morning dew drops on your collar
impressing me with the zealous way the seasons drastically measure the moment it takes me
to reach forwards and brush it off
liquid winter falling onto a ***** cement
the initials 'F T' written jaggedly into the cold stone of asphalt
i wait for it to disappear, for the flicker of everything gone to fade from my vision
but it passes too quickly
i look back up and there's no one around
the street is empty and the capricious wind has ceased
a sucker for patterns i walk into a fabric store and feel my hand linger on the erratic linens
fingers paused on the peach organza sprawled like a pink bubblegum sea
and i am swept into the manic fantasies of wearing the sheer tissue-like textile into
the abdomen of your sweaty palm and sinking like a sticky sweet stripe
until you put your hand in your pocket and i spend a year inside melting
into the every thread and curve of your jean until it is nothing but disgusting sugar
everything i could be when i am hidden from sight in the dark caverns of denim pants
who knew the tongue in cheek joke would be nothing but my tongue in your mouth
touching all the way up your gums  
find me sweltering beneath the uvula wondering if i could go back
to the time i found that girl with the mountain logo sweatshirt who whistled between her teeth and hummed all the reasons i should skin my knee and kiss the salty wound because there's no greater pleasure than knowing you don't have to wait for that morning dew drop to fall from their ******* collar

Your party an animal affair
The elephant and kangaroo
A dog in a ruff, upside down
on a tub
And a friendly cockatoo.

We all sat round the ring
The lights were bright
The music a jaggedly song
Then in came Queen Bee
On her trapeze.

Mr clown took a leap
But missed the band
In Queen Bee’s hand
Gliding safely
To earth by his feet.

Love Grandma ***

when did the
mirror break?

a different angle
for every mood
sharper lines
and harsher truths

jaggedly cut through the glass
same stripes up my sides
personal lightening storm
down my shoulders and thighs

when did the
mirror break?

when did fat stop
being a feeling
and more of just
a state of being?

The soft whirling hum of a fan works its way from one corner of the room to the next. I succumb, defeated, deflated, shoulders slouched over, to passing wafts of air that briefly foam over the drooped skin of my emotionless face. Its touch invigorates the senses, momentarily reminding me to take in a breath of the foul and arid air that lingers lifelessly in this second story bedroom. As a sliver of light makes its way slowly up my chest and falls back to its original place, a muffled sound of pain boils over slowly softly searing through my torpid ears. Meanwhile, transparent tendrilous hands of memories begin to curl through my mind appearing and quickly vanishing like steam before I can grasp the true gravity of their presence.
        It must be ninety seven degrees in here. A drop falls from my face onto the back of my clenched hand and for a moment the fan is at it again pulling my head with it from side to side. Oscillating, it dictates a hypnotic lullaby, an ***** riddled rhythm sanding away at my rigid thoughts. Another drop falls toward my wrists driving me away from the blissful moment. Then losing its grip a metallic clang reverberates throughout the room as the object leaves my hand and finds the old wooden floor. Looking back at my hand I see where the two drops had fallen, now glistening in the dimly lit room. Were those tears? When I direct my sight down to meet with whatever had fallen a rush of blinding pain jaggedly inhibits my vision with a flaming wall of white instinctively calling my eyelashes into the backs of my eyelids painfully. My voice cracks and I hear the same singe of grief from earlier reflect ballistically throughout the room and into the hallway where ghosts gargle back an echo of my anguished voice. Am I hurt?
        Afraid now of what I may have done,I cautiously work my foot away from the chair and navigate it across the floor until it hits the handle of something sending it spinning around. Reaching down, the once trance like hum of the fan falls deaf and gives way to a steady beat of drips that are accompanied by an ever increasing tightening of my chest. When I reunite with the object I had dropped the image of blood and steel mesh a murderous hue onto my fingers as I fumble to recover it. Realizing what has happened my mind fizzles and pops with panic and I begin to beg for respite, for a chance to revisit the moment before I had slit open both wrists. Cold anguish flushes the heat from the room and out into the hall as the dam of reality breaks and in with it a torrent of emotions and images of the blood peppered hardwood floor that now seeps dauntingly with the new life it is drinking. In desperation my eyes fire off in every direction, finding an open journal perched on a coffee table. The pages are in a fretful fury revealing pages dotted with smudges and smears of bloodied ink and teary paragraphs. Confused, I begin to search the room again and there beneath the window blinds lies the woman I have loved for eleven years lifeless in a pool of blood. Lorraine.
        My head lashes violently backward as if to howl toward the moon of time in an attempt to beckon the falling grains of sand to return to me what had once been mine. A sobering clarity strikes me and I begin to recall the events that led up to this moment. Beginning with a distressed phone call from Lorraine. I came,I told you I would come. And then I recall the strange feeling that scaled through my body slithering down my arm until it coiled its nervous grip around my fingertips as they bit into the **** of our bedroom door. As it creaked open, I had thought, I'm here baby, but you were already gone. Lorraine. It took what felt like hours to reach the part of the journal where you had confessed your infidelity that resulted from the tangles of promises I never kept, from the things I hadn't done, and should have said. Oh Lorraine why didn't you tell me. I would have changed, would have done anything for you. I'm so sorry,I forgot, I hadn't noticed. After seven years I thought you knew, but I will show you now. I will give you my life as you had given yours. I would have forgiven you ******, they were only kisses that meant nothing. Lorraine...and then nothingness.
        A grey shadow in a once enraged Congo of colors and emotions in an otherwise empty room now fill my eyes until I'm choking on its thick smoke and drowning in tears. When one of those tears fall, this time on my bloodied wrists I'm called back to the present moment. Once more the fan catches my sight directing me toward your lifeless body, and then a warm hand from the deepest recesses of my mind begins to cradle my shoulder. Lorraine. My eyes flutter open and find you placing a kiss on my forehead as you say something sweetly into the soft embrace of night. The scent of your hair bristles around my cheek and ears while you caress the short hairs along the ridges of my neck. All I can manage in the moment is to pull you in closer as I whisper "I'm sorry Lorraine. I love you. I can show you." A tear catches a lock of your hair as you kiss my lips and with your love I am drawn back into our bed and out away into sleep.

