and not in that pathetic delusional fat girl kind of way, and not in the fact that he is corny. No, my boyfriend is like a corn-dog because there is a big layer of nutritionless fried spongey batter that covers his insides. That batter is made up of three level cups of nice. Which is not to be substituted with "honest" or "real". No, nice is the only ingredient that can produce such a meaningless spongey layer to cover up the "love" "sincerity" and "caring" that makes up the center. That golden brown skin enticed me. But, it is what is inside that gives me substance.

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weigh the bricks of suicides, concrete block tourniquets from the migraines of English turnabouts. So there's some surplus of surprise in them, in an integers shock-appraisal face-lift on Catholicism's lobotomy to cuckhold housewives seeking collagen, or the thick dark-skinned forearm-******* insider's swinging in the houses of the denizens, or repurposing their malign from their unused vaginas, to **** the dust off such scab-covered stitches, which is like vacuuming between the loose inner-leg space of a succubus.

Bring out the gimp! Any fetishized leather-wearing hungry miner for the oral tongue-slapping mouth-dance might do, as long as the dom can subdue that sub tied to the stocks voted on for the public to use, there might be screaming, squirming, and scoffs, but there's nothing left for him that Marina Abramowicz hasn't already proven she's willing to lose. Plus, in this small town not far enough from Laramie, there's still too much fat to chew through, too much flab to tuck the **** into, where even the F.U.P.A. so deep that a *******-day or deity might need the leverage of a boot to get even Ron Jeremy's **** unglued.

Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

Tangley Wangling

Fruit Jews in Tutus at youth group, maybe just a few with their screws loose. One self-rolling righteous group, their brothers grinning
Within the depths of their white-heads at the brim of a wet blanket suckling the needles catering new drug use. Two by two, elefants and woozels, hippopotamü's confusals, spongey-butts outfitting the rye n' wines refusals.

The luxury of a coccyx felt from the fingers turn to sunrise, where the water's weight some surprise them, in an integers shock-appraisal. Lucky loos by the brothel befit these new arrivals, though some tyrannosaurs despise 'em, smoke as much as you can if you've got 'em.

But don't let your antiques get you down, an ornithologist lends herself to your bookends, and even that nighthawk roosting makes your car alarm sound second rate, it's seconds late as the aves rave to the ravens, and they pontificate. Owls hoo-hoo and hooting, branch off with the others and start colluding. They just wanna get you home, to get back those prosthetics you've loaned.

Canoodling barbarians on their way back from the aquarium, demand  their fires come from oblivion, which sends sparks of arguments from the sharks and the bathylkopian oblivions, where we found that this water's warm these citizens, demand recompense for such grandiose living expense, three pence to use the phone, twelve rupees towards the sofa, and even a deutsch mark for every sit or every look at sit, it's just a chair, a doubly set of wooden legs, idling under a table plank. Pirated by the buttocks, such bullocks it is, and that's just it!

An archaeologist on assignment discovered that the future of the rhinoceros exists upon the olfactory exaggerated proboscis, the result of flushing unused anti-biotics, and is currently working for dimes out of college to deluge this quite deprived yet interesting biopic.  

The films of the *****, grab at the ***** thrown about by The Monkees, and the musicians wearing those stickers on their *******, are victim to XXS cotton denim vests, unzipped and barely covering themselves, added to by the accessories and rings, jewelry if anything, a pearl necklace and nubile sacrifis.

And the trollops frolic, diurnally dispose of logic, doing the hoopty-hoop, the alley-oops, with mom's high school flute in nothing but cowboy boots!

These are, the new discoveries of our species, carved into the marble and wet frescos, in the street reliefs, spray-painted and air-brushed motif, this creates such gatherings for throngs of people who've unachieved their needs, who've displaced their parents and display their racist grieving beliefs to trash indigenous language pleas for francophonian linguistic greed that have splayed their hellacious treaty in what's considered to be modern circumscribed and ill-painted cuneiform visually conceived, vocal graffiti.

So that the neu-faux derogatory delegates stress to sudatorium, it has regressed to moratoriums, we've now cancelled this sport consortium of awful and flagrant art performances.

My mommy said I shouldn’t eat the watermelon seeds, that it would hurt if they made a home of my tummy. She’s a little loopy, my mama, and I don’t believe her sometimes, so I ate the seed and it tasted really boring. I swallowed the seed whole and nothing happened, mama.

