Caught in a web made of thread spun from criticism and regret,
arachnids leisurely devouring skin from exposed bone,
a life made from those who have chided every step,
no escaping the entanglement,
no shelter from the ones who are meant to render love,
instead only malice is displayed over actions they refuse to forget.

Searching hopelessly for love on abandoned webs,
finding only others broken who were lost in translation,
the foul scent of decaying bodies ripped apart,
giving their lives to those who broke them down,
rotting skeletons of memories shattered on cobwebs undusted,
coming alive and putting faith in others broken who can be trusted.

he used to say he was speaking for an entire people
probably he meant that he understood the sheer veil of
not possessing the Owner yet cursing closed veins
and i can cut Narcissus' marron curls twice think about listing emotions regularly
unafraid some blood refuses to flow my way i feel deficient

behind the sheer-blue veils of eyes
and the water/the waves there is nothing more
than an unpoet
a piece of work
very much instead
a fool also
behind Narcissus is the unbending floor
i can see some gushing grey pieces of completely undusted power

his hands do not interfere with heated temperatures
when Narcissus touches my red-left-ear
without asking the rest of his body remaining same
steady
not even refreshing/refreshed anymore

he again and again clasps his shell hands around
my shoulders some sort of hug and i
freeze yet dissolve i am a watered down paradox
i do not know how to behave
i wish another Nemesis would clasp me that she
would put me into a bathtub my natural
habitat is water anyways
they are Rex and Regina and
i love how her hair remains darker, shorter
even after i cut his curls it does not matter what i do
they are powerful

meanwhile i am in the clouds all
blue all by myself i blurred my vision for
mountains of misunderstandings
those are my trophies i float and
scratch the tips of my fingers on all
the glowing god
awful drama i am a naked goddess the clouds
take me away
they shield me from lightning but not from darkness
i find myself fixated on the dark side of the moon for
scraps of paper it lulls for
individual letters it spits out
i wish i could stop being eighteen or nineteen or
twenty or twenty-two why do numbers come
for me algebra was never my forte i count
and count but my feelings never add up

and i finally feel grounded
into dirt Lupin closest to me our legs
line up without lights always
a little more wild
animal-like and
he kisses my back right where
i chose the moon to reside still it does not
phase me it does not change my desire
to dissect the muscles in his arms
leave the ones in his skull alone
doubt his feelings for me and my feelings for him and my feelings for me i lost my path and Lupin remains
third chasing me down dark chasms
consciously or pinned down we're always in bed
all of us pinned down by the heat by my pillows by the
lines on my neck
Lupin, i love it when you pin me down but you do not
keep me awake when
i've retreated into my bathtub

last blood moon made me bleed i am an
open wound still i am ******* holy/wholly
when you are conquered by me you will
scream for mercy

on middle grounds i shake the veils
around my waist that ground me minimally
i shake and shack them wishing to glue eyes next to
the garnets that garnish my see-
through dress i assess my desires again
i do not know about mildness i want
every star in the milky room every level in the crossed-out
game i want materials rough i want materially everyone on my list

you will never see through me even when
i open my chest there will be vaults of veils
Salome counted only seven but she was
a woman in the first century after men ****** up i
am intellectually miles ahead of her
i have sewn miles of veils together
a silky harness i shield myself with

my egotism is rising on a mountain of misunderstandings
in the milky room they all revolve around me my planets,
my moons crystal clear
my comets and you are dark energy Possessing me
everywhere yet persisting unveiled/unknown
not even your existence can be proven and i do not
ever want to see you/not see you
you are completely parallel to me

and i know my river sweetness is not over
me when he paints me i see his own
****** features through holes in my
face it pains me
how he still wishes we could
come together how he wouldn't
fall so far behind

you will never see through me
i twist the truth to be a diluted version of your thoughts which
i have read and despised i despise tongues and *****
still i dwell in wetness was this what i wanted to reach?
do i know? why do my eyes itch and i scratch until i bleed
never let it heal i want to be in pain

why do my eyes itch whenever i eat anything
itty bitty spicy risqué
why do i cry over four flights of stairs,
four flocks of friends,
four flights back home,
and the exit is wide wide open

Disregarded,  no thanks.
I no longer fall for the pranks.
I withdraw my cash from the bank.
On a scale of one to ten how do I rank?
Poverty stenches & stank.
Stale & untrusted.
Broken,  abandoned,  & undusted.
Defeated,  hobbled, & now rusted.
Felonies & misdeameanors busted.
Lawbreakers, corruded & crusted.

Marry a man with a job & a van.
Who does all that he can.
My secret wish on a shooting star.
To stop getting drunk at the bar.
A walk to his momma's house isn't far.

Work ethics get my kiss.
Employment was my wish.
Success is our bliss.

