Light drunkenly reels into shadow;
Blurs, slurs uneasily;
Slides off the eyeballs:
The segments shatter.

Tree-branches cut arc-light in ragged
Fluttering wet strips.
The cup of the sky-sign is filled too full;
It slushes wine over.

The street-lamps dance a tarentella
And zigzag down the street:
They lift and fly away
In a wind of lights.

I write with a pink Bic now

My phone is white and out of storage and I’m not connected to the
   cloud because it freaks me out, so every time I delete a picture, she
   asks “are you sure?” And I “delete anyway”
My high school best friend’s cousin’s husband just died and I’m
   wondering why I’m weeping for a kin I never grew akin to, a mere
   stranger, a subtle blip in my matrix. But his poetry
   is beautiful, I know that. And his music is beautiful, I know that.
I drank a root beer float tonight and the night before, or did I eat it? It
   reminded me of buying 99 cent slushes at Convenient. Or the
   “healthy” slushes I bought to accompany my soft pretzel everyday
   in middle school.
On the terrace, everyone else ate hot dogs and I looked down,
   holding my soggy French fries and wondering what else there is out
   there besides ketchup and mustard: like in Princess Diaries when
   Julie Andrews puts mustard on her corndog. I always thought
   that was so cool.
Or when Mia Thermopolis sit sideways in her giant comfy chair after
   throwing darts at balloons filled with paint aka “stupid cupid stop
   picking on me” or is it… “hitting on me”
Remember when Ben Day asked for pictures and when you sent cute
   selfies in your sports bra, he responded, “okay, but can they not be
   of your face?”
Or when Ben Wilson taught you that “hurt people hurt people” and
   had “ultra conservative” on his Facebook page underneath political
   views and you had go ask what that meant. I Corinthians 1:13 or
   something like that was always my favorite bible verse because its
   the only one I ever learned by heart.
Hail Satan.
We all rot under late capitalism.
But I didn’t know that then. I know that now, but not then.
Now I wonder mostly about the ethics behind “procreating.” I wanna
   bear fruit, but I can’t even stand the thought of myself burning in a
   fiery pit, let alone my spawn.
But,
My stepsister is pregnant. She found out the “gender” today, “boy.”
   My nieces and nephews have had a very gendered upbringing, I
   guess I did too: barbies and bratz and Betty spaghetti.
I know everyone always says they just want a “healthy, happy baby”
But I have a crippling nicotine addiction and manic depression, I’m
   not healthy or happy.
Do you think I was the idea my parents pictured when my mom peed
   on that stick and got a plus sign?
Probably not.
I hate to disappoint.
They can live in the glory days when my cursive handwriting was
   better than anyone else’s in my second grade class. Olivia Layne
   Ulmer on that brown, dotted, lined paper.

With a yellow no.2 pencil.

Decipher the bowels
that slushes out through my imagination
Crystals and xylophone chimes
Pouring out the ink wells of sensation
Don't pivot pickets to my position
I can't stalemate this war for expansion
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
Dipped in bitterness
and ****** by the lips of semantics
I groove in the basses of basics
and grow a garden for further foundation
For my tongue is a swollen pickle
And boy is it's perfume amazing
I mean
Can you smell the awkward amps?
Pumping veins with Crayola visions
or a Chaplin transcript with deadpan humor
Are you experienced enough for social division?
My tongue is a swollen pickle
Say whatever the hell I wanna say
Crunch me when you digest this sour thought
For the reign of excitement's here to stay

Over hearing conversations
To the likes of
"Do you think I should text him"
And waitresses like chickens without heads
In a 12 table establishment
My eggs are runny I find
I've grown quite fond of
Slurping up their insides

This scene is unappealing
So it's time for me to leave
Snow slushes beneath my feet
Winter gets the best of me

Now it snows
The frost falls
The ground retreats
Beneath a sheet
Of whiteness

Now it rains
The water falls
Soft snow becomes
Mush
And slushes
As I walk outside

Now it is day
The sun
Sees the earth spin
Into its’ light
And the slush
Recedes
And the ground reappears
Until it snows again tonight

fierce
   fierce
blows the wind
   across this island
   off the coast of Africa
  
sittting on the ***** of a volcano
I keep listening to the sound of things

street signs clatter to each other
empty beer cans roll noisily
   through midnight streets
doors keep slamming
   to make their presence known
plastic bags hiss airily
and fly away
   like they never thought
   they could

the ears
of the little dog that thinks
   I am his master
stand at odd angles
while he is grooming himself
   on my lap

warm bodies
in a blustery place

the patio chair
   scrapes its way
   across the tiles
   inch by windy inch

my wine slushes in the glass

I share fiesta music
   from half a mile a way
   coming to me
   in gusty fragments
and almost feel the rush
   of low clouds chasing each other
   under a star-studded sky

here I am
on the ***** of a volcano
listening to the sounds of the world

                  * *

The sun burned out of my sky that day
Always dreamt that our pictures would one day become old photographs
Now they are just ash
And I am but a sack of ******* skin
A barely breathing piece of meat
Snotting on whoever would lend me their shoulder
There will be no more sunsets
Never again ******* out in the rain like we used to do
Just remember us at Halloween, laughing as we carved smiles into pumpkins
Jabbing knives and carving twisted smirks
Our love was made for the movies
I will not stand in front of your Tinder swipes and Instagram likes
I will step aside and move on
Don’t forget that one night, yeah you know the one
Always makes me smile
But ice water slushes through your chest
Venom comes from your breath
My insecurities are open season
There’s nothing more I want than to boombox Africa outside your window
But I don’t know where you live
I will always remember the way your hair lays across your chest
But after all the boos were ******* who’d
And the tears were shed
I can look at that beautiful orange sky again and watch as it fades to black
Just like we did
And I am good with that

The slow falling rain of water
Drops below the enduring
Reign of words.
One pelts, drenches, slushes out all,
The other penetrates and hold captive
Long after the remnants of clouds
Have withered away.
Impaled thus on words you seek water
In the growing cracks of the parched desert.

I go out

Most nights

They consist of slushes and candy and sweet night time kisses

Most nights it’s dark and I remember to put things back

Not last night

Unlike most nights I forgot

I forgot to pick up and be quite.



Now my most nights will be no nights..

And my sweet kisses will be a wet pillow full of sadness

most things are for sale
just depends on your price

money slushes around
in the bank accounts of the buyers

and buying is so cheap
in the minds of the moneyed

how much for your poetry
they couldn't care less

Here is our God
a silver dollar on the tongue.

I watched you sleeping, you looked so beautiful.
The moon lit through the room providing some light to your beauty that's unjustifiable.
You had shoulder length hair.
You were lying down so fine, so fair.
Your eyes are shut showing your long eyelashes.
I am completely defeated, melted, reduced to slushes.
Your lips are not tightly shut rather showing your front teeth.
I listen in silence to your faint heart
beat.
You caught me staring and you break a smile.
You're here with me makes my time worthwhile.
You form a hug and wrap your arms around my neck.
You pull my face to yours and give me a sweet peck.