you do not fit
perfectly into my arms
love is not convenient it is
walking on gravel barefoot it is
biting your tongue chewing it is
a headache in a movie theater it is
drinking until you're blind it is
making room for you

-
-
you are not special
you are not special
you are only
my imagination.
you are not my foundation, fixation, frustration.

you are fire flirtation.
pupil dilation.
tablet temptation.

closed circuit consideration.
and this is all you will ever be.
you were never my medication.

you are not special
you are not special
the mantra is *******

so we pour salt on slugs and watch them shrivel away
'cause you used say, "let's be human here."

disappearing was never our forté
but we could make it his.

That panting belief of men;
a thirst for that which fills the glass,
beckoning the hand to grab the cup
like the itch moving the mind
to believe in
what?
Whether or not it’s enough we still fill that cup;
with some things,
others put in nothing.
Grab your cup and get drunk, get crazy,
love the world who is a capricious lady saying,
"Have one on me, fill it with everything!"
It’s a prayer without word or plea, the sound of everything ringing inaudibly.
It’s the power of song pursing lips to kiss dreams where we believe.
The canvas of our body, mind and soul
where we draw the ink,
imagine the dream,
and become reality.
The moment when the pen is the same as the beast starving for a feast only fit for men.
The same as the artist holding onto their vision.
The same as the language translating the soul within.
The same as the stars burning away the wick of entropy that ends the same as it begins
insofar as all finite things have their dreams in essence of their being
and yearn for infinity.

He says, “buckle up.”
I say, I AM A CAR CRASH
with silly puddy metal doors
and ****** hair and a hole
in my windshield and I am on fire.
In a bad way. You cannot tell me not to wreck myself because that’s what I do best.
I am thin ice on a popular lake.
I am an abandoned brick building and I welcome the momentum of a swinging pendulum ball.
Topple my structure,
I hold up nothing.
Knock me over, I have been empty for too long!
I am the combination of deep roots and wanderlust.
I am two colliding passenger trains in the middle of a tourist trap
that you never expected to visit this long. Long like 5 o’clock traffic amongst trainwrecks,
I am the obstacle and the road.
In my own bed and still wanting to go home
because he taught me how it is to really feel alone
like a 4am songbird
or an easter island cannibal.

we all wanna be thin
diet of nicotine
and cigarette smoke;
let me see those bones.
delicate fragile curves
like a swan's neck
vulnerable
and carved out of
stone
statuesque
and perfection
a greek chiseled chest
with a collar bone
deep
as the trenches
at the bottom
of the sea
because skinny arms
skinny legs
can't hold veins
long enough to live

Summer beats
                                                   down on me
                                                                                         owning the sweat

                                                                                                                                       on my body

                                       the kind of heat

                                                                  you equate to distant memory

                 sweating and swearing as mother

                                                                               attempted to beat the blasphemy

                                                                                                                                            out of me.
How fitting that now,

                                     I should find myself baptized in a lake by the place
                                                                                                                                          where she has wrestled                          

                                                                                                                 a mortgage into a home.

                                            Her hands grabbing at digits

                                 from her master the banker.

                 My hands reach down

sifting through debris,  

brush

and

discarded

cigarette butts

all for a stone to cast into this baptismal bath drawn by mother.

                                                          While the only memory of my father is him teaching me to skip rocks.

                        Smooth

                oval

                                            in the wrist.

                   My record is 7.

                                              A much smaller digit than the ones that concern my mother.


           I see myself in the seven.

Gliding,

                                bouncing,

                                                                 resisting

then








sinking.

So I wonder,

                              from this place
where I peer out of my

tiny

human lens;

How much of my wrists

                                           can make my heart skip.