I've become acutely aware of the gravity in the fact that all I said to her was that I don't want to be the one who starts all of our conversations anymore
And that since then we have had no conversations.  
I don't think I will be rid of the haunting that this is my fault until I am haunted with the fact that it may be hers
In so making her not the woman I wanted for
Nor the woman I was all too eager to give myself for
Thirdly making me that man who opened his rib cage exposing his heart for her taking
Only to collect dust, rain drops, and those twisty helicopter things that fall from trees in the autumn
All from being left open so long on a very windy day when she saw what my heart was stretching to offer her and chose to leave it there
Couldn't I once be the one worth taking
Or at least notice when she's not the one worth opening up for.

There are days I wish God hadn’t built me with a zipper for a sternum
You know I don’t always mean to show them everything
It’s just sometimes I forget to zip it back up after I take it on walks to the liquor cabinet
My heart is a bow-tie drinking Manhattans at the center table with a chair full of friends and a twinkle in his eye
My tongue is a rolled up cuff drinking whatever’s on special at the end of the bar confusing, “I’ll have another” with proper conversation
My mind has an unplugged mini fridge in the corner with two luke-warm ciders waiting for a chance to celebrate...remembering to brush my teeth
Depression is a funny sort that way, it’s all her fault, right up until you remember how hard it is to brush your teeth everyday
At which point it’s either your own fault, or we’ll try again tomorrow.

Knowing is not half the battle when the battle is not being waged in your head
Knowing it is all going wrong is just another reason to never put on the helmet and see what the battle may bring
Seeing what right looks like on Pintrest is not motivation to check my zippers
It is the battle cry my stomach gives my lungs after lunch
It is the battle cry the fists of my mind give my heart when we are alone
It is a crop duster driven by the Morton’s Salt Girl, who never misses the open wounds of my torn innards strewn about an open field after losing the battle for the day.
I am a slug on your porch and I shrink with every grain
And you will never hear me scream
It’s just so tiring to tell someone you hurt and have no blood to prove it.

I do not much dream for stars or skinny girls anymore
I am afraid of what their sharp edges will do to my fingertips
I’m just looking for something I can hold on to
Someone who will remind me that I have a place here
If that place is only to take up oxygen
Sometimes I let my dreams get away from themselves and I dream of great magical things:
Like being loved back
Feeling important
Sleeping peacefully

On occasions I even see myself at work opening a love note in my lunchbox from someone who felt compelled to take the time to tell me they love me
It always swells my heart
Makes me want to be a better person
To get out of bed
Run a marathon
Sing an opera
Lift a weight
Sky dive
Read a book
High five a stranger
Take a dancing class
But then I wake up and look across my room at just how far away the light switch is and decide I must be afraid of the dark
Since I never remember to turn off the light before lying down and I never have the strength to get back up

I dream most of all of having someone to tell me the things I need to hear
To give me a purpose
A vision
A reason to live
To stop letting me find better excuses
To yell in my ear or write me a note that says,
“You are worth it, every minute, every cent, every effort.  You are worth it, because you will become a great man and because I love you, and because you are destined to change my world, and because your son needs you, and because you are brilliant, and because the world needs your words, because I need your words”

But the only notes I get are the ones I put into my own lunchbox as a reminder come noon-time
That even if for no other reason than because I said so,
I am worth it

Mom always walks her child to school,
Her little girl's lunchbox in hand.
Every day she cares for her,
Teaching her how to walk and stand.
She held her close that fateful day,
Against her breast while nose to nose,
"Mommy, why is this lump right here?"
Now only whitewashed halls she knows.

Mom always waves her child to school,
From the porch with a trembling hand.
The poison did not work this time,
And there was not more she could stand.
She pays the bills day in, day out.
The insurance has long run dry.
She coughs up blood, cleans it quickly,
And makes sure her daughter won't cry.

Mom calls her child at school sometimes,
A red phone in her bony hand.
"The doctors say I'm doing great!"
At nine months since she last could stand.
The blade has cut the flesh demon,
Yet even faster back it grew.
Waves of power rolled over it,
Yet there was no cure that we knew.

