I don’t care how
or care what you do
to make it happen;
I just told you
make me shine
so slather me in turpentine.

I want the sun to shrink
and the world turn dark,
when she’ll no longer rise
after she rests her eyes
upon my fiery spark.

I want the moon to swoon
and raise the tides
when he looks for the sun,
but instead
it’s my beauty that he finds.

I want the stars to bow down
and shower me in gold
when I shine brighter
and reach higher
than the stars of old.

I want storms to make
the world stir
when I walk upon
their earth,
no matter what it’ll take.

I don’t care
if it kills me;
just answer my plea.
I just want, so badly,
to shine,
so slather me in turpentine.

Skin.
Skin by definition is a thin layer of tissue forming a natural outer covering of the body.
Skin is for people to tan, to clothe, apply make up to... to touch.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Mosquito bites.
Mosquito bites by definition are the itchy bumps that appear after mosquitoes use their proboscis to puncture your skin and feed on your blood.
Mosquito bites are for people to feel, to itch, to bleed, to scab and repeat. The entire cycle.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Summer.
Summer by definition is the warmest season of the year.
Summer is for t-shirts, shorts, exposure, swimming, tanning, skin, skin, skin, skin, skin.
"It's Summer, put on some shorts."
"It's Summer, why aren't you wearing a t-shirt?"
"It's Summer, let's go swimming!"
Summer is a time for these questions, these statements, these words to fester, to breed like muosquitos, to sting like the bite of a bug.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Dermatologist.
A Dermatologist by definition is a doctor that treats diseases, in the widest sense, and some cosmetic problems of the skin, skin, skin, skin, skin.
The Dermatologist tells me to use this and to use that. Lotions and potions, as my mother would say. Slather, rub, treat, swallow.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Skin care.
Skin care by definition is the range of practices that support skin integrity, enhance its appearance and relieve skin conditions.
Get up, shower, sterilizing soap, body oil, steroid cream, medicated lotion, drink water and repeat the process before bed. My daily cycle.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Seesaw.
A Seesaw by definition is to change rapidly and repeatedly from one position, situation, or condition to another and back again.
Seesaw, to push off the ground, into the air with a sense of victory and joy, only to fall hard to the ground with stinging ankles and sore calf's.
This isn't a playground anymore.
The Dermatologist says that if I don't get better, they'll have to put me on the pill.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

The Pill.
The Pill is an oral treatment for my condition. My eczema.
One pill every morning at seven AM with food and an entire glass of water.
The risk associated with the pill- Osteoporosis,  Muscle weakness, Mood and Behavioral changes, Increase in chance of developing cataracts,  Stomach Ulcers and Liver Failure.
One pill every morning at seven AM with food and an entire glass of water. The daily cycle.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab.... **** it.

I would rather my liver fail and my bones go brittle then to be stared at on the street!
"What is that?"
"Are you okay?"
"What's wrong with her?"
"Is it contagious?"
"Don't touch me!"
I itch, my nails dragging over my scarred skin and pulling at wounds. I bleed, the welts that crack and leak drops from the red river that flows silently beneath my skin. I scab, leaving horrible lumps of ugly, hardened flesh to coat the once smooth area. I repeat....

Well, I don't want to repeat! I want to be able wear the clothes I want, to walk the streets with out the judging and questioning eyes of the passersby on me, to be held and touched by a significant other without the fear that their fingers will fall upon my skin and recoil in disgust!

Without looking in the mirror and wondering when I can finally begin to love myself.

I decided that today is the day! No more Itching! No more Bleeding! No more Scabs! It's time to break this ******* cycle.

