There is a moment beyond grasp just over there
My heart is over yonder broken beyond repair
My thoughts are scattered among the sycamore trees
You can almost hear them as the wind rustles the leaves
My opinions are blowing away with the sweeping breeze
My feelings are stretched out over the cement around me
My life is in a puzzle with the pieces blown apart
I need to get it together but where should I start
Please be my duct tape, my Velcro,my sticky glue
Show me how to be and I will forever love you
I'll give you my heart and the rest will follow
My thoughts, opinions and feelings tied with a bow
Show me kind stranger with your beautiful kind eyes
What my life could be if from these streets I rise
This is my life around me with no shelter to protect
Or maybe to pretend that everything is perfect
I have no roof, just these remains left on the ground
Show me the bigger picture than these pieces that surround

There was time still!
My god there was time.
Time to do the millions of stupid
things we always talked about doing.
Time to run and dance and play,
like dogs or like children.
Time for so much more.
So much more.

You stole it away.

Thousands of fireflies, trapped
in mason jars, with air holes
poked in the top.
How were we to know that they
would escape?
We were so young.
My god we were young once.

You had those Velcro shoes,
you had such a time trying to
remember what Bunny Foo Foo
was supposed to do.
I'm not sure I ever let you live it
down.
I remember those Velcros pounding
the rain puddles next to my cheap
fish heads, a long time ago.

I loved you then. In those days
when tomorrow was an eternity away.
When eternity itself had no meaning
to us.
It does now. It has so much meaning
to us now. You saw to that.

Lesson learned. Damage done.

I hated you for a long time.
I hated you so much that it stirred me
from my sleep, shaking with quiet rage.
There was not a horrible word invented
that I did not call you.
Sitting in that church, that ******* church.
Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch.
Who were these people?
Did they mean anything to you?
You *******, just answer me.
Just sit up, you *******.

I don't hate you anymore.
It's not that I came to understand,
like you said I would. It's not that
I grew up enough to lament.
It's just been a long time.
It's been such a long time.
You would have loved what we've
made of the place. You really would have.

When I see a picture of you, rare though
they are, I do not wince. I do not cringe.
I do not scream.
But I also don't cry, I don't long, I don't
wish.
I do pity, I do sigh, I do care.
There was so much time, Corey.
There was so much time.
My god was there time.

velcro wallet
was navy, i think
gray plastic zipper
grandma gave you
i had a locket
it had your picture inside
but you threw it away
because you looked like a rabbit
apparently
hair fluffed, eyes puffy
two teeth and two hours
of squirming on a photo booth

plastic coin pouch
small crayola blue
walmart sticker on a side
but it never made me smile
not like that piggy bank did
yard sale treasure
dinosaur-shaped
no smashing to withdrawl
our tooth fairy dollars and dust
still, you crammed stink bugs
down the long neck's back

now, a denim bag on my bed
rhinestoned one in the closet
and your wallet is
real leather, i think
has superheroes on it
rough and grungy
as the comic books in the attic
or, did you toss those too?

who needs a screwdriver
without a *****?
that's all money was
just hardware we didn't have
much use for
but there is more than one way
to use a tool
so here, i'll paint it straighter
who needs a coffin without a corpse?
especially when we were
so full of life back then

What can I do?

I don’t have another thing to think
about these things that I see
You don’t let yourself love me,

I have a garlic heart
Fragrant and strong
But only after it’s crushed
then what can I do?

it will regrow and the odor flows
through this red sauce inside me
This funny fluid that flickers from inside
Whenever you’re on my mind,

Then what can I do
I don’t have another me to be
Only this lover that you see
And you can’t ever love me

I have a Velcro heart,
Don’t get your soft side too close,
Or I’ll get stuck on you
my hooks in your loops

I don’t know what I can do
I don’t have another me to be
Only this lover that you see
And you shouldn’t ever love me

My heart is the cart before the horse
And I get carried away
greasing the squeaky wheels of course

My head is the horse before the cart
And I get carried away
on the squeaky wheels of my heart

  What can I do?