Uncle Sam sometimes whispers a little bit too close.
I’ve felt so many scraps scraping against my cheek-
those numerous numberless things he carries in his
beard by ‘accident’. So many things get stuck there
and I feel them all, whenever he dares, and he dares
often, to whisper alittlebittooclose. One time the grey
beard leaned in and touched me in my sleep and
planted in me strange dreams of faraway gothic towers
passing off as libraries: Harvard dreams, Princeton
dreams, Yale dreams: I haven’t quite slept since. The
shaggy scraps stuck to the forest of strands on his face
would never let me. They scratch away at me often
even in the brightness of day, and claw jaggedly in the
darkness of night. Little heart of mine has lost its own
beat. It beats to the beat of a beat on a beat from a beat
with a beat by a beat which beats those beats and beats
beats that beat not of my beat. Little heart of mine, when
did you lose your own pulse? Why won’t you tell your family
that Uncle Sam’s whispers are more than whispers? Why
won’t you tell your family what Uncle Sam does to you
in the brightness of day when everyone is smiling as Uncle
Sam pats your shoulder? Little heart of mine, why doesn’t
your family know what Uncle Sam does in the darkness
of night as he whispers whispers under your whispers and
what he does beneath your skin? Didn’t you know, little heart?
They have laws that say that greybeards shouldn’t be digging
into little boys’ insides, don’t they.

(Uncle Sam has travelled
far and wide, far and wide to tell me lies.
Recall that this is not the first time…)

But little heart you know why. This is not the first time.
It is the natural progression for a Coconut like you:
darkness of night on outside and brightness of day on inside.
Your skin doesn’t matter; you all taste the same.
Cut you off the homeland-tree and cart you all away.
Then, in this way we can say and say the homeland is “Rising”-

Uncle Sam tells the world of his diversity in selection
of little boys to touch with strange dreams.
And I like the feel of the scraps in his beard. Maybe
I can become one of them. One with them.