My mom told me not to eat the watermelon seeds, that, in a few weeks, a small black tear drop floating in my body would hurt once it found a home in my belly. If it claimed my gut, it would throw out the food I tried to eat, greedy of the space, growing and swelling inside me until the button of my worn jeans would no longer snapped shut. She’s a little dramatic, my mom. I ignored fruit-flies swarming the chewed rind left on the counter, its sickly sweet scent swallowing the space of my small apartment.

My mother warned me never to ingest the seeds of a watermelon, that this little black tear drop once wedged into the sweet sponge of the fruit would one day decide the house it made of my torso was no longer its home. It tore its way from my body, strangled the sides of my diaphragm, round after round of reverberating contractions bent me over until the sweet clear liquid flowed from me. Then came the melon, my melon, that once found a home in my body – falling from me in clumps of sickly sweet spongey mush through shaking fingers into an unsuspecting porcelain bowl.
                             She was right, it did hurt.

Whenever I think of the phrase
"Thoughts fill my head"
I think of you
Because you're the only person for which
That's ever felt literally true.
Thoughts of you are akin to a sponge inside my brain,
Pushing out,
Swelling up,
Eradicating the possibility
For any further thought.


What's more
It feels warm,
This fullness in my head.


As if anyone could've told me,
But I wish someone would've said,
That when you find the one
Who makes you feel like this



Keep her



Or for the rest of your life



You'll miss her.

Pancakes plain
with packaged
syrup,
syruptitiously
soaking through
spongey sea foam
substance and
eggs

Not enough
bacon

I can remember from childhood
Was the night of that terrible fever
My bed was a plank
Wooden under my spongey bones
My sharp breaths hit my body
From an invisible assailant
Spiked blows to my mattress
That pierced my flesh clean
And punched wind right through my blankets

Then came the hoods
Surrounded my bed in inky blackness
They blotted out the stars
And smothered my night light
Even a young child would
Expect death after such a vision
Only one last shaky breath left
I was almost certain

Then it appeared
Almost angry and fearsome
My fair golden haired champion
A brilliant figure dazzling light
It punctured that dark shroud
Shred it to absolute pieces
And restored me
Back to this life

the moon's crescent muscle
nurses aching bones,
grasps the hairs on the back of the throat
until mourning leaks through
the slacks in the window:
cold and whole

I thought you thought
you made a mistake and I was
ice, hooked under the bottom
of the boat floating on the heavy bay

laid heavy like my hand rolled on the
front door **** to indicate your goodbye:
outside air brushes hair off the branch,
electric and alive.

inside, the stars make a mess on the floor and
I fall asleep smelling your hands:
dishes, soap floating on your spongey palms,
scrubbing the small plate of my back.

I thought the scabs on your knuckles was from peeling
winter but it's love- violet in its violence.

Three weeks, by now, of
constipated thought; of
hand cramped beyond stretches
of practice. Three weeks spent in attempt of detox. Of mind-numbing lack for inspiration. Mind-numbing words muttered, "I haven't been this ****** up .  ." (in a long time)
Always, ****** the feel-
good of chemical percentages.
Where the green grass grows, is all. Reflecting is all; standing alone
on warming winter sunrise. Slop-
made bed, the corneres left out. Stomach churning, smoking cigarette,
waiting for the coffee to finish.
That good ******* coffee that
held me through the rain.
Another night meant for day,
and this gracious vessel has never
been meagre in following along with the whims of some spongey tissue.
Of letting loose the general acceptance that a brain's attached to spine. 
oh   oh,    oh oh;  that brain'll die
easy some day. Not today, not now,
not but maybe.  (who knows?)
maybe the wrong decision been
made. No questions now;
(after so many cut hands and feet)
they're too small for answers so large.

slight wisps of frankincense
    traveled to the ceiling
looped and swirled
     before attempting to dissipate ~

within the smoke’s
                                 last throws
     his ghost
                arose
and our eyes met ~

locked in a spacial gaze
my emotion could not contain
      tears fell as my body
                       shook
fear overtook me as
etheric lips parted ~

a voice formed
           deep inside my skull
                 slow and steady
                    guttural mumbling
began to take shape
                    form words ~

a message of perfection
was imprinted on my mind
     complete with feelings
         surrounding order and place
I was exactly where I was
                 supposed to be
doing the very thing
       I was born to do~

inhale    exhale        blink
spongey texture filled the void
    off white and shabby
laughter found sound
and a smile beamed forth
          the ceiling
                    was perfect   /

we are your daughters too! we are your daughters, have you forgotten that part? have you been gone so long that your memories have shriveled into space gaps and brain tissue and eggnog?

young stud, blue jeans. there’s a sister in the room, you don't have to worry about being dizzy anymore. is there comfort in her hair. is there a mosquito green pond in her eyes. or is it just me?