I don’t have another thing to do
Only these things that you see
You don’t let yourself love me…

The first was taken before we ever met.
My sister: curled beneath insulated blankets,
a pink bow vaseline-glued to her bald head,
glassy infant eyes turned in the direction
of a picture of me (red striped shirt, my favorite overalls,
velcro shoes). Mom taped it against the outside
of her incubator; so she would know her big brother
even if I wasn’t allowed to visit her yet.

The second shows the two of us at the back door
of our house on Circle ***** Drive. Her palms and nose
pressed firm against the glass as she peers out at Whitney,
the cocker spaniel who became an outside dog
after knocking her over one too many times. My hands are tucked
under her armpits, and I’m using every ounce of my
three-and-a-half-year-old strength to make sure
she don’t teeter back onto her diaper-cushioned ****.

The third, a candid from the family trip to Islamorada.
She and I are walking down the pier, on opposing sides
of Ganga, each holding one of her soft grandma hands.
She was our buffer for those eight days,
and years following the trip. We face the sunrise–
electric pink sky dotted with periwinkle wisps.
Later that day, my sister asked me to come look for seashells
with her; I told her I wished I had a little brother instead.

The final, from my college graduation last May.
My sister and I are laughing in the arboretum.
As excited as I was to never again sit in Hamilton 100
or bubble in a Scantron, I was already missing
eating pho and reading poems, making her matzo ball soup
when her throat hurt, and trekking to the taco truck at 1 am.
Neither of us knew then that I would have this job and this desk
with these four photos, and room for more.

Why was leaving me as easy and ugly as taking off velcro shoes. It made that tearing noise too. I don't feel so good. I lost my appetite. She said leave me alone and my heart sped up and then it flat lined. I keep telling my dog I'm clairvoyant. That I always knew I'd end up this disappointed. Gutted. Just like a fish. Just as messy, not so tragic.

Angie’s blind eyes wander aimlessly in their sockets,
one white as the belly of a snake, the other a pointless blue.
She has one dress she wears every day, and a cane that is
without tip and has lost most of its red paint.
In the building she has memorized even the pale illusions
well enough to scoot about without hesitation.
She likes no one.
She likes me.
Thinks she is JFK, talks of herself quite lucidly and with
deadly accurateness.
Found herself a spirit-lover, asked me to perform a
marriage ceremony for them. What the hell, it’s a sad
life with no one in it, although that does not apply to me,
who loves my self-imposed isolationism beyond reason.
I find a pretty stone broach, a stuffed teddy-bear holding a
red satin heart that says, “I love you…” and a doll with
ribbons in its hair - these were her dowry.
I say the words over my open Bible, inviting blasphemy
to call out my name.
Now, she has become a Velcro-shadow.
When I am ill her zeal to cure me is fanaticism incarnate.
Foolish woman, I - who chose her own path to trod,
but along the way tripped over a crippled bird that is sure
to peck me to death.

four steps
in black shoes
on concrete
left turn
ten steps
front pocket
cigarettes
flip
lips
flick
inhale
exhale
hands in pockets
no watch
cross the street
looking straight ahead
trusting the light

grass now
clicks turned to  
sounds like old velcro
from bending blades
of grass
inhale
exhale
smoke signals
keep away flies and
passers by

27 steps
left turn
car alarm
music
distant
and the grind
of oiled metal
and the buzz
of wires in rubber
and the burning
orange
in my lungs
chased by
oxygen
from trees
in another piece
of this sphere

6 steps
left turn
and the rich
thick
wet in my nose
from rust
and mold
and **** and ****
and blood
falling down
from the corners
of apartments

cells
dying
slowly
inhale
exhale
fire
smoke
itch my neck

left turn
still walking
into water

I own an ugly sweater
It has tatters and tears
Misshapen patterns
And holes everywhere

From the missing tag
That’s been savagely clawed and cut out
Why companies make them so scratchy
I have yet to find out.

Cheese grader sized holes
From where hungry moths attacked
For their personal enjoyment
Or a midnight snack.