The City lights blinked out forever--literally overnight--with a sudden finality that caught even the most nuclear-winter-prepared/Guns N Ammo reading/Campbell's canned soup and distilled-water stocked/backyard-fallout-shelter-owning-survivalists completely off guard. Armageddon had always been there, sleeping just beyond the horizon line of our periphery, but it awoke fully clothed and ready to go to work that day.
It was an ordinary Thursday, just like any other. The MUNI lines were choked as always with angry elderly women clutching plastic shopping bags full of pungent vegetables, poultry, and recyclables as if their lives depended upon the contents of those bags (maybe they did) and the usual gaggle of gibberish-mumbling crazies talking to themselves with cellphones plugged into their brains, some without. 
That day, baristas were 5 minutes, 23 seconds late for work on a city-wide average. Bartenders were making their rent in tips as rowdy soccer fans converged in their local Sunset, Richmond, Mission and SOMA district faux-Irish pubs to watch the latest big championship match between Ireland and...some other country.
By Saturday, less than two days later, the desperate siren-blare of emergency vehicles, the insect hum of DPT tri-bikes carrying cutthroat ninja-sneaky meter maids ready to make their weekly quotas by slipping bogus $55 parking tickets under the windshield-wiper of your best friend's beat-up, barely-working mid-90s Mazda you were borrowing just for the night, and the cloud-cutting rotary-whine of channel 5 news traffic-report helicopters chopping through the sky had been silenced forever.  
As if sensing the absence of gardeners, street sweepers and garbage men, weeds grew out of the cracks of the streets and sidewalks with the newfound urgency of a wildfire. Leaves swirled through glass and concrete skyscraper canyons, settled, and slowly began forming mounds as if attempting to fill the spaces that angry elderly women with plastic shopping bags, cellphone schizophrenics, and drunken soccer fanatics had once occupied.
Speculation about how the End of the World would actually occur had always been a theological reference point for religious zealots hell-bent on giving the Book of Revelations some validity, but had taken on a tone of comical absurdity in the hands of post-Y2K pop culture and disaster movies. A horde of zombies rising from their graves and feeding on the flesh of small bands of living human survivors was one of the more popular, albeit fantastic, apocalyptic theories. Some predicted that robots would enslave us, some thought aliens would invade us, while still others--baring signs reading "THE END DRAWTH NIGH," arms stretched meaninglessly up towards the hollow heavens in the sky above--believed biological or nuclear warfare to be the most likely form of humanity's demise.
But by the following Thursday, speculation had become a moot point; none of it had mattered at all in the end as the power-grid of the City, and then human civilization altogether, had been suddenly switched off for the last time by an alcoholic rent-a-god, leaving the face of the globe devoid of any trace of the spiderweb-night-glow of terrestrial city-lights. 
Only the birds in the sky and the fish in the sea were spared to fill the blank pages of history that were to follow human(kind's) fading footprints.

*

Aeons later...
When those birds learned to read, they would see cryptic symbols inside a crooked heart jaggedly carved into a tree trunk surrounded by a mote of fallen leaves and ragged newspaper pages blowing through the streets like tumbleweeds.
Aeons later...
Those tree-scratched symbols would form the sacred commandments of a secret new religion built upon the ashen, worm-eaten remains of two skeletons holding hands and a ****** trail of broken hearts trailing from their ribcages into the worm-mouths of babes.

The hourglass stands empty
and cracked
Sand merging with tears to form
salty mud
A girl made of glass vibrates with
the violent
energy of rejection and sighing,
she implodes
Sends pieces of herself flying
jaggedly
To embed deep in the blinded eyes of a swiftly
moving fish
Like fire clarity sweeps through him and filled
with remorse
He turns to find her already broken
and ruined

One thousand lives lay before me.
Smooth edges jaggedly intermixed
each one has its place.
Some are the corners of a frame,
others fill the void.
The voices unsolved each screech-- annoyed.

When they find their place silence reigns.
Engaged in a kiss only seen on a silver screen.
Lips locked so perfectly, so ingeniously engineered
Their places found through trials and plight
as tired eyes glaze over the chaotic table.
How can this game depict life's fable?