Like jawbreakers dangerous & senseless.
Civilization settlers & makers.
Pioneers,  homemakers, waiters, bakers, & Quakers.
The towns folk are usually broke.
Different walks of life is no joke.
Occupations & professions of a wife.

Come,
Find me by the sea
Look prudently,
For I'm not what you perceive..

Am I the wave,
Distant
Ruffled,
A captive of the wind

Or
Am I
Tender,
Rapture,
Eloping with the wind tonight..

Come,
Find me by dawn
Look prudently
For I'm not what you believe

Am I
The distant weary traveller tale
The Tale of endless starry nights..

Or
Am I,
Cupid
Sensuous
Consummating the tangerine sky
Until sunrise..

Come,
Find me by the park.
Look meticulously my love,
For I'm not what I reveal

Am I
The crumbly undusted forgotten bench,
Stained, left to scar.

Or
Am I the blowing leaf
Scaled mountains,
And the parks..
Alluring,
Telling everyone,
How lovable we truly are.

Don't you worry your head away
Morning will come and the past will subject to fade
All the regrets and all the words chattering in a pessimist way
It's lost me from you in the dragging night
I heard your whispers carry through the dusty floor,
And the undusted surfaces of this home of ghosts
You said you needed a little time to be alone
Never wanted anything more, more seemed too undeserving
You're fighting battles hoping someone would come along to end it all
To finally understand, and love you for whom you are
I did, I asked, there was nothing I wanted more.
But you refused to let me in
I wasn’t the prize, I never got the win.
Don’t wait in the day and night for that perfect person
I could be standing there, here with you
With all the love you need, all the tenderness for two
I’ll dust the shades to let the light shine through
I’ll clean you up, clean you to who you were before
Just break down this barrier
Burn off the padlock
Throw away that awful key
I’ll love you forever, forever, and forever more
I see the giant anchor holding your head bent towards the surface
I say it’s time to unhook you
Let you see the majestic world
Hold my hand,
This friendship will never let go, you anchored head
Let me be your regret you will never want to forget
And you’ll always be my 2 am late night shift
Not sleeping, talking
Conversing repetition, circling chatters around in our heads,
Our free heads,
Our clear minds,
Cause we’ll learn how to share and cope together
Define the fine lines

Noises, constant struggle,
Ever ending silence,
Pressure robust, indelicate,
Colors touching my dried tongue

My shoes are now heavy,
Sun became an enemy,
This needling sand,
Burden which directs me

I do not stop upon the tombstones,
But I have read every inscription,
Many times,
Reading until the end

I deceive my sight,
With a mirage of a mirror,
With surface all sweaty,
Undusted, begging filth to disappear

Faithfully, I search for a familiar face,
And doubts are all your freckles,
Chewing on my arms,
Never was there a plan

Step by step,
I am being gradually consumed,
A perfected torture,
Every time and always,
A lesser piece left

Now do I crawl,
Or am I painting circles,
This sullen land,
Once your joy,
Now my lair.

MY NAME CAN BE FOUND IN THE ALPHABET IF ONE OBTAINS THE FOURTH...THE FIFTEENTH...THE FOURTEENTH... FIRST... TWELFTH AND TWELFTH AGAIN LETTERS TAKING CARE TO USE A CUTE ACCENT ON THE 15TH LETTER.

Alice was having 40 winks
( but she hadn't yet got to wink no. 13 )

when she was so very rudely
interrupted by a giant hand

taking her '...IN WONDERLAND"
down from the topmost shelf

she had been resting on
for many many months undusted.

"Welllll!" thought Alice to herself
'...that blew the cobwebs away!"

yawning loudly as it dawned
upon her what had

befallen her pages.

She couldn't tell that the hand was
Irish...but it was indeed.

"A great wind blew and
I was scattered!"

she remembered the ****** Queen's speech
or words...to that effect...not exactly right.

The hand was the hand
of an Irish poet

and with a howl she
fell through a vowel

in his voice "O!"&
again "O!"

landing with a thump on her
coccyx

in the middle of a white white
page.

It was as if
all the world had turned

to snow & "O!" she said &
"O!" once again and again.

"It would appear that I am
about to be

poemed by this
Irish poet person!"

Alice had become quite
adept

at talking to her hand
because her face did not want to know.

And so with a final flourish she
found her self scribbled

and held down by his words.

"Really his handwriting is
illegitimate!"

she told herself as she
tottered upon

a final full stop that
continued on

until it had become an
. . .

as darkness fell just as
the covers closed upon

the Jane Austen 5 Year Diary
she was being written into.

She continued oooOOOing
although she knew it was

very unbecoming
for a Victorian child

composed mostly of Carrollian words
& Tenniel'd cross hatchings.

The Irish poet had vanished back
into the kitchen

to make a cup of
Earl Grey Tea.