some meadows are full of honey, like the one in san francisco above the trolley lines. maybe it was there that they walked barefoot, full of moon wedges. maybe it was there that the gravitational pull of the earth first began to melt.

we are exactly the same! closer than twins! womb-slick and half-closed, hands grasped together from the moment the first cells began to split. mitochondria. fibula. ozone.

i wanna hold your hand sometimes! i’ve been thinking of monserrat lately, her knee-high black converse shoes and her tulle skirt. i have been thinking of sitting behind the science building and tearing my history textbooks into strips and i have been thinking of the alley behind the safeway and how i pretended i was luxa for a few hours. all of that ends at graduation with elan’s red dress and her mom in pajamas.

i still wanna hold your hand, i am fifteen and dumb and you are seventeen and beautiful. the inside of her stomach was so long ago, it’s the difference between the beginning of a century and two years after it has begun.

maybe we aren’t so alike but i know that i still dream of water bugs and swamp gods. does your heart beat to pacific tides? does it float and gasp, like duck and pelican? because the ocean is still ready for us. it is gooey with patience and whirlpools and spongey with squid ink, squid eggs and krill.

the east coast is waiting for you too, ready to fold you into its hilly green arms and take you away. some places are too pretty for their own good, they are too much lighthouse red gas station not-oregon hot dizzy head sit down warm cement. i don’t want you to go. and i still don’t even know where you want to go to college, but probably not san diego because someone said she wanted to play there and you didn’t chime in.

it’s so funny about being postnatal. blue and orange hands, umbilical cords in place of functioning intestines, young toothless mouths and cottage cheese. sometimes i miss it. that’s dumb because i am still postnatal, i am still conductive to electricity my body is still blue and wrinkled. we are exactly the same, don’t ever forget that. don’t forget we shared a body.

I swear to you,
the unstable heads of the masses are lacking hearts,
and in their places,
the empty, sickening hole,
the spongey, earthy remains of what used to be,
lie hollowed out carcasses of the devil,
next to their sycophants and empty graves.

I am afraid of the power in which I possess. It is golden and bright. Soft and steady. With it, I can create wondrous worlds. In these worlds, soft, warm sandy beaches can stretch for miles along the deep blue, salty sea which glows orange with the setting sun. Or maybe there's a cool deep forest, with spongey, damp moss covering every inch of the earthen floor. Trees with their rough bark tower into the sky, their lush canopy creating a cover from the blazing sun. Peaceful are the worlds I can create. But this power is also dull and gloomy. Harsh and unpredictable. With it, I can take these peaceful worlds and destroy them as easily as a piece of paper torn from an old notebook. The sand turning ablaze, burning to the touch. The sea can turn feral, wave crashing into the shore, ripping whatever it grabs back into the ravaging tides. The trees could burn, turning the forest into nothing but sickening ash. Or maybe they get cut down, having been deemed more useful for something other than protecting the forest floor which has turned brittle, dried up in the harsh sun that has been let loose. I must cage up my power. Despite the good and bad. If I create too much, who's to say I won't destroy just as much, or maybe more. I must have control, but it is so tempting to release. to see what I can build, just to tear it down. This boredom swirling around me is starting to thicken. The soft whispers are getting louder. Creation is starting to sound like destruction. When the fog clears I wonder which one I will have chosen. To create. Or to destroy.

I want to wake up
In the morning and look out
Dramatically, good posture
Towards the horizon of the day
Chest out arms akimbo
Stretch a light ray
Pull some time….

As 500 serpents curl up to sleep
A crack rips through the entirety of a whole foods shop
One day it’ll make sense
The folding of time
Sequences and morsels of little images
Or memories or whatever
Collective consciousness of a great catastrophe
The glimpses we get that
Come crashing in
The rip within
When you tread on the spongey moss ground
Feels like a fall from a great height
It will be just as exhilarating
But crystal clear
Like a diamond funnel,
Refracting to a point of sharp perfection.

The Dr. told me I had a Vitamin D deficiency.
“The sunshine one?”
Say’s, this is pretty common in Ohio in the winter.
Doc, I said, I never had this issue before
And I always lived in Ohio.
I guess Age just meant I got a little darker

So, she gives me these little round pills. Take 1 a week
Imagine that, they put sunshine into a little pill
Funny enough, they were black
Spongey little black things
Like a micro black hole that bottles up the sun
And when I swallow I begin my own internal big bang biochemical genesis
And suddenly, I’m supposed to be brighter

Like I didn’t spend my whole decade inside
Waiting for you to contact me
Waiting for you to open me up

It isn’t rejection
It’s honesty