I recall from some time ago
a pink plastic tea set
a white plastic rocking chair
and a yellow plastic pony
with blue plastic hair,
     which
was impossible to untangle
except for with the green plastic brush
that belonged to my blonde barbie doll
out of her plastic vanity cabinet
beneath her plastic vanity mirror,
     which
she checked her makeup in
before meeting her plastic boyfriend
in his plastic van
to go to a plastic diner
that served plastic pizza,
     which
was really just a sticker
on a tiny plastic plate
that would get lost in the bottom
of my plastic toybox,
     which
had a plastic lid
that was also my sailboat
that brought me to a plastic castle
with a plastic princess
who had the prettiest plastic eyes
and the most elaborate plastic dress
and the shiniest plastic crown,
     which
was the envy of all the plastic women
in the entire plastic kingdom,
     which
was really just a plastic castle
surrounded by an enchanted plastic forest
filled with furry plastic creatures
all atop a clear plastic box,
     which
held the plastic dishes
and plastic glasses
and plastic food
in case a feast should be thrown
for an unexpected plastic guest
from a plastic kingdom in the far east,
     which
was really just a plastic plate
placed on the plastic-coated windowsill,
     from which
I would peer into the blue sky
through broken plastic binoculars
while standing on a yellow and green plastic step stool,
     which
when turned upside down
became not simply a make-shift plastic sailboat,
but a glorious, luxury plastic cruise liner
for my pretty plastic dolls

     and I would board my toybox lid
     and we would sail into a perfect plastic horizon

     which
was really just a white plastic baby gate
that kept me from tumbling
into the world downstairs
where things are wooden
and glass
and cloth
but not plastic

for plastic is synthetic
and plastic is superficial
and plastic looks bad
against gilded wallpaper

but plastic is cheaper
and plastic is safer
and plastic is durable
and childhood is plastic

Your invisible me misses on my invisible you
I miss my invincible youth, I miss your unbelievable cool. I dance on a sky made of heavy metals and gray, I stare at the stars as I wish on them to take me away. As I lie and I wait in bed, thinking of all the dreams that’ve come and went, I’m weakened by a state of unease, the kind that makes a home in your heart then leaves.

Dozens of times I’ve stared off wondering, what would our lives have become? Soon I am trembling, cold sweat down my face, year after year until the panic has left me undone. Weakened by sorrow as it clung to my hide, just like your small hands huddled against me in the night. Fairly often it’s taken every ounce of my strength, even just to keep myself from running full steam back into bed. It’s as if I’ve covered my life with a dark crooked lie in a story that’s good for everybody except me. I’ve spent the last, as long as I can remember doing anything to stay on the move. Drank heartache, beat down sweat, found myself in a tango with the dust that makes men lose their mind. There isn’t any ole place where I haven’t tried to escape, only to find something too eager to plant her back deep in my thoughts supine.  It’s been ages since I’ve smelled the sweetness and sweat, or tasted on the feeling of regret, every choice I chose was chosen as my first, I never flirted with the hurt until the fury of her awesome pleasure began to shrink out of my life. Nothingness intertwined, it bled into every orifice until I was blinded, my eyes covered and limbs behind me, counting the numbers of floods that swept me out of my room. Into the abyss of my abysmal dismissal, a candy of black cigarette tar, alcohol, and even opiates. Not one regret, just a cornucopia of upset, lost and still losing myself into every last bit of her I can hurl into my memory before it goes.

There was ***** and stolen cigarettes
There were long nights in her bed
There was a 10 year old learning about things he shouldn't know
There was secrecy, "our little secret"

She made me feel special
She was older and mature
This stuff was mature;
Even if it hurt
Even if I bled
Even if made me sick

I learned that a child's body is a play thing,
Locked inside a damp, broken toy box until it was to be used again
I learned that a child's mind was of little value without its sweet and soft body

No child ever came out of that house, that locked toybox  

A child died in that house,
Mind damaged beyond repair
But thank goodness it's body is still in tact
An empty body,
An empty husk of a child,
It's much easier to use

Without that body this child is worthless

If I let you in on a secret, I would understand if you could not keep it.
Yet I feel the need to spill these words from my open heart.
Like a toybox overflowing with torn teddy bears, their stitches ripped apart.
Clowns with jagged smiles, worn down wooden fingers.
As our song continues, crackles quietly through the speakers, like a river flows.
I wore a crown high atop my head, your sun illuminating each jewel.
My wooden pony I would ride, with you by my side, smiles reflecting in the mirror.
Adventures we would find, like a ring within a little black box, a promise to me.
As fools, we rushed in, overtaking the lands, a king and queen in dreams.
We conquered the seasons, until that quiet Fall broke my throne.
A thief in a mask you stood, planning my downfall, as I danced along.
For I couldn’t help falling in love with you, each and every day.
But I fell hard from that tower of fantasies, as your words pushed me over the edge.
Faster and faster, I continue my descent, a bit of madness here, suicidal thoughts there.
A sip from that tonic would end it all, a bite of that whiskey soaked poisoned apple.
If only you would take my hand, instead, you might just take my whole life.
Stealing into other hearts, I’m quite sure you wouldn’t even know I’m gone.
Perhaps one day, my love, even this husk will go missing.

taking a flyer
but
why should we bother
to try a
new thing?

