she says, “what are humans made out of,
if not emotions and quirks and mistakes?”
i think to myself that humans are made
out of sinew and bone and tissue and if god hasn’t
found a way to love us bloodily and morbidly
then he will never be able to look past any
of our self-taught imperfections.
but i say none of this, just nod and smile,
and wonder what it means that to her,
all that i am is a series of mistakes stacked
on top of each other. my entire body is a past
i cannot outrun no matter how many times
i move away and forget my name and who i used
she tries to take away my body, but i have fought
for sixteen yea
I could fold you into origami stars;
draining out the you, rin-tin veins spiking
on interstate tragedies.
There aren't pills for what I have.
Lo-fi radio disease, overactive
social imagination anxieties and limbs often unattached
to any corpus. But, hey
time heals all wounds, they say.
Still I wonder if the weight of all our indiscretions
might have tilted us off axis, and we're teetering dangerously
on the edge of some double-pulsar implosion
about to be swallowed in a gamma-ray-incinerator
we'd never see it coming, anyway. But somewhere, someday
strangers in a distant telescopic timegaze would see pieces of us scatt
there’s tea you still need to drink.
you left it on the counter again, because you’re
always forgetting where you put it.
it’s probably cold by now, but
it’s there for whenever you’re ready.
here’s a blanket to lose yourself in.
you don’t have to give it back.
here’s another book i think
will make you cry if i ever find the courage
to give it to you. i’ve underlined every
line that made me want to scream, that made me
want to rip out my hair and destroy everything
beautiful about myself, that made me want to
drive across a desert in the middle of the night,
that made me fall in love wit
how much of me can you swallow, love
before you finally purge?
I am a cartographer of bad
experiences; I can locate
precisely where I see our divergence
extraordinaire and I can tell you
before I have even met you
that the skin on my hands is too
dry for the softness you plan
on caressing me with.
let me tell you how this ends;
I will show you all the people
I have destroyed - flooded
to the best of my ignorance,
driven wild with jealousy,
had whipped with lust and left
smoking pot after four
promises stating otherwise.
let me tell you how this ends;
after showing you the blessed
catastrophe it is to be human,
you will destroy me. you may
i know your type, i’ve seen them around here
before, browsing through my poems like
you’re flipping through vinyl records, trying to find
that one disc you were listening to the first time
he leaned over and kissed you.
the only way you’ll ever be able to love yourself
is if he leans over and kisses you again, is if someone
tells you about the seven wonders of your soul, if
someone sits down and writes a list of all your beautiful
fault lines that you’ve never been able to forgive.
you want to love yourself and you want to be loved,
but i know it’s hard to believe that you’re holy,
when your hands still s
I sit in the coffee shop imbibing mochas and
memories and counting the leaves extinguishing
their color in my eyes, windblown with their
sighs of sincerity, Autumn fills my little cup
with reveries, her amber sensations I drink…
until I feel my mind unfold into a tender Twilight,
her cool caresses soothe me into a state of
gentle reflection where the hum and hiss of
human locomotion no longer exist, and my world
is still and silent and I can hear my thoughts,
impressions darkly blue are all that’s left of
Yesterday’s voices now distant from where I am,
for I am as Autumn left me-impressions of some
The fickle, grizzled memories; when I bottled you up in the jars of time
You poured me, licked me, tore me into the petals...
and called me up as I sank into the Satan's rhyme
You filled me with your liquor,
and left me within the grooves of the night.
When I had touched tranquility within a forest's very spine
where the shadows innumerate tiraded with the Palm and the Pine
The tunes long-forgotten, sweeter than those Orpheus could sing
limed the air, as his mournings had once caressed the ocean's brine.
The lilliend's lyre sounded from the foothill to the hilltop's ever-misty pane,
where the thickets had sprung up an