You kept me entombed in a coffin of thought
Never free cockroaches of doubt crawled
Around my chained thoughts.

The nails rough on my mind, jaggedly etching
oxidized stagnation of my embalmed understanding.
Why would you keep me in the dark.

I am solitary in this shallow wash of waning moments
Could I just crawl in to this sea of disbelief and
Drown slowly in my entombed darkened thoughts.

on ruby jacobs walk, a
small girl
asked us for money for ice cream.

she eyed our cones
                                yours, lemon
                                mine, strawberry
with a child’s hunger
glinting and opportunistic
as she held out her palm for coins.

i was not yet accustomed to the shapes and sizes,
to a dime being smaller than a nickel,
and in any case wanted to preserve them for souvenirs
so we shook our heads and walked away.

a year later, writing this poem,
i learned that ruby jacobs was a local restauranteur
who, as a boy,
illegally sold ice creams
for a nickel on the boardwalk.
                                                a nickel is the larger coin
                                                the size of a ten pence piece.
                                                i know that now.

the wide atlantic rose from a sloping manicured lawn
        star-spangled,
                                like everything here,
                                                           ­     the airborne flag
                                                            ­    above a wide pavilion
                                                        ­        a fanatic wedding cake topper
                                                          ­      against the blood-blue sky.

        i slipped
out of my shoes and let
the white sand burn my feet,
and jaggedly fill the spaces between my toes.

the atlantic held open its arms
though we weren’t, as we imagined,
                looking east
                looking home
but south to new jersey, across the bay.

the gnarled boardwalk was a
song of the twentieth century
        a roll-call of mass-market capitalism
        here in the city that didn’t invent the concept
        but certainly perfected it:
                                                hot dogs
                                        amusements
         ­                       ice creams (we’ve covered that)
                        fridge magnets
                baseball caps
        i bought an espresso cup with a picture of the president
and the caption:
                         ‘huuuuge!’
i stopped to take a photograph
of a space-age building from the fifties
which turned out to be
                                        a public toilet.

later
from the sunbaked d train,
brooklyn spread out beneath us
the houses garnished with flags,
then the city coughed us up on seventh avenue
and night fell five hours early.

¬The trouble stems from the branches bursted from mean tantrums of the heated Johnny Appleseed’s handgun. held me for ransom but in as much as he trusts his land lock planned spot he must remain unplucked or  ****** with stuck with the function of patiently waiting to branch out and touch something. Turn the pages on the famous channel changer cuz this cliff hanger is upsetting the readers’ digestive systems. Howdy stranger maybe don’t strangle and erase the angle their plato fated brains are facing and they’ll be no problem when the mad-man-made stage caves in. Oh ancient aliens, save them from the cavemen take them to your leader they’ll meet her and she’ll tame them. Train them to fly all unidentified like and fight flickering lights that “look pretty nifty when they’re perfectly aligned all nice like that right”? **** pay attention their coming in hot with a heat seeking mission! Fully equipped with infinite wisdom and phish records skipping they’re insisting you’re a loose end who’s been missing from planet prison. You planned it didn’t ya? The way you resisted being apprehended by those animals. You’re intangible that is to say untouchable to these cannibals. Until they snuck back and struck fire when inspired to stuff the sling shot with cannonballs. ****.. terrible.

That tragedy outlasted the whited out new paper pages for nearly half an eternity. You know, internally I feel pretty empty about the incident cuz theirs a hollow feel in my gut which leaves more room for my heart to bang its head against it. Its like the old tricky ticking ******* wanted to burst his branches out of his old standards and habits of doing the laboring favor of keeping me alive. Which to be fair I completely understand where he’s coming from. I went 50/50 with him on a bet, both of what’s left of our chump change life savings. No pun intended. Threw it all at the odds of the abstract fast track approach to finally get up and move away from this place because we don’t like the crooked looks of it. No more straight edges making us circular patterned people look like were cutting corners. We were taking these squares down in their own home court advantage. They had flat feet man. A good solid stick in the mud demeanor if you know what I mean. They wouldn’t budge. Until the they jaggedly and abruptly branched out to spread their seeds and infect most of the infantry into agreement. I still remember them yelling “stick with me”.