A perfectly good sweater
And being prone to sharp corners
Don’t pair well together
Just ask my unraveling thread
That’s been caught onto edges
And hideously snagged.

It’s humorously sad
Go ahead, you can laugh
Your sweater is next
The moths are coming
I promise you that.

The bottom frays like a hippy
I would say it looks cool
But that style died in the seventies
Just wait, that that trend will recycle
I’m not in denial.

The fabric and material
What’s left of it
Is a delicate cashmere…

Alright fine, it’s a scratchy wool
Ancient, archaic, and feels like Velcro.

Sometimes leaves cling
So I look like a tree
The optimistic side of me
Just says nature loves me.

But I could do without the bees
Ohh so many stings…

The insides are bumpy
From being cleaned on high heat
Now my sweater suffers from dwarfism
It’s challenged vertically.

The wrists are stretched out
From being rolled up and down
Permanently smells like dirt or meat
Depending on my activity
Or what I had to eat.

Blackened mascara speckles the sleeve
From dramatic tears
Or being too lazy to grab a tissue
As if my sweater doesn’t have enough issues
I drag in my problems
My pendulum swinging emotions
If my sweater were human
I swear, it would leave me.

It’s been thrown on the floor
Tossed in the back of my car
Tied around my waist
And forgotten in stores
I always say sorry
I hope it forgives me.

From the sleeves that cradles sneezes
Hugs are completed
Sharing germs or sharing love
All becomes one experience.
You’re welcome.

The front like a canvas
A Jackson ******* painting
Ubiquitous splatters of coffee stains.

Missing sips that dripped off my lips
From being scolding hot
Or scarce concentration
But nine times out of ten
It’s my deficient attention.

Looking like it’s been through hell
And no denying it has.
Sure, I could donate this human sized rag
But they wouldn’t know the story behind
Each stain and frayed thread.

They would see the sweater as just ugly
Dismiss there was even a journey
They wouldn’t ask
The why’s or how’s it came to be.

This sweater is not just fabric
It’s a memory
An extension of me.
…
..
.
But seriously,
I should get this dry-cleaned
It’s disgusting.

But I love it.

I Promise this is the last time
I Promise this trash bag isn't filed with empty beer cans and
I Promise this stain on my sheets is something healing like apple juice.

I Promise I woke up before noon today
I Promise I wasn't awake waiting wanting to hear from you
I Promise I am not writing about you again.

I Promise today I woke up stronger than when fell asleep
I Promise today the sun reminded me of a safe place and not of the sun we sat under when you said "this isn't the same anymore"
I Promise today I am getting better.

I Promise you I am trying
I Promise you your name doesn't taste like vinegar
I Promise you weren't the only reason I was breathing.

I Promise my parents didn't pay for bail for a drunk and disorderly
I Promise my eyes don't feel like Velcro stuck together when I shut them
I Promise these words are sincere.


I Promise there aren't pins and needles sewing me together
I Promise there is time left for me
I Promise there is love in my heart and I remember what that feels like.

I Promise.

But when you said "I Promise" I Promise you were lying.
If you meant what you said
Then these promises would be true,
But they're not.

I Promise this isn't a goodbye letter.

It’s cold for a California night
near the start of May. The sky
was gloomy all day so some of you left
your suits at home. It’s alright,
wear what you’ve got. Music plays
through tiny speakers from a beer
soaked table as we line up, half
****, along the water’s cement edge.

The song is muffled, so I pretend
it’s The Shins. I can’t see anyone
through the rising steam, so I trip
headfirst to the bottom of the pool.

We get out every thirty minutes or so
to take shots, leaping back in without
a second thought. We don’t notice it’s pouring
until the lighters that live with our
glass pipes (within reach without leaving
the water) give out, and forget how
to make flames. Red cups have been
blowing off the table for an hour now
but we were too busy floating on our backs
and thinking this feels like home.