a letter to myself:
(a reminder, rather),
I know it feels as though you are now in the trenches
the mud clinging between your toes,
the walls too inevitably high to scale,
the rain beating and pouring down on your body,
and you see everyone above the surface hovering,
watching you as you try and clasp the sides of this hollow grave, frantically trying to escape
and you want to just lie in the mud and have the rain drown you until you are nothing
but you must remember this:
you will be fine.
And I know it feels as though you have been butchered, gutted and cleaned
ready to be thrown on the grill by he who so carefully flayed you open over time and space
only to have all your guts and bones trailing behind you, and thrown into a stock *** to boil away
and I know you miss his furrowed brow
and his incessant organization
and his frigid room
and you want him to call and say
"go to where we met and I will hold you and not say anything more than I'm sorry and I want you and you're all I see"
but remember this:
you will be fine.
And right now, I know you want to cover yourself in paint
all colours, but especially red; Tabasco to be certain
and slather it on until all the marks and scuffs disappear
until you disappear
and you want to refuse to let it dry; apply layer upon layer of every shade of blue from sky to navy;
from lime to forest green,
from sunshine to mustard yellow
and all variations of pink,
and your brush becomes heavy because this paint is caking your skin,
a cast of plaster holding your true self in
until you are as frigid as a statue; you are clad in stone
immovable and impenetrable;
your shield
but please remember this:
you will be fine.
One day someone will see your statue in a square or a park,
the sunlight beaming off your sheen,
and will see past that paint:
the layers of Tabasco
and emerald
and ocean
and canary
and pink
and see you
because you are a light
you are the last piece of pie that you know you shouldn't have, but take anyway
you are a phosphene that never disappears, even when their eyes are open
and he or she will approach your statue,
in a stance of utter uncertainty and self-doubt
shoulders hunched, spine pulled in and face blank and wanting
and will see you
and will take a chisel to your stone
and break off the layers
reduce them to dust, surrounding your pedestal
brush, blow and wipe it clean
and they will suffer from the heat and labour
but they will see you
and they will chip until finally you emerge
that light
and all will be gathered in that square or park
and as you look around you realize that they are the people you love the most
and the person who has broken your mould, your shell
is the one you love most of all: you.
Because you look in the mirror and you love you
you want you
you need you
and I know it's dark
and I know there are drills and hammers and saws
and I know when you sleep you are erased
but remember this:
you will be fine.
you are alive.
you are here.
you are better.
you will rise.

You have had me in every way
Rising mountains and flooded hollers
Gifted with everything, and I have nothing left to offer but this
This treasure of depravity
As you clean the crevices and ***** my mind
Worship, slather,  repeat
You delve in fiending for the taste
and with each pass of that silver tongue my thoughts get more tarnished
And you get...all of me
Taken in heat engulfed in passion
Drilled to the core
Filled with rapasciousness
I offered a gift and I was chewed up and swallowed
Consumed fully
Wanton abandon in caveman style of take what is yours
And that...I am

I
Hear the story of our oil –
Hail to oil!
From the glory days of Drake well we recoil,
To see seabirds flap and shudder,
Dolphins, turtles flop and sputter
With collective dying groan.
Hear our population moan
When the gasoline price geysers to the sky.
Still we drive, drive, drive,
To keep consumer binge alive,
Amid a maritime disaster fast evolving from the spoil
Of the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the gushing and the oozing of the oil.

II
Smell the ancient dark crude oil
Stinking oil!
Engulf the products made refining from a boil:
Guzzle gasoline flambé,
Drive-through fast food every day,
Raise our carbonated toast to Arctic roast…
Then drill more oil!
GM corn and corn-fed beef --
Both born of oil,
The shaving cream I slather on my face is made from oil,
Toothpaste, vitamins and lipstick,
Tires, everlasting plastic,
Come from oil;
All American affliction
Petrolopium addiction –
Truth is stranger now than fiction
And it does not set us free;
We are prisoners of oil,
And as slaves to OPEC pricing we all toil,
For the tapping and the lapping
Of the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the drilling and the swilling of the oil.

III
Soak in news of spilling oil –
Offshore oil!
In grim images of damage that the television splays;
First blow-out slimed in sixty-nine at Santa Barbara Bay
Then ten years next blew Ixtoc
In the Gulf of Mexico,
Two-ninety day gush tick tock
Slick slopped thousand miles away
To Texas shores!
In Alaska’s Prince William Sound
Exxon Valdez ran aground in eighty-nine;
Full tanker load erupted,
Left the rocky coast corrupted –
Prudhoe crude!
Seals and otters stuck in goo
Seabirds suffered coatings too,
Cruising tourists supped in view
Of the oil, oil, oil,
Thickened slick encrusted oil
On the shore!
How it clings and clogs and covers;
All aquatic life it smothers
Marsh and beach are left in cataclysmic mire!
Still we “drill baby drill,”
All our gas tanks gotta fill,
We must shop, shop, shop,
Lest our wasteful lifestyle stop,
So we run, run, run,
Take our car vacation fun --
At the beach…
See the sheen -- how it shines!
Pretty rainbow-colored lines
From the oil!
We love our oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For economy cachinging in the oil!