The trouble stems from the tangents tearing the seemingly handsome devils by their new haircuts. Bare-butted phantoms prancing shoulder to shoulder  roll over on the motive to hold boulders or shotguns in his holster. But hold up, he was sold a handgun by a man who scammed him to run as rampant as a rabbit can run to tear up the lack of land with demands to “get in the family’s tree trunk”. And thus we sunk. He was Much more of a cold shoulder of a quote unquote soldier in his old days. Don’t **** the messenger lest you lessen his lesson from his letter, hope next time the handgun writing is a little bit better. In a nutshell, that Johnny kid has a tremor. He’s just a teenager in between the brain and the thinker. Thinking more meaning is a synonym for meaner. No more lingering in this trunk-stuck scenery, he leaves her. Makes a deal with the real inside of reality and magically adapts to their ragged jagged jackpot actually he quite liked the lack of quiet he’d suggest you try it if he didn’t die happily when he tied a tight neck tie to his promised-landslide. Tragedy.

Looking out, I hear the croaky calls
Of husky-throated birds and the
Frothy licking of sea tongues.
Purplish azure spreading widely,
Timelessly, when once my Father told me

The beauty was infinite and he smiled at the pair of
Big bright brown eyes
Glowing up at him in belief and awe,
Believing the secrets of the sea
All the wonderful things he told me.
Holding my hand, imprinting the sand
With our shallow foot prints: big and small
My chubby hand in his, the other
Collecting the glossy, opaque nails of sea dragons.
Sometimes we found sharp, dull-colored ones
And these were the faded scales of their leathery tough
Skin. Craggy black wings folded jaggedly-
Mountains, the ignorant people called them
Only we knew underneath those folded wings
Lay a sleeping, ancient dragon with its
Golden eyes watching out for its children,
The White Sea dragons that ran along the edges of the waves.
Speeding on rapidly, diving under
Out swimming the run of short brown legs
Decisively deaf to a child’s sunny yells.
When the sky was littered with stars
Before I began dreaming I could hear
The rush of wind as the dragons unfolded
Their restless wings, the gentle splashing
As their children twisted in and out of the water
And what Daddy said, Sweet Dreams,
Arrived shortly thereafter.  

Yet today I search vainly for their younglings
Gone in sunlight, in the midst of red foreigners
Coming out of hiding after dragon-hot sunsets and
Only behind closed eyes.
The spikes on their powerful wings
Have melded into dark shadows of trees
The jar of multi-colored sea glass remains
By my bed, reminding me of how when Daddy’s eyes
Could no longer burn bright with belief
In such magic, he placed the spark in new eyes
That were identical to his:
In both shape and color.

Mie Takuye Oyasin
A Poem by Eclipsing Moon-blood red


we are all related in NA sioux language.transcendental look at relationships...



Words of the creation, softly ,jaggedly, tumbled from my mouth...



Blindingly Lit by the Cosmotic forces, thunderingly struck ...





As a two headed drum of goatskin, beats the primal rhythm...



Twump...pa Thump...resoundingly beckoning all spirit matter to proclaim....



I am worthy ...We are worthy ..We are all related in creation..

.

I am covered with
Excreted expletives
Light bleeds between my fingers
And merges with tears.
Words are weapons
Spat jaggedly, slicing cruelly
Into gentle dreams,
Silence is the final, finishing cut.
Leave me smothered
In dislike and disdain,
Leave me shaking,
Naked and in pain.

There once was an Eskimo!
Named Es-kee-mo-mo!
He was of Somolian Antartician,
Persuasion!
Just about this big,
Jaggedly he roamed about the country,
In search of some gravity.
Little did Es-kee-mo-mo know,
But what he looking for in fact,
Was his long lost sack.
He searched long and hard,
Along the tundriatic terrain,
But he never did quite find,
The bag ya dig?