Her child now walks alone to school,
Mom's old tin lunchbox in her hand.
The grief within her swells sometimes,
Making it hard to talk and stand.
She visited her that cold day,
By the old brick church down the lane.
"Mommy, why did it take you now?"
She whispered through soft tears of pain.

I was surprised it felt heavier
Uneasiness too pinched me
Haven’t carried a weightier ever
What could fill a family!

Did I see a red heart there
Did I see a silver line
Did I carry the weight of care
Sealed with the hands of valentine!

It was heavier but I felt so light
And free as my dreams set free
Scaled the hillocks reached mountain height
When remembered what she heard from me!

There’s no time I must haste
A load of work at office knocks
Would come home late it would be best
If you forget for today the lunchbox!

Now I’m smiling as I eat the meal
More than daily quota manifold
The lunchbox lends me the much needed fill
Sealed with a heart of gold!

in between my insecurities

I can’t be found sometimes,
dumbfounded by my surroundings.
hiding,
in between my
insecurities.

i’ve been captured in the moment,
scared to say another word,
caught ,
in between my
insecurities

I got lost within the essence,
talking nonsensical thoughts,
lying inside,
in between my
insecurities.

I learnt my lesson swiftly,
teenage years, lunchbox idioms ,
sandwiched,
in between my
insecurities.

I don't know since when.
This diet has began
and gone extreme.
There was once
a reasonable aim.
But a new one comes up
whenever the old was
claimed.  
Crosses over the weekdays.
Tell me how far I have gone.
But the crosses goes on,
They linger far too long.  

I was counting on my calories.
Eating portions from my lunchbox.
No more than
a quarter
I couldn't stop.
I'm sorry.
But I'm not.

Led by starvation
my ultimate downfall.
I was saving all the calories.
For a binge at a time.
Keeping in my desires.
Till it's time to dine.
No my throat is on fire.
It's getting tire and tire.
So I kept eating and
release as
I violently *****.

This is all too
disgusting.
dreadful.
disgusted am I.
Nothing have I eaten for breakfast,
lunch, tea and dinner.
Spooning out from my
kiwifruit.
No one could save me.
From my one and only solitude.

The banana is an inside joke
from God
It is His calling card
And you can call home
if you would hold it to your ear
and speak directly to Him
Just kidding
Bananas are for the belly

He would have used perforated edges
but naysayers would be in an uproar
"How could your God think us so stupid!"
For they always imagine
that God reflects their own stupidity
And the atheist too
would have a fit
and a slew
of jokes about how the real evidence of God
has banana split

But just like little children know
mother puts the best food in the lunchbox
Humble believers can tell you
good loving means good grubbing
on the inside of the banana peel
And that's real

We never ****** on anybody’s ticking bed.
We didn’t even **** up, although we did. Who gives a **** about romance?
These days I am letting my mouth slide right off my face. Letting my fingers bleed
onto bathroom walls. Peeling my skin into the bathroom sink. My
brother complains about it. Tells me I need to be cleaner. I shower
everyday for two hours. You’re still sleeping in my hair, my
flesh is still crawling with your sweat. Please don’t think that I
ever held a door open for you. “Write about me.” Well, ok, *******,
I’m not crying. I’ve never cried, except for that one time when my mother
threw my lunchbox at the wall. The lunchbox was shaped like a spaceship.
Now I know that she wasn’t mad at me, just at the sky
and how quickly it could change and how she wasn’t ready for it to change,
wasn’t ever ready for it to change. But I still liked that lunchbox. I don’t
eat much these days maybe because she broke it. I mean I no longer
have a home for my food, so what’s the point? Two weeks ago
the kitchen was dark and my feet were undressed and I was scooping
peanut butter out of the jar like a nightlight. It’s one of my top five
embarrassing moments even though nobody was there to watch me.
I watch myself so well. Also not well enough. Please tell me what I
look like. I want details, sometimes I think I want your face but
then I remember you’re still climbing the stairs like a ghost. I
almost let you be my ghost.