I know it's only my mind contouring his mouth into a smile and when I turn to walk away the velcro on his lips part; words like a choke-chain. But he has lyrics that remind him of somebody else etched into his hands, and she'll always be part of the plan.
He hums her song into my throat and we both pretend I don't understand.

I went back.
   A week later,
everything foreign,
                                 off
the map.

Rain.

   I bought
a strawberry milkshake,
your favourite
from that cafe
we had breakfast in one time,
and you told me
   your middle name
with a mouthful of croissant.
   I still don't know what it is.
It didn't taste as good
and the price had gone up.

   Carousel was closed,
found a bench,
must've slept.
   Woke up soaked,
clothes clinging to me
like Velcro,
dog taking a leak,
watch said midday.
     Went walking.

More rain.

It took your footprints,
snatched them     away.
I couldn't find our castle,
that too had succumbed,
crumbled to pieces
like you     and     me
and     you.

   I can still smell the sea
   on your shoulder-blades,
in your hair,
on the gap
between your   nose
and your   lip.
   Didn't like being tickled
but I did it anyway...
you still laughed
and made black days
wildly red.

   A memory,
memories
trickling as bathwater
down a plughole.
   We ate raspberries,
     threw   rocks,
danced about like   rag-dolls
to songs we'd just made up.
I called you Ringo,
you called me John.

   Now the waves,
***** diamonds
scare me as soon
as they skedaddle
over   my   toes.
   You are not lost,
and yet
I cannot find     you.

Rain.

Out the **** light.
Away with feet and shoes.
Laces drawn and Velcro snapped.
He runs his personal miracle mile.
From dawn to dusk,
wake to quick to finish.
He sleeps now. The shades
closed, the world soft and still.
His breathing ragged always.
Patience and peace his only virtues.
Tomorrow!
Tomorrow will blaze.
Will burn.
Tomorrow!
He’ll ignite his dreams, and track the
ever elusive spirit of this country
to it’s rest chamber.
Buckled saber, shield aloft
he will vanquish the soul and
in it’s place he will carve himself
and his future.
Tomorrow.
Patience.
Peace.
Tomorrow.
Always.
Out the **** light.

It's like live how? like you make it
copy down the sad crown
ride the wheel you made it
the strong misguided hatred.

-eclipse-

Bathing naked
The flurried atom swarms and indulgent desires strip me of my latest confirmed identity.  

thoughts  and painted-eyes
Department earlobe tenants remorse filled by the
phantasmagoric patience and comfort of pain.

So plain and petty feels  like I'm crying "lone wolf!"  double knot shoe tie
finite coffer rusty nails-stick latent reparation clips of manta ray striking tail whips.

The core is stifled to trip and fall upon the wet autumn leaves, broken twigs, and an earthly wisdom. Carry us, oh misleading stranger to a different home with Velcro that sticks to platelets and crust that covers elbows.

Hatred is stronger for the long-suffering and confusion when what we need is light
The fierce reserve beckoned to fight after immobility subsides and clears clutter away from the self-loathing, shame, and spiritual fatigue.

Maybe today is the day. This spot is reserved anyway and the wolves seem hungry.

I'm either clinging to you
Like velcro
Or farther away sitting next to you
Than if I were on the other side of the planet.

I'm either rambling on
About nothing but also everything
Or I don't utter a single word
Sitting in the background chewing my fingers.

I either want you to know me,
My every thought and whim
Or to know absolutely nothing of me
Like I nevee even existed.

I'm all in
Or you never really had me.

You are either god
Or you are the devil.

There is nothing in between.

I never really grasped what grey meant.

The first pair of shoes you wore were black,
velcro straps sat atop your pair of dollies
to make it easier to put them on for the park.
They were meant to be smart, but you laughed
as you wore them against the ground so free
as dad slung the swings, smiling at his child.

Our mum told me I was a creative child:
I didn't like to wear anything black. Red
suited me in how I stood in puddles, free
in indifference to how brown my wellies
became. If I was asked why, I'd shout,
“I'm pretending we're all at the seaside.”