IV
Hear the praise of offshore oil,
Miles deep oil!
For the goal of independence on our oceans now we toil,
Till ungraceful conflagration
Twenty April rocked the nation
On the Deepwater Horizon drilling rig.
Eleven lives were lost in blast
As the deep crude spewed out fast,
Gushing Hell!
Couldn’t stop it with top ****,
Junk shot, golf *****, caps wouldn’t still
Gushing well,
And the spreading, spreading, spreading
In a steady surging crawl,
Gulf coast residents all dreading
That their livelihoods might stall,
Now the fish and shrimp are ill,
Tourist business will be nil,
And still oil spews…
We must thank God that there’s *****,
For there’s nothing but bad news
And the ooze, ooze, ooze
Oily ooze.
Who will pay, who will pay?
Who will make this go away?
Who’s to blame? Who’s to shame?
Many pointy fingers aim –
Lefty points to rich BP,
Righty points to rock Obama,
And there’s six sticks pointing back at you and me!
We will pay, pay, pay,
At the gas pumps we will pay,
So we can drive, drive, drive,
And keep America alive;
Despite the grim disaster that arises from the spill,
The way we live and spend won’t easily end;
So we’ll still say “drill baby drill,”
Each time our gas tanks get a fill,
And we will shop, shop, shop
To do our patriotic duty --
Spend our *****, *****, *****
For the oil.
For the oil, oil, oil, oil,
Oil, oil, oil,
For the gushing and the oozing of the oil!

Drafted 6/8/10, revised 6/14/10

The new growth on my apple trees is covered in aphids;
the leaves curl and darken under the crawling green foam of their bodies.
My roses broke out in black, dropping yellow leaves,
bearing thick sickly flowers of hope on bare spindly stems.
Now even old hollyhocks have scales, those innocent seeming bumps
multiplying and spreading. And the aphids will go everywhere when they
**** the apple trees dry, they are already migrating
to poppy buds and young tomatoes.

I go to the nursery, resisting the urge to wring and brush off my hands.
She uncovers the facts--my garden got no fertilizer, and water may be insufficient.
So I will try to give my garden what it needs--the nutritious powder, the thorough watering,
the ladybugs in cheesecloth cages, the beneficial microbes, and where I must I will hack the plants away.

My self, meanwhile,
crawls too.

I slather vice on the wound, but the sting always returns.

The world expects me to be stronger than I am. The world is set up
for strong people, and it provides for them.

Once again I am like the short, shy child standing by the counter, overlooked.
But I cannot expect to grow into strength. And the world will only protect me
once I no longer need protection.

At times I sit in a stream of presence. I slather virtue on the wound,
but the sting always returns.

I straddle need and lack,
a gaping wound between my feet. I could sink down that hole,
but it too hurts, it hurts.

I am in the wild--no gardener comes to tend to my hunger or thirst,
or my illness after harsh conditions. Well, one comes--
a harsh gardener comes.

I wring and brush off my hands. I brush off each little invasion,
but there are always more.

She was stark naked
I could see her ****
And her boyfriend had
Quite the **** on him.
His meat should have
Made him quite proud
And the lady’s ****
For crying out loud
Were perky and prominent
And quite nice to see.
Both of them seemed
To be pointing at me.

And I seemed to be
Eagerly pointing back.
They both very obviously
Aware of that one fact.
She smiled openly
And the guy broadly winked.
I started asking myself
“Do you think? He did wink!”
So, I winked and smiled
And let them see my bone
And hoped this meant I
Would not be alone.

I hoped they’d invite me
To sit on their beach towel
To slather sunscreen on them
Like a human mortar trowel.
There are not many things
There are few better for me
Than hot mixed couples
Into some fun bisexuality.
I have games for both kinds
And genders of human beings
All based on the stimulus
Of what I’m feeling and seeing.

Generally a single man
Is not lucky at this scene
A common concept that I
Always found to be quite mean.
I understand about jealousy,
An emotion foreign to me
So, I usually keep my distance
And behave circumspectly.
But when I get the go-ahead
I never hesitate very long.
How could something this good
Be considered bad or wrong?

What will you have, asked the waitress,
A death sandwich I replied,
Mustard and ketchup, she continued,
Yes and slather the mayo, double the cheese, I answered back politely,
You’re aura is a spiral, she said, whole wheat or white,
White with butter and does it come with final fries, I queried,
Included, she replied
And a new indelicate sugar fix by the pail.
Make mine to go, I suggested.
Want to quantum up and get a piece of plague cake
Maybe **** cookies in a bowl.
What a wonderful time to be alive I remarked,
The only generation to ever eat itself to death she quipped,
We’re special I said and looked away.