They must have jumped out,
He hollered quite loud,
Enough to cause an avalanche,
Swept away in the wave,
Ol’ Es-kee-mo-mo couldn't believe,
That right up on top of the cliff,
Was his sack shining in the light.

when I stop
and
just let the
silence
be. . .

everything
is ok:

the tattered
tarp partially
buried in
the
hillside is
ok

the broken
bough used
as a toy
by the
poor
children is
ok

the
jaggedly
chopped
tree stump
by the
parked
car is
ok

the
unevenly
placed
stairs
that force
you to
change
your gait
are
ok

the
distant
tower
with the
blinking
light
is
ok

the
solitude
among
other
mortals
is
ok

the
whelming
sense of
being
lost is
ok

the
neat
glass of
scotch
from the
isle of
skye is
ok

the
divorced
lesbian
with two
kids at
the end
of her
rope
is
ok

the
minuscule
fly that
landed
on my
forehead
in the
bathroom
this
morning
is
ok

everything
is
ok

even the
things
that
aren't

they're
ok too

my head hangs low
my eyelids flutter
these shaking knees are collapsing quickly
and there is no ground to catch my escape

my mind lays blank
and no tears are left
but my heart is racing like when we met
yet this time, there’s a valley in the center of you

I quaked your land
re-shaping what you were
and now you’re divided jaggedly
with no hope of reeling your two parts back together.

my vanity has broken you apart
my pride pulled me away
and just like you, I’m left in half
but my good has gone to grey.

needles and pins infest my feet,
my prickling hairs stand tall,
even now, in all this mess
I have your back against the wall.

Sorry can’t be a real word
when I don’t even know what it means
but I’m sorry that you fell in love
and so sorry she was me.

Sometimes I miss you
I roll over when I wake up
You are never there.
I open my eyes after crying
You are never there.

I sing you songs,
Can you hear me?
You are never here.
I eat so slowly,
Can you tell I am waiting?

My bed is empty,
My stomach is angry,
My heart is jaggedly cut,
I look beautiful on the outside-
My shoulders hunching forward
Hiding the jut of bones that peep from my skin.
You are never here,
But I am waiting.

Sometimes I wonder
Is this
Life's new version of
A Christmas Carol
And this life I am living
Is the ghost of Christmas future?

Can't I wake up
Roll over,
Hold you close.
Tell you I love you,
Apologise for not
Getting you help.
Tell you I listened
And you would never let me go.

One hundred days and I fly away.
I will be so far away
But you
You are never here.

A ****** crossed
a crescent moon
in a twilight sky,
the wind whispering
"Is this a blessing
or is it a curse."

Falling stars pass through
the pastel splashed canvas
of a Northern night
heading toward
once green fields
***** and on fire
with no morning's dew
for rest bit.

To the south
mountain tops
pushing jaggedly  
through milk white clouds,
their tips, rock bare and alone,
always looking down on the world,
their stone being smoothed by
one hundred million winds
through one hundred million years.

Only time will tell
if there will be a human shadow
to bask in the rays of a close enough Sun.
Playful gods, mythical legends telling us that
any great wrong will be found out.
A Proverb's Fallout dripping
down our brow like interest owed to creditors.

I once met a boy with shoulders that could hold up the world and a few stars across his shoulderblades. He stood high, swear he belonged to trees, with a stare that made every nerve correspond to make me a personal lightning storm (to get a better idea, I used to jump off branches to feel wings I didn't have and his eyes were the leaves I'd see before I crashed to reality). What was reality without the birds beating against my chest when the expanse of my hand covered the thrumming of his heart. If there was a God? If there was a Plan? He would've made him ready to hold my hand, and he was (I'd like to include that he fit me like tides on shorelines).  
He was entirely made of stardust and sea glass, jaggedly beautiful, someone shattered him along time ago to throw him to my shore, thank god she did, you were too alluring for me not to admire.
I've never been to the ocean, but the way your hands felt on my back felt like the entire world. (To elaborate, he's earthquakes, forests and the way the moon loves the sea).
Somebody asked me to explain the scientific explanation for infinite and I just whispered his name. He was engulfed in my forever, surrounded by words I whispered about futures we were scared of, with plans we'd propose now and promise to mars they'd work.
You see, I'm not artistic, not in the least, I like the elaborate equations of the brain and how your bones never actually fully mend. But I wrote books of words for this man, every color in my paint set couldn't compare to the way his eyes looked under street lamps or when he first wakes up.
That's what scared me, everything in the world can be drawn, written, solved, but someone forgot to finish the riddle for a boy with shaken leaves for eyes, forgive me, for I have been caught in the labyrinth of this boy.
The only way out, is to stay until stars crash around our ankles.
*Tu sei un mondo tutto da solo.