From there we made our way to beaches,
where the wind was crisp and the children
we could see around us acclaimed screams
of emphatic joy at how the sea was so blue
and big. We had to wear pairs of sandals
when we went, but being barefoot felt free.

All that time we had at being young and free
soon went with the summer ending in school,
the arrival of my freshly polished black boots
was identical to almost every other child's-
a lather of paint dripping over in mud yellows
proved who I was with a mother's groan,

and this wasn't the only time she wailed.
As we grew older and wanted to be free,
my sister started to experiment with pink
highlights in her hair as I visited clubs
with fake ID. We were adults with childish
personalities in how I wore my Docs

like a religion for feet, my sibling in high heels
that you could hear in Sunday morning claps.
The arguments broke out: she wanted a child,
mother saying was too young, needed to free
herself from lazy culture and find a workplace.
I'd never seen both their faces so gushed red,

just like the red richness of those wellies
I had worn in the park. I pipe up and say,
“The best freedom is our time as children.”

touch.

touch me like you're a snake.
wrap your velvet fingers across my velcro exterior,
then puncture my interior with your deadly lust.

touch me like you're a dog.
place your paw inside mine
and lick the sorrow off of my face.

touch me like a cat.
nudge your face against mine,
and when i stroke your exotic fur,
i want to hear you purr.

touch me like a tiger.
bombard me with your hate
and attack me with all of your pain.

touch me like a shark.
eye me from across the sea,
and when i least expect it,
you will sweep me off of my feet.

and touch me like a human.
you can have all of me
as long as i can have your heart.

As I opened my fridge one morning,
early on before sunrise,
I was greeted by the stench of tuna fish
which at that time came as quite a surprise.

And I poured myself a glass of orange juice,
the stronger stuff with bits in,
and then tossed yesterday’s Guardian
into the overflowing silver bin.

‘I’ll pull back the curtains’ is what I thought next,
nobody, of course, out on the street.
No sooner had I picked up the remote control
when I felt like something to eat.

‘I’ll get myself some toast’ I said in my head,
and smear it with some Marmite,
but my days, my eyes were so **** sore,
I couldn’t see if I was doing it right.

The years I’ve been waking up early,
every time it is the same,
barely making it down the stairs,
all part of God’s make-him-pay game.

But I finally sat down once more
and could now relax in front of the news,
only to see some cheery couple
with a glass of champagne on a cruise.

It made me wonder, what it would be like
if tomorrow I just stayed in bed.
Would I have an extra few hours to rest
or would somebody find me dead?

Then a van pulled up on the other side of the road,
bloke closed it with a very loud bang,
made me jump so much I spilt half my drink,
seconds later is when the phone rang.

‘Hello?’ I recognised the voice immediately,
a friend calling me at this hour?
They said how they wanted to pop round later
if it wasn’t going to be a terrible bother.

‘Sure’ I replied and then soon hung up,
my voice sounded coarse like Velcro.
Only then did my eyes see a black figure
standing right outside my window.

Tuesday, Tuesday...

I wake up naked in my little bed and roll several feet onto the floor.

The ceiling is always entertaining to me.

Laying in silence, I contemplate whether I should shower and do my errands, or *******.

My cell phone buzzes to let me know that an echo of one of my longing cries for a sense of connection has responded from the void.

I'm ******* ******.

My train of thought was finally getting somewhere deeper. Somewhere deeper than the considered ****** gratification, prolonged for as long as I can distract myself from reality — which is pretty much until I decide to experience the tantalizing taste of what death might feel like; a doppler of pleasure similar to an airplane flying overhead followed by a weakening of consciousness, limp limbs and a brief moment of thoughtless bliss: surrender.

I push my sorry, soar neglected body into a somewhat upright position in order to reach my phone, for which some ******* reason, I think will let me know the reality of my worth.

I press the 'power' button to confirm that I will not find what I am seeking outside of my self. I set it back down and think that I am the only person who would know how to love myself best, but even I don't know how to do that.

Well, that killed the mood.