Lying there lifeless

pretending...

Pretending to be asleep
the gray ceiling drips onto my face
with each passing second the
room gets smaller and
hotter

Smothered by restlessness
suffocated by longing
I sigh a heavy sigh
expelling another moment from my muddled life
debating on whether I should get up or not:

     The effort of pulling off the iron covers
     the indecision, the fear
     afraid of being caught


Sneaking out to do naughty things?
                  I think not.
Something I shouldn't be doing?
                     Hardly.


Taking slow strides across the room
my eyes adjust
just enough
to bring forth indistinguishable shapes
I rely only on the silent energy
that the darkness emits
my ears pivot to pick up the blackness' ululating drone
I tune into its mystic frequency
abandoning all mixed signals that came about today

The slits of oceanic blue light
slather the window's opposing wall
an illuminescence too scarce to peg the door's frame

I twist the cold brass **** until I hear the click of metal

Tip - toe - ing . . .
through the never-ending runway-hallway that seems to  

S T    R       E          C            H        o  n   f    o     r        M  I       L           E                  S 

strafing crucified
agaist the wall
still hitting every
creak I had been aiming to miss

Descending down
the steps
I reach the
Flat 
one more step down and my excitement rises

I glide across wooden floors
stirring up invisible dust...
I am the lazy particles that float in the air
minus the fanned out beams of sunlight
shining through cracked blinds
to scream out my presence
and fuel my pestiness

Finally I am close
close enough to breathe steam on the storm door
remove the stick

push up the lock

pull. slide. open.

Ahhhh
The cold air knocks the wind into me

My first barefoot step is into a pool of icewater
turning to close the door I enter hypothermia
my body crystalizes, cracks, shatters, and re-crystalizes again
sitting down on the step I become inorganic

I tilt my empty heavy head up to the heavanly sky,
howling my thoughts to our silver satellite

I try to find comfort from afar - comfort my bed alone could not supply
my insides evaporate from my
frozen skin and
disperse into the air
my particles grow incandescent wings
the kind that effortlessly ***** and flutters

My molecules are ****** up towards the sky
they leave me behind to join the stars
I welcome their departure and wave goodbye
I hope when they return they bring back good tidings

Now that my insides are gone, my particles adrift,
My frozen-solid body is hollow
and so, a weight is lifted
(even if only temporarily,
the numbness is temporary)

Still gazing at the infinite clusters of stars like
woven celestial patchwork
littered across infinite black plains
I feel content admiring the lone stars
adventurous and brave as they come

    Feeling like those lone stars,
    trying to find my place
    I snuck out to my backyard

All I needed was some space

this morning I awoke to find little lettered squares imprinted across the side of my face,
           then didst I realize, that cyber space had finally done its number on me
                        slither slather blither blather slobbering  cyber chopper
              knee-**** hackneyed pavlovian dog speak of impetuous  heartlessness
             stereotyping  label blasting  categorizing  pigeon-holing  generalizing
      multi tasking bifurcating bloviating palaver,  ever clingy maudlin  inflamed impassioned souls
         trolling   the myriad  disparate windows looking for some misbegotten stimulus  
so invested in their hatred and fear that peace is the most threatening thing they can imagine   ------      and me?
the sneering cynical maladroit among the masses of averageness and mediocrity...

Knowing how to paint is key, so they say,
When to brush and stroke, or erase it away.
But some painters out there just cannot paint,
They keep adding and adding; makes me faint!
Without knowledge or a care for the rest,
These women slather on makeup with zest!
Some demonic possession is at work;
Like some creature in the dark on the lurk,
Waiting for a victim who they can jump,
To ****** and caress and um, ****…
But enough of these victims, these lost men,
It is these creatures of “virtue,” these women!
Who capture the eye of peers with disdain,
Who then suffer in agony and pain!
Let us look at this process at it’s core;
But not to the point where it is a bore!
How the blank canvas of a womans face,
Is slowly and precisely won through race,
Of multiple brushes dabbing at paint,
Trying to turn a sinner to a saint!
The fine brush used to paint plump lips bright red,
And pale powders of primer of the dead.
To seize the image of porcelain death,
To mimic the perfection of Queen Beth.
The slight graze of the check with some faint pink,
And the strong tracing of the blackest ink!
On the lids and the lash of the blind eye,
Who fails to see that their face is a lie.
But for me that is surely not the case,
For in the mirror that is not my face!