I have a perfect lunchbox mom
Crusts cut off
She leaves me love letters on my napkin
So that when the bathroom stall became my cafeteria
I wouldn't be so lonely
I have a perfect marathon mom
She runs to the beach and back just to show that she can.
And when she says she's all gross from her run, she somehow still smells like fresh air
My mom is fresh air,
She fills my sister's lungs with life
And every exhale is love
My mom is fresh air.
She is a sanctuary, she is a nest
She is rest
I have a perfect lunchbox mom,
A "Honey, what's wrong?" mom
An "If you're not here, the day's too long", mom
A "Wonder if God knew what He gave to Earth" mom
I thought God kept track of angels
She is everything

Fried brinjal rolled in flatbread
Her magic recipe of love homemade
What treasure they hold what charm unlocks
When sharp at two opens up lunchbox!

A sweet candy from the finest cheese
Made from cow milk a salivary bliss
I feel helpless and little can do
My belly when growls sharp at two!

I feel entranced in that magic hour
When smell green peas and cauliflower
She makes them fine rich butter spread
The toasted breads her love homemade!

She knows my bowel not makes it rich
Fine cut cucumber in soft sandwich
In all them I find her special brew
Of love homemade to be opened at two!

Though it’s never that I made her known
How sweetly relish her love homegrown
But when I open lunchbox at two
Wonder without her what I would do!

Kiss my cheek,
Again. Tell me
I’m pretty. Whisper
to me, again
the parting of
your lips
they crack
so wicked ****.
Move my hips
they stand still
for most of the day
Let them know
Its o.k to hulahoop
A love tale. Go Ahead,
wisk by me,
Temptation works best
In brushstrokes
And dial tones.
Just don’t shun
falling tears,
they soak your face
and make it brighter
before morning coffee.

I live inside these walls.

I know no other way.

They are as cold as steel,

And keep the light at bay.

I’m not alone however,

There’s tens of us in here.

Locked in solitude,

But never lost to fear.

Then one day a wall did open,

And we scattered to the winds.

Flapping wings of amber glass.

Free of the walls, but lost of friends.

In that instance I gained such freedom,

But we lost our power.

The world for our togetherness.

Oh look a flower.

an opening cabinet reveals
my lunchbox is a shelf too high

i will admit,
a couple of things come to mind

i must have left it on the counter
for i cannot reach that top shelf

you must have placed it up there
finding me too much of a mess

i work to keep this roof above us
but all you see is where i fail 

and when i don't meet your standards
you always make certain i'm aware

Forgive me for the ink that strains your innocent purity with words I don't even understand.

Pick up your rubber and erase my right hand with swift flick of the wrist

and a gentle caress for you cannot forgive me for what I have done,

but I can.

Stone me. Cut off my hand and stone me.

Let the blood drip like my wasted children that come and go with each

waning moon,

as the only thing that grows within me is love.

Open up the gates of hell and toss me like Mary Madeline tossed him,

and let me burn; but God, you play with fire

as I will only burn for her so nail me to the cross with my convent robe

and watch her kiss my feet and continue up to the heavens.

You can forgive me for opening my legs but you cannot nail them

shut, and you cannot cleanse my **** with salt from your narcissistic

***** that seeps between thighs in an unconsented **** of fertility.

Eve may have eaten the fruit of they womb but you cannot throw me out

the garden of Eden and you cannot tell me not to love when my heart

smells her sweet flower.

Nor can you curse our open mouths for taking a taste.

Forgive me Lord,

for I do not know what I am saying, and only say the words and I shall be

healed.


Malevolent God, this finger is for you.

But benevolent God, you gave me hands so I can make her tea

when she is dreaming,

and you gave me a heart that will not stop beating at the sight of her

sneakers on the floor.

Her eyes are like crumpets, God.

They make my mouth wet and my lips moist

and cover me in cotton blankets, just like 1993 when icicles clung to the

rooftops like I cling to her waist when she is sighing.

You made the ocean just so I can see her in a bikini.

It does't matter if she covers the curves of her thighs in shorts,

or her soft ******* in a shirt.

The point is you tried, and my God did you craft something magnificent.

Forgive me God, as I did not believe you existed till the day she said

I love you.

I smiled like second grade when I found a muffin in my lunchbox

and I ate it like my life depended on it, as if I don't have her

I fear I might explode.