So I stumble out of my room to search for some food in the refrigerator, but it seems that I only ever want something that is magical and out of reach. Typical.

Most of the time I really hate wearing clothes. I'm pretty good at it, though, I suppose. I used to lurk on fashion forums when I was a closeted freshman in high school, thinking that maybe people would appreciate me more if I at least looked aesthetically pleasing. I was right to a degree, but not in the way that I wished to be.

I throw on some pajama pants and an old white v-neck with some holes in it.

In the corner of the living room, my green backpack sits slightly crooked with its grey straps lying lifeless on the floor. Someone I loved but will never love in the same way again gave me that bag. It's got a bladder I can fill with liquid and a hose with a ****** that I can **** to keep me alive. It's really nice to have when it's as hot as two ***** rats in a sock outside.

But it's brisk and the leaves are crispy and falling from the dried out grey-brown branches, so I reach inside past crushed pieces of dried sage and bits of tobacco to grab my leather-bound book and ****** a ball-point pen off the table because I like to feel the resistance against the page as I write and I just can't get that same feeling with those **** pens with the bleedy cartridges that I leave in my pockets when I do a load of laundry and it leaves ink stains on only my favorite shirts. I really love them too, though. For other things.

But today I want something that isn't that. Today I want something different. So I shuffle into my sandals, and tighten the velcro straps and run out the door. The air hits me like a brick wall of happy sky breath. I'm not wearing any underwear, so I feel somewhat liberated from oppressive societal paradigms as I skip to the street. Across the road is the tree line to a million acre pine reservation. Leaning against the telephone pole, I wait for a car to pass and then sprint out in front of one that's trying to turn onto the street. I feel absolutely giddy as I do so, and keep running until I'm half a mile down the trail, another half mile away from the lake, panting with glee.

I never really learned how to tie knots
I never really cared
Now I am burning in the attic of desire
drinking by flames of doubt
wishing your image out of my head
and praying that today
I forget how you threw a pail of water on
me in the thunderstorm of 98'
and I remember those reeboks that were
kept closed with
velcro

It's a wonderment
to witness
deep green irises
with spots of amber gold
near the center.
It's cute to watch you
watch me
from across the room
with red curtains
and metal chairs
your leg twitching
your foot shaking.
It's a fine frenzy
to feel your fingertips
rustle my hair
as I hug you close.
It's playful to find
your smile and mouth lines
stretched out wide
as I flick back to bright sunlight
illuminating your eyes

still green
kiwi green

and it's nice
to see you again.
It's a wonderment
to witness
your presence
like a shadow
in my peripheral vision
but when our eyes catch

they snap together like velcro

for a few elongated seconds

and it's a quiet kind of bliss

that makes my toes tingle slightly

out into the infinite arrival.

It is
2:41 A.M
( I think)
I am talking
to a ghost
and I cant
quite recall
how it felt
when your
velcro lips
unravelled
my
heart

kept my mouth shut
     velcro
                     stitches
          craft glue
apologies past my teeth
bursting at the seams 'til
   the pressure eased
sorrow evaporating to
   regret condensing into
      guilt

ashes on my tongue
from fires i don't remember
swallowing in the first place
but it still tastes like
     i'm sorry
        i'm sorry
           *i'm sorry

Bright     blue      skewers      the      dark,
navy      fingers      grow­      into      nothing.

A   young   girl's   helium   squeal   hisses   high,
'oooh.....ahhhh.'
Emerald   gunshot   ends   another   life.

Velcro-splitting,
amber   glitter
sparkles   upon
the   night's   stars.

Toothpicks ***** the sky,
crimson ribbons dribble down
like blood dripping from a nose.

The orchestra of colour plays
before black devours them all again.

the inspiration to sleep doesn’t take much
if any of the three
infernal organs
does It’s job
one escape is suspension
then, not even that
grayscale made Technicolor
and now it’s with you still
slipping, weaving, screaming like kudzu rust

pulling away from it like Velcro
and for a second peace
whilst the reboot-
hell, there’s the three again
so easy
to lapse
and away