"Mmmmm!" he said to himself
& again

"....mmmmmMMMMM!"

what is an ugly? other than blood you're afraid of
bleeding softly from each crevice of heart pumps,
the gray side of the moon and the corner of rooms
undusted and disemboweled reluctantly.

you are so beautiful in bright rags of black and blue
and i'll stay half-hearted as you ask me to judge
your thighs (perfect) and nose (twisted) by the weight
of your meat and soul respectively.

an ugly is an analogy for discomfort and newness:
people are scared of unfamiliar but i find the sensation
of biting my nails off for sport exhilarating. your mascara
looks horrible today and i will kiss it to exhaustion

If you were a flower, withered grey and broken
I would love thee still
If you had nothing to your name, naked, unkempt without a token  
I would love thee still
If you an old desk, left to decay in the attic undusted  
I would love thee still
If you were a car, small and rusted with wheels broken and busted,  
I would love thee still
For it is what is within that I have seen
And it is there that I find beauty without equal, so strong and fare.
There where I see  a polished gem worthy of praise.  
A person with whom for comfort, near,  do I lay
For within you lies something more  
More glorious and intricate than any musical score
It is this part of you that I adore

here I sit
things to do
that should be done
yet here I sit

here I sit
books unread
shelves undusted
yet here I sit

here I sit
things to write
remain unwrit
yet here I sit

'cause this ain't it

When the end shows face, what
would or could he say?

When the wind tears trees
hundred-year rooted in thick,

fertile soil hot-lit by an
erupting sun—what does

he say then? Could he process
the light, the colors, the heightened

senses, awake again, alive,
back from Catatonia.

               could he see me the way i deserve
                 to be seen in a pale-white/tan hue
                 & linen & perfect & perfect & perfect &
                                                             per­fect

Asphalt is on fire and
beauty becomes the source of

light for the dark rooms and
undusted corners of his brain.

When the ends shows face,
he could say yes. Yes.

It pains me
That I’m always at
the dusty corners
Like old, forgotten books
Undusted for many years
So forgotten and unopened
that the pages would
stick together
And it would take a
real curious reader
To carefully
take their time
And unravel the pages
one by one
Without tearing them
And with delicate hands
that would soothe the soul
And bring it to life again

my mind is an infinity with depths left undusted like
an old library of memories. each book has a specific name
of singular people who has come in contact with me.
some books are coated with dust and probably will
be left that way. my handwriting has gotten sloppier
over the past few years and i don't blame anyone for it.
these hands waiver terribly like the few seconds before
a storm. somehow, i imagine your library to be a pile
of books  strewn haphazardly all over the floor. some
spines are worn out but you still turn the pages. there's
a few books that have been set on fire and burn marks like
cigarettes pressed onto sidewalks. there is always a
few books left open, but i'm sure you forgot my name
and left me sitting on the floor for a while like a gardener
who let their roses wilt because they forgot about their
passion. passion does have a breaking point.

- kra

Again, you welcome us with tragedy
With Cold, windy stormy winter blues
The unpredictability of lakes and pond ice,
Becomes every fisherman’s worst nightmare

A dead robin outside my bedroom window
Highlight the day. As the high wind
  Slammed against the lids of the city dumpsters
it was so loud it was deafening

Here I am the last cookie poet to enter eagerly into the new-year
With a different perspective, eagerly rehearsing my thoughts
  Before my poem trail off to believers or non-believers alike

You will not ******* away like the north wind
Every line you shall follow by scanning each undusted I’s
I am the poet to unknown regions stray
carrying words of wisdom,
but do bear in mind

*It's easy to cheer when victory's near

MY NAME CAN BE FOUND IN THE ALPHABET. . . IF ONE OBTAINS THE FOURTH...THE FIFTEENTH...THE FOURTEENTH... FIRST... TWELFTH AND TWELFTH AGAIN LETTERS TAKING CARE TO USE A CUTE ACCENT ON THE 15TH LETTER.

Alice was having 40 winks
( but she hadn't yet got to wink no. 13 )

when she was so very rudely
interrupted by a giant hand

taking her '...IN WONDERLAND"
down from the topmost shelf

she had been resting on
for many many months undusted.

"Welllll!" thought Alice to herself
'...that blew the cobwebs away!"

yawning loudly as it dawned
upon her what had

befallen her pages.

She couldn't tell that the hand was
Irish...but it was indeed.

"A great wind blew and
I was scattered!"

she remembered the ****** Queen's speech
or words...to that effect...not exactly right.

The hand was the hand
of an Irish poet

and with a howl she
fell through a vowel

in his voice "O!"&
again "O!"

landing with a thump on her
coccyx

in the middle of a white white
page.

It was as if
all the world had turned

to snow & "O!" she said &
"O!" once again and again.