But unlike 2nd grade each day I open my lunchbox and I find her

next to my sandwiches.

You made us like peanut butter and jelly.

So forgive me Lord, but I refuse to believe that you

condemn

something so perfect

as this love.

White shoelaces tied carefully,
clothes ironed straight,
not a strand of hair in his face,
private school and Christian home.
His momma packed him PB&J.;

She said, "Son, don't hang with the wrong kind of kids,
the ones sitting in the back of the classroom
who wear words on their necks and
black every Sunday."

And she puts a napkin in his lunchbox and reminds him
to wash his hands.
And she prays for him to find cleanliness,
and she checks the internet history every day
while he finishes homework and practices piano.

She tells him, "Son, don't let those celebrities
with their drugs and their ***** words
influence you."

And she emphasizes "man shall not lie with man"
and not "God loves all His children"
and tells him not to let any mud get on his new socks.

He sits on the couch and
he sits in the audience and
he's told what isn't okay.
He is raised following predjudices he doesn't agree to,
stereotypes engraved deep in his brain to the core.

He was never taught any different,
he was never educated on differences.
He knows a million shades of white but God forbid he touch a blade of glass.
He was taught to keep his window locked,
head down,
eyes shut,
mouth closed,
hands folded,
back straight,
shoelaces tied.

Momma says, "Son, better keep yourself clean,"
but she touches him with ***** hands
and ties a rope
he never wanted
around his neck.

I pulled my old green lunch box
down from the top of the refrigerator
the other day
because my blue one is broken.
I toted my old green lunchbox
swinging it on my wrist
as a walked in the rain
to the bus.
I noticed his
old green lunchbox
that he clutched in his hand
as he walked through the rain
on the way to the bus.
I thought something
preposterous.
Perhaps matching was not a coincidence
but a sign.
A sign from a god or fate that I don't believe in.
That matching is to destiny as fetus is to baby.
I hoped
I hope
That matching will lead to Love.

The wind escapes
Through a forgotten lunchbox
Like a child
Leaving their toys in the grass
But I looked closer
They were two dying baby rats
One was still quivering
it pierced my chest
To breathe a rat’s last breath
what did he speak of?
Nothing
Because now he is gone
Like my childhood
Swimming through memories
Of long forgotten promises
Of rotting baby rats

Two Children fell in love
After they colored the squares
And shaped the circles
And fit their hands around the lunchbox
Firm and slipped out the plastic
Ziplock bags
An fought over what was inside

The thick formaldehyde air keeps me awake.
Eight hours on fluorescent lights and lemon water
pins me to this stiff, rigor mortis chair.
Her stifled screams a ward away distract me from
counting the ceiling tiles
again.
Clocks ooze down the wall, time melting in sync
with EKGs and IV drips.
and I, alone with my blanket and Harry
turn to ask him how long we’ve been here
why the sky is blue
how much a soda from the cart might cost
if she’ll be okay.
But he just stares blankly with his cold gorilla eyes
omniscient in his eternal silence.
So I hug him closer to my chest, plastic fur
scratching at the soft spot under my chin.
Dad paces back and forth along the linoleum,
crushing grandmother’s pearls between his teeth
like candy mints.
and I, alone with my blanket and Harry
idly wonder what he’ll pack in my lunchbox tomorrow.


It takes me back -
this dilapidated Christmas card from ’99,
tucked neatly away in a drawer
of condoms and last year’s candy corn.
A family photo from OR #12 wasn’t
“appropriate”,
So we chose one from the year before.
Three faces plastered on the blood red backing,
Season’s greetings through gritted teeth.
I throw it back into the box
with other useless paraphernalia
I should have never kept.
Reaching deeper, digging through years
like bare fingers through stale grave dirt,
I find her hospital bracelet.
Twist it between my fingers.
Wrap it tight around my wrist,
breathe in the familiar formaldehyde scent.
and I, alone with my blanket and Harry
idly throw it away.