The sorrowful jungle of weeping foes
Lived like a macabre cabaret
Dancing on the fervent green
And singing to their enemies.
Oh woes! they cried with apathy
Not knowing that they could not breathe
In spores and dust, those underlings,
Who sought for death and misery.
Upon the strike of midnight's glare,
They watched the tiger feast,
Eating on the hearts of old,
The ones who battled for his soul,
And left his scars cut jaggedly.

She was the moonlight
Pewter sprite that tiptoed the world
And never made an impression.
Lunar and light,
Dappling, dreamily across the surface
Never sinking, always glittering and glorious.
Though the sea roared
Monstrous and mean, jaggedly reaching
Greedily for her feet,
She was out of reach,
Lovingly lifted to where
she was always meant to be.

Red Night-
Dead Anger-

settle.
jaggedly,
unsteady:

“look out for
sharp corners”

(the tightest turns)

It gets late
as I digest
what I just ate,
some greasy food
and horrible news.

Slumber sneaks in
and I barely feel
it taking me
against my will.

In my dream
I see a pudgy
pale faced
angry man,
skin glistening
with sweat
and thin streaks
of sick salivation
sliding down
the side of his
plush cheeks.

A rumbling voice
of desperate rage
vibrates congestedly
from his strangely
changing face.

Bulbous bulges
of tumorous flesh
expand
in random places
and irregular
rhythms.

His eyeballs explode
from constricting sockets,
causing small jelly chunks
of red, black, and white
to fly at my wide eyes,
while his mouth expands
pulling back to expose
many new emerging rows
of sharp, small, decaying,
black, brown, and yellowish teeth.

His skin ruptures,
stretching jaggedly
in unpredictable places
as he bellows angrily.
Slick gore covered flesh
falls from his form
seeming to smoke
with the putrid smell
rotting roast beef.

Not fully free from
the last bits
of human flesh
the creature
lunges at me,
slipping slightly
on the newly greased ground,
but recovering just as quickly.
Then just as his mouth
is about to chomps down
on my left arm.
I awake
safe from harm.

My computer still blaring
is now sharing
terrible scenes
of the latest
war atrocity.

There are corpses of women,
men, and children
with shrapnel shredded skin,
even little baby bodies
scattered amongst them
in a crater from
some local bombing.
Crimson streaks
trail the frail
disfigured forms
that family members
struggle to carry away.
Strangers moan in pain
not physical,
but spiritual,
and emotional.

My stomach turns
as I yearn
to return
to sleep,
cause I’d rather face
a fake nightmare beast
then see the horrors
stretched out before me
on my computer screen.

my hands and heart are calloused
from writing out our story
from living out our story
god knows
i breathe so much love for you
and it lives within me
and right now it's messier
than before

it's angry
it's painful
it's jaggedly soft and a whispered
prayer
are you there?
my love, are you there?

you may give up on me
but my knees are scuffed
because i've been praying
on concrete.
that never used to happen before

i've this carpet burn
from sleeping on the floor,
because the bed
is a mocking reminder
of the softness of your skin
of you love
of you

i'm a sinner, and you know it
but i felt so holy
when your lips touched mine
the way they did

i miss you
like an ocean misses the shore
i will always be trying
to reach you

my heart's still in your hands
it's in your hands
i always melted in your hands...

