sinkaren't we all afraid of theMore Like This
truth hidden in space?
introspected eyes look opaque
with despair- only in edened woods
can we afford to breathe,
content & clandestine:
ah, how helios suns on her
cobblestone face, casting bronze cheeks
pearled with eyes of ivory,
luminescing feathered arms of felt
& a promise of bosomed aegis;
she smiled significance,
an essence of ethereality,
& spoke of cirrus;
then the terns took back their wings
& the sun shone elsewhere-
there was nothing left to see but the stars.
to whom will we look?
(there are no gods, only men.)
burn boythere was this boy in the ninth grade that used to call me uglyMore Like This
but all i can really remember is how he wore long sleeves under his t-shirts
and how i didn't understand why, but something was wrong about him
like he held himself wrong under all those fabrics
like a puppet with loose strings. and i can't
understand why, but when this boy's arms moved a little too much
and i saw what was on his wrists just before he tied his strings again
i only heard what my grandma used to say about how
those devils that bother you on the playground can't burn you
like they can burn themselves.
if these devils had mouths
those burns were kisses.
Superstratum.Autumn feels me like a phantom limb,More Like This
an inner twisting of sweet olive skin or
catalogue of smoothness on its lips,
fingernails, cooling, peripheral body cells
scuffed off and pressed into its open mouth.
What an intoxicating flatline, it thinks of me,
all moon-maddened eyes and full of gray light;
with its broad, flat, and tonic tongue,
Autumn graces me with poetry
on the soles of my substratum feet:
hope is the thing with falling leaves.
Bilious.i'm going to breathe like i have my clothes offMore Like This
and bleed like i'd left them on:
this is not constructed nor constructive.
i've been putting one foot in front of
another size eight and a half vignette.
- clicked and screamed how did you get to be
so like me
"color me kindred"
like i'm Misery's captive,
kidnapped and catnapping with that oh-so-cool ennui.
i'm more at home when springtime's kept on my wrists.
The ways i can taste the city best are in the rain,
and it was not this war of umbrella frames, nor
the glistering troposphere embarrassed by its own human découpage.
It could be that this is how i experience things
when pain is a subcutaneous pregnancy
and my unassayed eyes can only promise lies, like i
dye my hair red to prove my insatiability.
It sickens and sickens me,
hand in heavy hand to wake and plague me.
My youth will be remembered in varying shades of humidity,
or perhaps expanding flavors of Irish whiskey.
The Pole in Bipolar: Absolute Zero.You will push poetry from defeated fingertips, slideMore Like This
vowels out of reticent lips, drink agitation off of
victimized hips, and learn to rip your body from the
grip of prescription.
You will hate each minute and ask your
fading sidewalks if it's worth it and when they don't
talk back, death becomes the distance and
gravity between you and
rock bottom. You will suck steam from storm drains
teeming with the popular disease and
it will be harder than it originally seemed to
you cannot drop acid the way you drop names and
you cannot harvest words if you do not intend to consume.
i assumed you knew, but you cannot hear me over
your angry skin. i assumed you knew.
American GirlsOn my sixth birthdayMore Like This
I sat below this very window
and brushed her blonde curls with
my own hairbrush and ran
my own fingers through the threads
of her hair.
All she and I did
When I slept
I could still see
her beaded eyes staring back
at me, her pleated skirts
and porcelain skin
fabrics I feel on my own skin,
the squeak of rubber
as I moved her arms and legs
to what I saw fit.
She was beautiful, taught,
pampered and prodded.
In the mirror in the hallway
next to the kitchen
I could see my own dark, ratted hair
and dark, dark, eyes, and coffee-stained skin.
In the kitchen
I could see my mother
her skin scrubbed raw, eyes tired
and bagged skin on her cheeks,
her back to me.
“Why can’t I be like my dolls
Mommy?” I ask.
For a brief moment, I believed she would answer.
But she only turned toward me, for a small moment only,
then turned her back to me once more,
her backbones a skinny curvature like two tiny bows
attached to her controlled, bony arms.
Like I had sa
i. AudibleIn the wider air, darker air, thicker andMore Like This
quicker air, life is
for the framework of breath.
In the summer, my optical delusion sings
a broken sort of song and somehow
i found it spinning on a compact disc.
i never told anyone that i was
blue behind the ears
and hear echoes in what is tactile
and out of touch.
is the fugue in what i've
traced along this route,
if anything but a fugue
could exist inside a vacuum? i know and know that
they have no room.
could cradle and coddle brainwaves?
i thought i was entombed in a just-the-medicine daze,
just another offset phase that
sang my consciousness to me, but who
could cradle and coddle brainwaves?
I want to forget names,& faces,More Like This
I want to forget their veins,
fingerprints forever burned into my eyelids;
wrists I can't look at
without longing to tear apart.
Spine full, and spiteful:
I want to cry
roses in my midnight tea
for these star collapsed lungs.
I want to cry for her
& for me.
she wont allow me the courtesy.