Into his plastic lunchbox
He did, an Orange and biscuit, shove
And said the biscuit to the orange
“Come sit by me, my love”

And the orange, taken by surprise
Gave him a sheepish grin
And flashed her pips and dimples
So he knew they might begin

She was smooth and round and juicy
He was crunchy, brown and fat
She introduced herself as Lucy,
And he said his name was Zak

And throughout the sunny morning
They did laugh and love and tease
When suddenly with no warning
Their lives were torn apart with ease

The sky ripped from their little world
Their peccadilloes for all to view
First Zak, then Lucy disappeared
With a bite, a crunch, a chew.

So dear reader, please take heed
Don’t shy away from love
For we never really know quite when
It’s lunchtime up above.

I'm from Sister Shubert's rolls and homemade chicken and dumplings
From bowling late on Thanksgiving night to trying to be the first one to find the pickle in the Christmas tree

I'm from the smell of my mom's famous pies (pecan, chocolate peanut butter and Kentucky derby fresh from the oven)
From "Sweet Caroline" and "Oh Happy Day"

I'm from the macaroni and cheese I never realized was good
From "Dance with the cow in a patch of clover" and puzzles on Nana's steps

I'm from Rook parallel to the bathtub
From my three favorite windows in the whole house and crazy surprises in my lunchbox

I'm from reading dad's sermons over his shoulder early on Sunday mornings
From lightning bugs and fried okra to the quote board and pickle pancakes

I'm from biscuits with honey for breakfast every Saturday
From McDonald's delicious chocolate birthday cakes

I'm from ***** feet and a pitch black washcloth
And that's the only way I'd want it

Two Children fell in love
After they colored the squares
And shaped the circles
And fit their hands around the lunchbox
Firm and slipped out the plastic
Ziplock bags
And fought over what was inside

I confess to you
I hardly confess to her.

Why I say this is
I often deliberately miss
To say the sorry-s I owe her
For having found fault with her
Only discovering after some hours
It was me who was wrong all along
What she did was amply right
What she did was with farsight
Her acts take care of only my needs
My wants she always perfectly reads.

A piece of the dairy white sweet in my lunchbox
Soft silken milky treat
When melts in my mouth
I remember this morn I told her
Why you bring these ****** plain sweets
And not those juicy colored scented treats
Don’t put any of those in my lunchbox
Not caring her face’s strains of shocks!

I have forgotten though she has remembered
My utterings of emotion its every word
How I miss dear those plain white sweets
Pure unencumbered most delightful treat.

I have forgotten she remembers
My companion of all weathers
She picks my choice she knows my mind
Yet for her a sorry I hardly find.

*Don’t you think tonight in her ears
I should coo a sorry in unuttered whispers?

I miss when Jane didn’t smoke.

She sneaks under morning’s cloak

Goes to class and laughs

With an empty head

At my empty joke.

Empty is the ***** flask

I pretend not to notice

Tucked into her lunchbox

So I stare at her sandwich instead

No crusts

A housewife’s handiwork

There's no use pretending anymore.

We are empty

We are fading

And she is faded

And I am waiting

In the food court of a failing mall

While she is debating

Whether or not to give it all

To another blue-eyed boy

Because he made her feeling something

Her father didn’t

After his deployment.

A box entitled Lost and Found.
Inside-
a ball,
a silver slinky.
A pink backpack with unicorns,
a ratty teddy bear with love in it's eyes.
A math notebook that holds all the secrets of a girl named Alicia.
A cootie-catcher that has been ripped in several places.
A metal tin lunchbox with Spiderman on it and the name William on a piece of masking tape on the handle.
A barbie doll, looking as thought it has been given an amateur haircut, and wearing a yellow dress and one pink high heel, but still smiling.
A green hairband with several purple flowers on it.
A diary with a lock, and butterflies on the cover.
A stuffed puppy dog, with a red nose.
A key, probably to a lost diary.
One black shoe,
in the Lost and Found.