There's a temperamental rainbow
he's seen, peeking out now and again, when
it's not shyly hid in cumulus cubbies.

He might, he can, win its sparkly trust,
luring it to him, between rainy bouts,
with promises of mood-altering

medication. Then, clapped with a lightning
clout, he'll stuff it in ten-gallon tubs
to struggle, bawl, and futilely fill

his deviant's plan. For in that muffle
of tinted pleas, its droppered breath will
condense against lids clamped-down tight,

and bottoms can collect sunny flavors
he needs to slather on the lolling
tongue of his too humdrum day-to-day.

I’ll trace the lines of a love poem
With the tip of my generous tongue
I’ll bend you over a sonnet
pounding your heart with verse
Until you come
Closer to the slippery edge
Of the highest haiku peak

Pulsing cranes shoot from
Sky following deep swallows
Cascading heat wing

The beat of the sextet
Engorges the plump plum with tantalizing taste
As the surging wind tickles swirling grass meadows
A pirates plunder
unbridled womanly chaste
Riding my large prose with feminine pleasure
Until both writhing bodies are drenched in chicken broth rain
I will slather you in brilliant color
As you vacantly stare ecstatic
Groaning through the augustan age

How funny it is that when you describe a girl you call her pretty, call her beautiful, call her gorgeous.

Our girls grow up with the only compliments they receive to be ones remarking their bodies and yet we wonder why we can't get them to eat.

They grow up believing wither consciously or unconscious they are judges by the bodies.

That the size of their jeans is their caste.  

That if they aren't pretty they are nothing.

Our little girls slather on the makeup and step into their heels smile till the corners of their mouths crack as if life was a beauty pageant and success and happiness were prizes to be won.

When you describe a boy you call his strong, call him tough, call him powerful.

Put the weight of the world in his hands and hope he can handle it.

Our men lead the way and our girls follow.

Why when you see a girl you never call her intelligent, call her resourceful, call her powerful.

Imagine a world where little girls weren't just bodies.

They were the daughters of destiny and the friends of fate.

They could do anything, and they were told that from the second they could listen.

Imagine if our girls could look past their bodies, could pus aside shame and hate and learn to love the vessels.

Imagine if our girls were powerful.

It really matters how you slather
Jelly on the bread
As it must be globed enough
To cover every inch

Of course grapes the jelly go to
No need to question why
Still for me the strawberry
Is always on stand by

And when it comes to peanut butter
The crunchy is a given
If you're in the mood to spread the smooth
I say to you,  don't even

The bread I'm not concerned with
It's just there for name sake and handles
Because without bread the above said
Would be a mess and not a sandwich

One thing that almost slipped past me
Can't believe I had forgotten
The jelly always goes on top
And peanut butter on the bottom

To my disdain...

Their stare, violent in nature
and here I thought for sure
the papers, the newscasters
     (for vultures they are)
would see, would glee
at the ugly underneath
from all the slander and banter
that I could gather to slather
upon the wound of your economy
to cover the scars of your villainy
with boasts of your generous chivalry
and yet, the eyes of the vultures mutter disparagingly
about warfare, murders, and highway robbery
as leaders of the Moons, and the Five Red Stars
lick their lips in harmony at your display
They're ready to clip your wings 'O War Eagle
to ***** the flame 'O Lady of Copper
You must strive to prove your regal
Or soon will be our day of violent upheaval

Skin cancer isn't funny
so cover up when it is sunny
so slather on all sorts of ointment on your skin

It might just be a rumour
Every skin tag's not a tumour
You don't want to think  of what just might have been

If you find you have a pimple
On your back or in your dimple
Go and get it checked out all the same

You don't want to die of cancer
When you could have had the answer
You have to know that cancer's not a game

So, do not be indignant
It might just be malignant
check it out before the nightmare comes to pass

See a doctor if you're worried
Go real fast as if you're hurried
You don't want your name read out in your church mass

I hope you get my meaning
And you know which way I'm leaning
I don't want to hear you died when you should not

Take care and do inspections
Of all your parts and sections
Remember, this is the only life that you have got.

is seemed the only reasonable option.

