Untitledcome believewe were morethan mystery,jesus smoke hello, operatoryou grow the worldlike love is right -wax lover;readysetburn
UntitledThe bruises on a banana taste sweet,and I wonder, as I crush it between my teeth,if this is the reason some pull punches –if it’s the reason being trusted to feel themin others leaves such tenderness -if it's the reason we puke up the sweetnessand lose ourselves to the bile.
Stories We Shouldn't TellYour hand in mine was the kindest of bombs.Over the dispatch radio, you mention depression - I remember her undereye blues, insomnia sunrisesso cold that the birds hid in their coats. I am scared. I am scared of illusions - if this is a game,if this is the bait, my mouth has a scar from the hook -not again. Never again. Not again, but maybe with you. Maybe with anyone whose body heat reminds me of campfires,whose eyes knock at the door and whisper through paint cracks.There are stories we shouldn't tell - but here we are,holding...a full stop, blue apparatus. My mouth keeps stuttering into the dark. The alcohol glitters on the floorlike a sea. Why must we only talk in boats? I've forgotten the feeling of sand -stationary headspaces addressed from sobriety.Why is the pen always in my hand?These are stories we shouldn't tell - the morning after you tastes like an ashtrayand too many hearts on bourbon sleeves.We are only disar
Love, MiseryMiserable people are everywhere.The dental hygienist sees my tattooand launches into her couple’s therapy.A 45-minute check up crawlsinto the skin of a toddlerwho continually stops to stare and stare,its fist falling down its throat.“What does it mean?” She asks.“It’s a reminder,” I try, licking the vowels from my teeth.There are too many peoplein the room, and the ceiling keeps spelling "company", as I swallowdown my blood.The window becomes an eyethat never blinks, 90 minutesfinding all its eyelashespulled out.
Pedestals and RipplesI am still waiting for someone to capture me and say: "We're on time."I opened the door and his coyote greeted me like a moon. I don't know if I want to be someone's moon: the moon is unreachable - unobtainable - and she is not allowed to show her dark side. She is not allowed to show her dark side and unlike her, I only have a quarter-sliver of life. I only have a quarter-sliver of light.Does anyone walk the craters of the moon - besides astronauts who only ever leave? Is she really known? Many admirers on the ground, but I doubt she calls any of them "friend."I want someone to stand beside me - not behind me, and not beneath me.