I wish I could feel emotion as a singularity.
just one, intense emotion,
one engulfing thought devouring all of my being.
one singular, unitary, simple drive.
powerful.
as a black hole devours all particles of any existence,
even light itself.

they say that if you stood on the edge of one,
hovering at the point of no return,
time becomes as simple as space.
the universe is no longer a mystery.
the Big Bang as quiet as
that abandoned swing on the playground.
space and time are but children,
gravity that kid who
forgot his lunchbox.

no subjective meanings,
no in-betweens,
no emotions.

sometimes I wish I could see
my thoughts as binary,
or my memories as morse.
sometimes I wish I could understand
that we are nothing but the sum of our parts,
the outcome of a spectacular binding
of cell to cell:
a container of molecules.
that sadness is a school brawl between chemicals,
happiness an accidental firework
set off by a wayward alchemist.
all irregularities, as explained by
human error.

but the only thing human about an error
is the error itself;
the most fragile thing about a human
is his humanity;
the closest we can ever be to God
is on the verge of our own ruin.

weightlessness is only felt
halfway off a building,
freedom only gained
halfway away from home,
love only experienced
as one half of a broken heart.

there is no light without darkness,
no warmth without the cold,
no way to experience things
two at a time.
we will always exist in paradoxes,
as one or the other.
as a singularity.

the only place we can be God is
right here -- on the event horizon,
the point of no return.

Chalkboards and easels, pencils and toys
Desks lined up in aisles of little girls and boys.
A classroom, learning the A B C’s, two plus two equals four
But this day, all that learning didn’t matter anymore.

A girl with a bow, a boy with a grin
Children with freckles scattered on their skin.
A daughter, a brother, a grandkid, a friend
A lot of moms never thinking these titles would end.

Lego’s and the alphabet, Mrs. Soto taught them how to write a name
And then a mad-man stormed in, with destruction he came.
He shot down a daughter, a son, a wife
He shot down a child, a baby, a life.
Lessons in elementary consist of building Lego’s, catching butterflies in the sky
Lessons as a 6-year-old should never be what your friend looks like as they die.

Moms stuff a lunchbox with treats; Dads stuff a ball in a glove
Parents raise children; stuff a heart full of love.
They teach how to ride a bike, put a band-aid on a scratched up knee
What they should never have to do though, is bury their babies beneath a tree.

But there is evil in this world, a darkness that engulfs the light
There is an evil that reigns that humanity can’t fight.
The safest places are not safe, the most guarded unsecure
In the world we live of ignoring God and provoking massacre.

We denounce Him out of government, our country, and our schools
We ask that He move aside so that we can make the rules.
And then we blame Him when there’s death; but we don’t thank Him when there’s life
We don’t bless Him when there’s goodness; we just curse Him when there’s strife.


Moms are always good at preparing children for the day
With some things that don't matter, clinging to a love that will never go away.
Mothers, kiss your babies. Fathers, hold their hand.
Devastation comes unannounced, we will never understand.

At home in Newtown, a dog sits waiting at the door
He stares out the window, his tail wagging no more.
He sits by the window, lots of time he’ll spend
Waiting to welcome his very best friend
Jump up on her lap, smell her scent, steal her sock
But his owner won’t be coming home; no more leash, no more walk.

I think Jesus sat by his window this very same way
Waiting to welcome His children that awful Friday
He greeted them from His throne that December afternoon
And as they entered through the Pearly Gates, He healed all their wounds.

A classroom filled with giggles, children’s voices - the sweet sound
This same classroom turned from liveliness to a too-young burial ground.
But we hold on to the giggles, and we hold on to their love
And the promise of a Father taking care of them, above.

person feels a wave of heat through their neck and face when struck with a thought of their ex boyfriend. a ninth grader gives them a ***** look. person leans against a cold cinderblock wall and relaxes their face. focus on the empty space between the eyeballs and the brain. feel the limp arms and identify the beat of a pulse running through them. repeat after me: self care is boring.

paul laurence dunbar knows why the caged bird sings. he never wanted to be an elevator operator. it's a point of privilege. person asks a ninth grader if a bird could see the wind, the river, the sun. "oh... no..."

one thing person notices time and again is that when these students drop something they do not pick it up. they let someone else do it. where person is from it is not like that. students would not help person like that, they think.

person remembers one time, when they themselves were in the ninth grade, dropping their lunchbox in a crowded hallway and picking it up swiftly in the next step without slowing down. a tall boy behind them said "smooth". person felt proud at the time. person feels good remembering this.

