(red st)ring.bury me with a (red st)ringstill around my ring fingerthat i tried to forgethalf my life,cutting off the circulationcyclic sufferingsolitudeandsilencehe has made with his fistsfor the last time.there is a heavenand a helloccupying this casketright alongwith the muskof formaldehyde:heavenin the waythe stench of 80 proofhas left this swollen head;proof that woe is not forever,and hellin the waythat i knownow there won'tcome some day or anotherwhen a god would have to answerto mefor allof this.
Truelove (n)-done scrawling exes on calendar pages.
For Now.I spendthe endof every daylistening for your heartbeatunder my pillowcase.
Catacombs.That Saturdaywe satcross-leggedwith our kneesjust brushing,close enoughto feelone another'sbreathon our ears;so separatefrom the daysof holding shellsto this placeand hearing our hearts:the moons thatchurn our scaled-downseas.Reading to ourselvesfrom composition notebooksfilled with talkof decomposition(the metaphorsobscureduntil the winesbegan to pour)and running ourthumbs over the keysto ourskeleton-filledclosetsuntil they reachedan uncomfortable shineandour printsbegantofade.(If only I had knownwe'd reconstructthe Catacombsbefore the dawnof that next day.)
Life (n)-the stepping stones before the tombstone.
Age is just a-I check the calendaragain,waiting just beyondthe sequel,just a few pagesshort of being your"equal."
Musing.What's so "friendly" about friendly fire?
On Desire and Incorporeality.I am newlyand acutelyaware of my skin,because more than anythingI want to be free of it.Each of its bordersrises in bumps;this pressing wantthis goose-skinned lust-What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey, that's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary.(You’re waiting for the full moonfor to better see our facesas you and I run anxious tongues over coarse lipspreparing them to dance,even the fireflies dulledby celestial graces.But I’m pleading for a crescent moon,ripe to be pickedfrom the sky.)Gut me thenwith its sharpened edgeand from this skinlet me slip;I want to leak into the fucking water supplyto get to where you are.Never mind this fleshthat everybody knowssowell;disregard this bodyto grace your lips just once-
Found.I find poetryunder my nailsandbehind my ears,prose spiralsdown the drainafter a long,thoughtful bath:the kindwhere you don't come tountil the water's long since gonecold.
ElenaElena followed me homefrom work one nightand stayed for tea and eggs,and all that minimum wageand wars between the sheetscould bring.She said she was a goddess,daughter of a carpenterwith her long red, red hairand eyes as warm as hazel nutson Christmas morning.Her hands spoke brailleacross my backand made the silenceof Sunday into a prophecy.She left one Octoberjust like she said she wouldwhen the fireflieshad turned their wings to ash.And I found revelationin red, red wineand cheap red, red fabricthat came off in my handslike summer.
there's something fatal about coughing up verse.i got written up for writing poetry on the desksat school.i don't think they liked the language i usedwhen i wrote how my heart was beatinglike headboards against the walls of people fuckingat 3 am to the sounds of joy divisionwhenever you read me paintings at dawn.they were going to send me to the counselor,but i said my therapist probably wouldn't like that,so they just let me go.but this saturday, when i'm cleaning lives off of every desk in school,i'll just be thinking how much i'd rather be sitting on your roofand laughing when we argue about rimbaudand sighing as we start to die.
renovationsmy mind looks at my bodyand says, "i don't like whatyou've done with the place."
WineHead on a patisserie tablewith a wine-scented napkinthat I scrawled your name all overin the hopes it might necromanceor just romance youto this place, at this time,so we could be together againand although the guitarist knowsthat I'm broken beyond blueI keep reaching for the bottlein the hopes it might recreateor just replicateyou.
I'm too poor to feel so middle class.My teeth still ache from the dentist,but it doesn’t stop me from nibblingthe cheese danish I bought at Krogerthis morning, warmed by thirtyseconds in the microwave. My mugof hot chocolate is too big, and Idrink it all. The washer is on its lastcycle; the cat is purring at my feet.Netflix is background noiseto clacking keys, typing a transcriptof middle class morning that I’ll latercall a poem or a turning point,wondering when I became such an adult.
the polar opposite of translucencycradled in the echoof a cloudburst,the earth curls invisible fingersabout my achilles' tendon& pulls;she cries that i am notintended for the clouds,that my mind must not wanderbetween their susurrous concavesso i,furious with her insistence,her petulance,untether myself from the soft,diaphonous comfort of the heavens& sink,down into the weight of gravity.listless green blades welcome my soles,stimulating a tickle,an itch,a sneeze; i never have done wellwith nature,but oh,she is calling for me,soft-tongued and crisp in herown shadow,& i am sorely temptedbut no,no--i am not for the soil.lungs listless,she becomes my inhale;lightheaded& translucent,my alveoli shudderbeneath her force--i am not for the air, either.mellow-skinned,i stand beneath her onslaughtuntil she tires,her molten heart beating beneath my toes;unable to woo me with her facets,she pirouettes,cloaking me in one last attempt,a final shadow.my pores bloom& i r
to the ghosts with you, my deari came not to be kissed,or to have myself cradledin the curve of a throat,but to be broken,to be diminishedby your lack of affection& over indulgence of sexualization.but i,uneducated in your intent,found myself left entirely whole& incapable of the furyi had sought to sow between theridges of my aching ribs.
she suffers melancholy like the plagueshe cannot raise her voice to reachthe notes that she adoreswithout the ocean escaping from her eyes,and she cannot kneel in prayerto the god that she tries to lovewithout copper staining the pavement,but she can scream into a room and not be heard,and she can deprive her stomach and not be seen--but oh,these are not the type of talents to be appreciated,to be loved without condition,and so nobody does.
AgainAnother dayA new beginningAnother nightThe same nightmare
Second.I've no crystal ball,no misty eyes,no magicwanderingthe hallsof my heart,but I can tell you now,today,just how our friendship willfall.