History tells and
even with bells on
it yells out a lie

unclean
unclean
have you seen
how unclean?

Sin is the thing we win when we sin
and we lose just the same.

I could have been a Saint
but
I wasn't and I ain't
but I could have been

even when I dream of what you
do not want to know,
I know.

So
no moral
that's for the gullible which
takes you off to Lilliput.

Just get on with what you're doing
mind yer own and wind yer neck in
there's nothing here for you to see
only me
and
I'm fading.

Foetus,
eyes to the floor
for fifteen minutes,
ramshackle thoughts
rattle like old objects in a toybox,
lights off and imaginary people
to talk to.
Sipping fruity juice
as girls smash together.
The trivial things bring chaos
in great big buckets.
They say I’m OK;
I say I am losing it
losing it.

Granddaddy I'm having the most
difficult time, that's what she said
to me.

I laughed to myself and said to her,
my love what could your problem
possibly be.

Granddaddy I'm cleaning out my
toybox she said. I have to get it
under controll.

I laughed to myself and I just could
not believe. these were the words
of an six year old.

We talked a little while longer and
I assured her that she could conquer
whatever she set out to do.

She giggled with pride and before
she hung up the phone, she said
Granddaddy I love you too.

I'm tetering
on
the pinnacle of life

I'm teething on a good idea
and crying for a bad idea
to come along and change my mind.

I'm toying with people
and
begging them for the truth

I'm exploring
an
unsteady
path

Not quite the refined
fully for-
med
Varient of the child my mother knew
years ago.

It's a funny time in life
when we feverently search
for ourselves

In a toybox of
clowns
jokers
and
fools

When we begin to learn
nothing we've learned
is true.

When we are high
on the sea saw
growing out of
old clothes
and old ways

Soon to be low
on our
salaries
and self esteem.

What a fun game of life we play
moving the pieces
towards love
or tragedy.

Many ups
and many
downs
will come to us.

Just remeber what your mother told you...
the playground rules.

“you can't go home,” said thomas wolfe, “back home to the
old forms and systems of things which once seemed ever
lasting but which are changing all the time.” but...here i am.
i've shattered that idea like expensive broken china, like the
mirrors i shattered within the 72 hours of being back here in
texas, the state of volatile weather patterns and skeletons i've
hid in the toybox in the attic upstairs. he said, “i can't go back
home to my childhood.” thomas, i have retained memories
like these and kept them hidden in the jewelry box along
with the lock of my hair i cut with scissors purposely when
i was seven ******* in a bow. i've uncovered artifacts from
my past, refuting your statement. thomas said, “i cannot go
back home to aestheticism.” as he believes the small-town
image i exist within will shapeshift at will and without
hesitation. another thing, he mentioned, “i cannot go back
home to one's youthful idea of 'the artist' and the all-sufficiency
of 'art' and 'beauty' and 'love'.” landmarks still stand out to me.
the bridge connecting both parks nearby my house overlooking
a large lake at the peak of the golden hour is sufficient enough
for art. it is sufficient enough to be considered something of
beauty, that needs to be captured. it is sufficient enough to
remember i've loved and lost so many things on this bridge.
thomas said, “i cannot go back home to the father you have
lost and have been looking for.” but thomas, i have recently
faced my dad with red glazed-over eyes, and he has always
been looking out for me. he has always shone a beacon
towards me, yet i've been so terrified of following the lights
in fear of losing my shadows. you told me, “i cannot go back
home to someone who can help you, save you, ease the burden
for you.” all i have been doing is surrounding myself with
people who can help me, save me, and ease my burdens.
and i can't help but notice gaps in these moments when
you say, “you're back home to the escapes of time and
memory, but katelyn, remember, the old forms and systems
of things which once seemed everlasting are rapidly changing
all the time.” and i notice the large gaps like amnesia blackouts.
sorrow can handle long distance relationships, but i can not.

(xii)

lost on crow

why star
won’t move, why woman

would make
hand signals

for satan’s
toybox

(xiii)

the double life of the man who’s not seen her baby devoured

/ the bread crumb
becoming
milk’s
nightmare / the way

to resurrection’s
hospice

growing up, it
makes me feel like
throwing up

and what do we want to grow up for?
Neverland sounds like too much fun.

Call me a donkey, call me an ***
but seriously
would you pass on this ?

It would always be Summer
with us keeping pace
while
Hook and the crocodile
played catch me and chase.

Anyway growing up doesn't fit in
the toybox.