this ain't no art, man,
this is just a careless whisper
this is just George Michael
singing in your stereo
this is just your bourgeois-blues
this is merely a bewilderment
this is not the art, you know it,
you ******
you ****
you chronic masturbator
you who dare to write on the internet
dancing with yo papa' shoes
and in yo mama' lingerie
ah, look at yourself, a human miracle
Angel of a foreign Harlem,
you who wasted all away,
speaking in foreign tongues
inside the thighs of a british stripper,
you idiot
you *****.

and when i'm done i'll come for you,
like a ****
like a dog
sniffin' and slidin' in your park
in your ***** trailer park
there with your fat-****-husband
stalkin' yo every move
you *****
you ****
and when i'm done i'll look for you,
simple as that
simple as an Einstein formula
served to you on exotic dishes
by Norma from Twin Peaks,
cars for the missus and furs for the mistress
and when you'll die you'll ****
between all your champagne wishes
and it'll be ******* ridiculous.

But that's life, babe.
Get down on thursday,
drains you in May.
You *****.

so be-my-babe
i say be-my-babe
in black and white
like the Ramones
or the Ronettes or
the Rolling Stone
- i still want to know
how your insides look like,
- i still want to save
your capitalist nature
in my mother's fridge,
- i still want to fly
high on a jet plane with you,
alone,
with or without needs,
crashing on our bridge.

I love you-
love me!

I put my gun in your hands.
I push it. I shovel it.
My bones are broken
bound by all the words
i never dared to say
- and here, my love, right here,
i put IT in my mouth,
i feel the cold steel in my tongue,
-- how much blood from
such a tiny hole, Lizaveta!--
and this, and so much more.

but please, i say please,
would you feed me?
would you need me?
i'm a little angel drowning in candies
who's eating his heart out and ******* his candy
ah, would you say this? Would you?
Just because it ain't cool?


Well if i'm not cool i'll drive my kite all night
and take my lunchbox and
shoot Panama down and
shoot Mexico down and
shoot a *** smoker down
and shoot a crack dealer down
and shoot a beer dealer down and
shoot Mexico down
shoot Osaka down
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
my love will gun down all your school
Look at me - i say, look at me!
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
Kabrula kaysay Brula Amal
amala senda Kumahn Brendhaa!
and don't you forget to say my name,
as i'll

****

YOUR

SKULL

your breakfast will be shining stars on a silver platter.
in your lunchbox I will pack sunshine
each tear you cry, I will catch.
when you’re scared you know where I am
I’ll hold you like three months
sing you to sleep or smiles

days and days and days.

I know that you’ll be lost sometimes
I won’t always have a map
but on the table you’ll find food
and in the bed a safe place for you
to rest your eyes and count the sheep
quietly prancing behind closed eyes

months and months and months

you’ll love and lose and be alone,
but always even when your last friend folds
you know when you open the door
I’ll hear the creak and rush to hold you at arms length
and with one glance I’ll know your pains
pull you closer and tell you

tales of when long ago my last friend folded
tales of when the fire licked my toes
tales of when the sun danced on my skin
and then and there you’ll know
all along I loved you
so much more than time can tell
so much more than words can say
so much more than letters can spell
and so much more than sounds can make

I’ve loved you more than wind in my hair
I’ve loved you more than dirt between my toes
I’ve loved you more with each painful moment

with each jab she made, my love grew
every tear watering the flower
long before I knew it existed
Each snark comment that cut my skin
leaving me bleeding and aloney
fed the flower ever growing
and if you ever come along

you’ll know from the moment you feel my touch
that I will dance with you until the sun comes up
I’ll catch your tears all night long
I’ll give you ice cream
and listen to your angel voice soft against my ears

I’ll cradle you until you’re my size
then I’ll cradle you some more
I’ll hold your laugh in my heart
and when I’m crying I’ll let it out
like Pandora and her box
but your laugh will infect all things with good
make them shine like gold and silver

I will not keep you from mistakes
it’s not my place to live your life
I’ve already been living mine,
but if you need help, ask.
When you need support I’ll be there
Do the things that make you smile
that smile will make me happier
happier than any gold medal,
happier than and sum of money
could ever make me.