My fists tightly clenched,
I'm standing in front of the mirror.
I'm glaring at my reflection,
Hating the girl I see.
I watch the tears trail down my cheeks.
I stare into my own eyes,
Letting the anger build,
Letting it festeer inside me.
I let out a cry of rage,
And my left fist hits the mirror,
Right where my reflected face is.
The glass shatters and tinkles as it hits the counter.
I pull my arm back and swing again,
Ignoring the shards embedded in my knuckles.
More glass breaks, sprinkling onto the countertop.
There's blood now, trickling down my wrist.
I see it but don't heed it.
My reflection is broken,
Scattered into a thousand pieces.
Just looking into my ruined relfection,
Jaggedly repeated,
I let out a hoarse cry
And drop to my knees.
I put my hands on the top of my head,
One over the other,
And bend over my knees,
Crying openly,
My sobs echoing throughout the bathroom.
I can feel the damp warmth of my blood
Seeping onto my hair and scalp.
My cries become louder,
Turning in to high, keening wails.
There are bits of mirror beneath my knees,
Biting into my skin and drawing more blood.
I squeeze my eyes shut,
Not wanting to see the pieces of glass,
Sparkling coldly in the artificial light.

I could tell you everything about the day Dad took me along to his mountain lake fishin’ spot. We didn’t talk much, not knowing what to say, but it didn’t matter then. We skipped rocks, sunned, & I basked in the company. Wading into the water, too surefooted, I slipped on a broken beer bottle. The day ended as jaggedly as the glass. Sliced my foot open from toe to heel. And our quiet relationship faded away like its scar.

i find that sometimes in the midst of feeling like i am
alright
something creeps up the back of my neck like a
tidal wave of anticipation that tastes sour like the church wine
i've only had once
in a time when i was too young to realize that
it's only for those that believe
i find that i am
philisophically bound to repeat the
same things
over and over
and over and
over and over
until it's all just bleeding words
and gaping fingerprint spaces
and maybe that means that you were never right for me
or maybe it means that you've gone and
left me incomplete
i can't tell if being able to survive without you now
means i'm falling into a glacier of used-to-be
tailspining break-me-jaggedly affection that somehow
is subdued yet no less disasterous
i hold myself to the achingly high standard of being able to be fine
all on my own
yet still expecting someone to somehow know
that i need them
to hold my hand and press the tears from my eyes with their weathered thumbs
rain is the only weather i ever feel safe in
and in my eyes there are black rings around blue rings around white
feelings of being lost in the mindset
that i am no more than the flower at the end of field
forgotten and left to the wind for no other reason than because
my distance makes me undesirable
i am shaking shifting shattering stinging slipping stumbling stuttering still
wrapped in words of endlessly undefinition
sighing like god himself has pressed a hand too hard to my ribs
pressed myself out of my lungs and snatched my spirit around the neck
not even my shadows can breathe in the dark
of never-finding-the-exit hallways and tripping-through-hours staircases
i am dash-dash-dash-dash-dash-dash-dash-dash
take a pair of scissors to my theories with your unwavering
slash-slash-slash-slash-slash-slash-slash-slash
no trembling breaths no warm gentle touch no proof for myself no belief
in the surroundings of my brain
i am lost in the week like i am lost in my weight
the numbers keep shifting and they never go up never go up never go up
i waited so long to be small like the small people who always got the love
that i knew would never be meant for me
small like the amount of time i am fearless
small like the things that i wished to be
and now that i am small it seems that small is all i can be
i take it back take it back take it back all the way to that january morning in the
dentist waiting room when i first declared my wish
take it back take it back take it back
like the moment your fingers slipped through mine took me back to the first time
i got to understand what it means to drip drip drip
overwhelming desire
i would have kissed you that night only if you had whispered the want for it
in my mouth
but there is a deeply rooted problem in my branches that has stemmed not from the earth
but from the people taking care of my limbs
and leaves and sometimes they forget that i am a tree and maybe the reason
the dead things decay is because only when left abandoned do we really
start to understand what it means to fade
or maybe like words fingers run over they die simply from the weight
of love never ceasing
i have so many disconnected theories and maybe the reason i don't know how to understand
myself is because
i am a cause and effect action and reaction question and answer statement and reply all
rolled into a chest with ribs that are too small to cage the
confusion overflowing from inside
when i say i am a tidal wave i do not mean that i am good to catch a surf
i mean i am wipe-out-your-world-in-five-seconds-flat terrifying
do not rest easy on my shores
i have no idea how to swim and i would never
ask you to drown with me