i wanted to crawl out of my skin
                   crawl out of my mind
                  and even the solace of  
a sleeping unconscious
rigidly refuses my pleas
defies me
like everything and everyone else.

hot water
candlelight
the aroma and feel
of lavender and eucalyptus oil
only pull me deeper
into sorrow and despair.

i. can't. do. this.

what next?
i already tried white russians
   a sleeping pill
        allergy medication
              "the privilege of the sword"
  
                i tried thinking hard
and not thinking at all

                     i try to steel myself again life
                 become hard
            uncaring
            i try not to give a ****.

but it's all pathetic attempts
      to go against my nature.
                              my nature dictates i cry
                         that i thrash against this
         that i reach out again and again
that i make an utter fool of myself.

i opened the window...maybe the air will help
(it won't.)

i'll put on music to soothe me
(it will do the opposite.)

i will disrobe
slather lotion on myself
i'll climb into my bed
with my stupid purple hair
and cry into my blankets
while sad music plays.

eventually you will find me asleep
among twisted blankets and tears
likely clutching a pillow
for dear life.

i will awake to find
nothing has changed
and use all my strength
to get out of bed.

i'll force myself back
to my desperate searching.
i'll vow not to make a fool of myself this day
and fail.

i will push my pounding heart back
so that it is just a whisper
and just face that fact

that      life      b  l  o  w   s.

Why are we so
Obsessed,
with the liquid paint
that we slather on our
faces-
morning after morning?

We stroll the isles of
Fifty shades of Nudes
to find the shade
that makes us look like
Painted glass
Porcelain dolls,
and Fake.

Why?
Why are we so obsessed with
Maybelline and
Covergirl and
Elf?
The brands that contour
our faces
and create an illusion
a canvas
Over-painted by
Overpriced
Chemicals.

Beauty costs
Money.
Youth.
Clear skin.
But it brings this sense of
false hope that
maybe-
we can accept ourselves
after we put on this paint
and call it beauty.

We see Photoshop,
the blurred lines,
the perfect wing,
and the rosy shade of blush
that seems perfectly
Fake.
Too perfect to be real
Too perfect to be real.

And yet we strive,
for this unattainable beauty.
The **** we see on
Facebook
YouTube
Instagram
drives us crazy
because no matter how hard we try
no matter how much we waste
we can’t seem to get that
contour right
and that wing sharp
and that mascara clump-less
and that lipstick perfect.

And even though
we cannot seem to get it right,
we buy
we strive
to be the perfect shade of perfection.
Because we’re obsessed.

We shall sit upon our throne
In all its debauched desire.
Tapping beats upon the arm
Inwrought with gold and iron.

The court may sway
Curtains draped askew.
The courtiers façade
Shall fade anew.
Those lips that spewed
Sweet suckled honey dew
Shall slather and harden
As truth comes to view.

It comes not in words
Or sweet music to our ears
But rings from steel,
Sharpened by our fears.

The sun shoots
Ray drops
Like bullets through
The clouds;
Coming at the speed
Of light,
Bathing our exposed world.

I can't slather lotion
On mountains, lakes and trees,
There's little to prevent the scorch
That's reddening our streets.

We're under hats,
We've covered skin,
The shade from leafs
Is growing thin.
The executioner's leaking in.

We live a greenhouse life
Beneath umbrellas,
On towels on sand;
We're being fried
On the land;
Stirring the ***
With  sun-cracked hands.

slather my lips more with your salivated
ecstasy.
pry my mouth open
and speak to me in french—kiss and make me
remember that these illusions are safe. perhaps
alter my two realities,
tell me that i am real—you are real. this trip has no
end, i know. but i've never been loved like this.

      i would end it if it means i'd get to live again,
      but then i'll leave you here
      —all alone with no one to hold.

I do not much care for poets
We're a touchy bunch indeed
How we validate our feelings
By what other people read
How we dive into our writing
Like a swine into its mud
And we savor every sentence
Like a ruminating cud
How we strike upon the heartstrings
Of the others like ourselves
But we feel so violated
When we're pulled out of our shells
How we make such grand investments
With our twenty dollar words
Toward the inevitability
That our voice will be heard
And we slather on the sentiment
With metaphoric verse
Vindication in our imagery
So beautiful and terse
And I sometimes have to wonder
If the reason we create
Is exclusively attracting
Someone else who can relate
No, I don't much care for poets
Though the blame is not on you
As the simple truth about it
Is that I'm a poet too