would give up nights only to think if she was thinking of you too,
The rest would give up sleep so she'd have the best sleep ever.
The rest would stay up lonely, so she wouldn't be.
The rest would let itself be the paper she'd scribble on about how she wants to leave this dead end town.
The rest would do anything.
Anything for her.
Always.
I swear I don't know how this happened.
I didn't think she'd mess me up.