"It would appear that I am
about to be

poemed by this
Irish poet person!"

Alice had become quite
adept

at talking to her hand
because her face did not want to know.

And so with a final flourish she
found her self scribbled

and held down by his words.

"Really his handwriting is
illegitimate!"

she told herself as she
tottered upon

a final full stop that
continued on

until it had become an
. . .

as darkness fell just as
the covers closed upon

the Jane Austen 5 Year Diary
she was being written into.

She continued oooOOOing
although she knew it was

very unbecoming
for a Victorian child

composed mostly of Carrollian words
& Tiennel'd cross hatchings.

The Irish poet had vanished back
into the kitchen

to make a cup of
Earl Grey Tea.

"Mmmmm!" he said to himself
& again

"....mmmmmMMMMM!"

There's silence tonight,
A duo of voices
Outside
Trailing past my window.


There's a lap dog yapping
And a taxi cab screeching
To a stop
For a passenger
That won't fall out of love.

Where there's a will,
There's another will,
A will of never wanting to let go
Because maybe one day
It will get better

-

I never used to think about
How the words
Sounded
Before putting them down.

I just wrote them.

I avoid the mirror when
Asking myself,

When did presentation
Take the place of
Creation?

Even now,
They move, they sway,
My eyes swimming
In pools
Of their own self-doubt.

A house of cards
Meant to move forward,
Give point,
And explore shelves
Yet undusted,

Though a new world ranking show
Of countries and their literacy,
The United States ranks 7th.

-

Attuned to no deep thought
Does that mean
All deep thought
Is gone for good?

What happens to a man
When they stop caring?

What happens to a man
When they feel the majesty
But do not have the desire
To take it in and let it out?

What happens to a man?

What happens to any of us?

-

Perhaps I've taken something.

Perhaps the weight of the world,
"The insanity" as a friend puts it,
Has eaten up my waning purpose;

My youthful illusion
Of eternity
Through
Fabrication.

Facing mortality,
Acting as if nothingness
Is something to be
Overjoyed by,
Is a temporary jest.

True memories,
Lasting ones,
Instill themselves
On the global
Psyche
Like a cow brand.

No writer should be followed.
They should be listened to,
Not for their lives,

But their many

Deaths.

It is in their resurrection
That we dispel identity
To see that progress is multitudes,

And those too scared to die
For fear of losing themselves

Are only holding us back

For whatever tomorrow brings.

Don't make my head your home
My thoughts aren't deep enough
to keep both of us warm.

Don't make my skull your dwelling.
My memories aren't yours to manipulate;
I don't want to call you my happy place.

Stop tugging at my imagination.
You're teasing me with pleasing thoughts,
weaving beautiful "what-ifs" and "why-nots".

Don't you dare move into my mind.
The shelves are still full, left undusted
by the one I just left behind.

MY NAME CAN BE FOUND IN THE ALPHABET IF ONE OBTAINS THE FOURTH...THE FIFTEENTH...THE FOURTEENTH... FIRST... TWELFTH AND TWELFTH AGAIN LETTERS TAKING CARE TO USE A CUTE ACCENT ON THE 15TH LETTER.

Alice was having 40 winks
( but she hadn't yet got to wink no. 13 )

when she was so very rudely
interrupted by a giant hand

taking her '...IN WONDERLAND"
down from the topmost shelf

she had been resting on
for many many months undusted.

"Welllll!" thought Alice to herself
'...that blew the cobwebs away!"

yawning loudly as it dawned
upon her what had

befallen her pages.

She couldn't tell that the hand was
Irish...but it was indeed.

"A great wind blew and
I was scattered!"

she remembered the ****** Queen's speech
or words...to that effect...not exactly right.

The hand was the hand
of an Irish poet

and with a howl she
fell through a vowel

in his voice "O!"&
again "O!"

landing with a thump on her
coccyx

in the middle of a white white
page.

It was as if
all the world had turned

to snow & "O!" she said &
"O!" once again and again.

"It would appear that I am
about to be

poemed by this
Irish poet person!"

Alice had become quite
adept

at talking to her hand
because her face did not want to know.

And so with a final flourish she
found her self scribbled

and held down by his words.

"Really his handwriting is
illegitimate!"

she told herself as she
tottered upon

a final full stop that
continued on

until it had become an
. . .

as darkness fell just as
the covers closed upon

the Jane Austen 5 Year Diary
she was being written into.

She continued oooOOOing
although she knew it was

very unbecoming
for a Victorian child

composed mostly of Carrollian words
& Tenniel'd cross hatchings.

The Irish poet had vanished back
into the kitchen

to make a cup of
Earl Grey Tea.

"Mmmmm!" he said to himself
& again

"....mmmmmMMMMM!"