That smile will make me dance
and sing and and live longer than anything
because in your smile
there’ll a little part of me.
Nothing big or great,
because I’m neither,
but something small and subtle.

Everyone will know your smile
and you will always remember
every day when you wake up

that my love for you overflows every ocean
that my love for you stands taller than any crane
that my love for you outweighs any killer whale
that my love for you runs deeper than the grand canyon
deeper even than the Mariana Trench
higher than seven Mt. Everests and an Eiffel Tower

And when you wake up and feel my love
where ever you are
be it Paris, Rome, Milan, Idaho
be it Iceland or Greenland or Newfoundland,
you will smile.
You will know when your eyes open to start each day
that my love is wrapped around you tight always
where ever you go
you will smile and everyone will know
you. are. loved.

~
lost library books
and broken lunchbox thermos,
her childhood under a forgotten
leaf on a pond.
she's attracted to the sound
of the breeze through her hair,
inner-city birds recommending
she listen with her head underwater,
to experience it as a fish might.
this is inescapable.

blood roses in the snow,
her unemployed martyred
fingers in the factory.
the manufactured years go by
at a price too great to recover from.
for every flash of beauty,
there is a hint of anger; a dash of violence.
this is inescapable.

her sleep-flower recital
in a dew-swathed spring morning hospital,
some kind of faraway pink funeral for
dead trees and traffic lights.
treasure impaired clouds capture
an isolated moment in time.
perhaps several moments.
perhaps several parts of the same moment.
this is inescapable.
~

Clouds engulf the L.A. basin
Layered mold in the
tubberware
lunchbox
I left home.

Except the spores
are tufts of a woman's white hair
Clumped together in the shower drain
blocking the grates.

You cannot shoot up enough
silicon to fill
the wrinkles of a body
hollowed
You'd have to start pulling marrow
from the bone.

These craters of the basin--
****** dry to burn.
hollowed curves a body barren,
tapped out, laid fallow.
Shrouded...

White noise
White film
White foam.

She, with her fingers
in every swimming pool

She, lounging behind the smokescreen

She, big curvaceous mound
smoldering rock of an old woman

She, who can **** it in and hold it in
the atmosphere

She, lasso-ing lady with wild tendril hair
She can't always keep from billowing out
hot air.
Soon enough she'll catch a sore throat.
Soon enough she'll taste the concrete waterways.
Soon enough, she, ittle too long.

The tale of Hydra is a tale of women deflated.
This lick of fire did not blanket the city but set it ablaze.
She swallowed the heat ****** back the fire
bled and wept Armageddon-red sunsets.  

White Noise
White Film
White Foam

She, a flat, airless
mortar without bricks
tooth-picked clean.
only marrow left of bone.

I painted my nails ultraviolet, color of the year
Sitting at my desk

Thinking about you, I read some books
Mark went by and asked how was my New Year?

"I went to watch fireworks", which wasn't true
he said, "I don't think you'll come to my neighborhood"

Staring at the monitor, thinking about you.
It is only 20 degree, I shouldn't go out to get lunch.
But I could paint my nails ultraviolet.

Got off work early, I carry the basket that I use to put my lunchbox in.
You're still in salt lake city,so I went for a mani,
and paint my nails ultraviolet

Let’s not go chasing ants today.
The grass is gone
And dirt won’t burn anyway.
Why not get to work with me
And let your memory go out to the yard to play?

Let’s stay away from the familiar doors
And antique halls
Whose windows open only to walls, anyway.
Let’s ditch the dollhouse unopened,
Still in the box.
You and I have business in the life-sized world.

Bin the old plastic flags,
Still furled in bags, let them go to the ground
In triangles over G.I. Joe caskets.
Stuff your red lunchbox with as many
Kens and Barbies as you can
And let’s bury them in someone else’s playpen.

We should burn that old forest down
Where we used to do magic,
So no one can cut down the trees
And make planks or papers -
Because it would be a ***** to find them,
(Not to mention climb them) but
I suppose you can’t go torching forests.

Still,
Chuck that cigarette in the bushes.
Maybe something will catch.