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Therapists, I don't like their taste.i.
in 7th grade                                      
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.

she stole my rings
and left me hollow.

ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.

iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.

iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through
Please,don’t make me
fall in love with you,
again.

I don’t want to remember you,
those Sunday morning
wake-me-up kisses,
or the way your
lost boy eyes always,
always found a way
to find mine.

There are only so many times
I can allow you to slice
through my scar tissue
before I finally

fall
ap art.
lion boyi knew a boy with
eyes of gold & fire
in his footsteps.

he would roar to the
stars, declaring himself
as fearless as a king
& as regal as a lion.

"ad lucem,"
he would announce
every night when leo
would coax the virgin
from her radiant
castle.

five times around the
sun & loyal fangs bared
to shield his kingdom,
my lion boy
dances with flames.
ExposureThe wind invites itself
from underneath my door,
it reaches under
it pulls open-
the leaves come in.
A bird hops over the
threshold and tilts its
head in quick, informative
motions.

The rains follow in
after the wind and
now I have to reason with
both the animals and the storm.

Those abandoned wooden barns
with one wall collapsed,
overgrown with vines and ferns.
The epitome of giving in.

I close the door
and all the windows,
leave it to the glass
to challenge the rain.

That little bird,
somewhere in here,
is searching for where
the wind has gone.

Thunder knocks
once, then
twice.

I imagine lying
on the hood of a car
beneath the desert su
i shouldn't write when i'm stonedpeople say you're
an asshole. but that's
okay because people say
i'm an asshole, too. maybe
that's one of the reasons
you love me and i love you.

but i think more than that,
i think the biggest reason
we're drawn to each other is
that neither of us fit anywhere.
we are both lonely. and we are sad.
but we don't care, and we love it.

we are good at being
alone. we are good at
being together. if i could,
i would paint a picture
of two souls tethered close
but sitting in separate rooms
and i would point to it. then you
would understand why we will
never come apart.
Translucentand you always see right through
I've called it my masterpiece
but you've disapproved
you told me that you always preferred natural sunlight
to the dim sort of darkness I surround myself with
you've disapproved but I'm scared that it won't matter anyway
String TheoryThis is determination,
existential numbness in which
I drown from the paranoid spittle
of that dreary-eyed girl
lost in the mirror.

Jesus,
 what would you do

if you saw me now, all grown in
to my predetermined curves and
the nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.

Maybe you still want to be
a brain surgeon. Maybe you still
weep when you’re happy and stop
when you’re lonely, drooping over like
the puppet no one remembered. Maybe
you still smoke like it’s a defiance, and love
like it’s a war; maybe time preserved you
like a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybe

you still think of me,
too.
ExperimentalistShe always said she was
An experimentalist.
I knew otherwise.
This girl was raised to 
Believe that the ability of 
Counting the bones in your
Rib cage is beautiful.
Sixteen years old
With sand in her blood
And shoulder blades 
As sharp as knives
As long as wings.
That day I knew
Her smiles were painful
And her laughs were just
Recorded in her throat
From so much practice 
In a life that was once
So happy.
A little punk rocker with a gift for singing songsGirl with the rock and roll smirk curled behind her teeth
Burning her insides for fun because there wasn’t much else to do
Aside from skipping stones across car parks
And sipping the last dregs of forbidden liquor
Behind broken trees to keep up the act of normality

Late at night when the moon is asleep
She lies on dismantled bed frames
Counting stars because lambs are too often sent to the slaughter
Lucky star heartbeats and posy veins
Hides broken windows behind her pupils

Ceiling lights tracing patterns on her cheekbones
As late night contemplation's lead back to Rome
Atlas limbs curled into her ribs
With a sense of obligation she
Pack rats                                               I want to be
                                                that
                                                  stale as bread,
                                                peeling
                                              picture of her
                                                that you
                                                  stow(ed) away
                                                in the beating
                                              of your breast
                                                pocket
                                     
this habiti have this habit of thinking without thinking.

my mind will be walking down a road
between cities

while i am plugging away at the factory,
while i am putting groceries away.

if someone were to ask me what i was thinking,
i wouldn’t know what to say.

i would have to wait hours,
long after they’ve gone,

until my mind comes through the door,
tracking all manner of shit onto the floor,

and explains himself.
Love LettersWith their condescending ink
They wrote patterns of gold
Upon parchment leather paper
Within letters of words foretold

Perhaps with this envelope
And its rose tainted scent
I can find peace in myself
In the summer days spent

Where I took in the musky smell
Of your heart.
As I held it against my chest
I picked up a pen and began to start

Dear love, oh love
How I wish to see your lovely face
These days, these mornings are
What keep me hoping in sovereign grace...
AdultsI envy those people
who leave home
at eighteen
and live like twenty-five year olds,
looking out for themselves
like folks did in the good ol’ days,
drinking whiskey straight,
driving all night with no limits,
loving and fucking without apology,
never having to remind someone
that they’re old enough—
Goddamnit, they’re old enough
and if they’re not cut loose
they’ll suffocate to death

without ever having breathed
on their own.
Sea sonnet for the girl with ocean eyesShe was southern Californian storms
On a good day
When the skies nursed the shoreline like a wound
And the rain tasted like two scoops of mint chip ice cream

She held the nebula in her palms
And poured it out onto the sidewalk
So that the gutters would have something
To talk about at night

She swallowed the ocean
And held it in her eyes
deep pools
Of mountain rock blue straining against the sky
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen
Sparrow girl with the breathless wings

Embellished in vinyl’s and cassette tapes
Gramophone gilded lashes and half-moon wrists made up
Paper tapestries taped together with Shakespeare and Green

Sunday mor
Alaska is hiding behind her eyesA girl caught up in the same game
Where circus tricks and trapeze artists
Are nothing compared to the burning of lungs
Where insomnia stains the people’s smiles
In a pale wash of sea foam angst bottled up and thrown
Into the horizon where the sky meets the earth
In a disjointed seam

She had hurricane rage eyes
And wishbone sleeves pulled tightly across her chest
To suppress her Medusa heart from cracking
The stars open and drinking their flames

Ocean funeral where  Chaconne
Is played to sirens and sea urchins
Coiled beneath the oily depths of seascapes
Where her kite string spines push against the thin membrane
Of split grin skie
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Surfthese waves
make of me

a mermaid

a rip-tide
sea-foam

and

polystyrene

siren

immersed in
salt spray

sand and
seashell

shatter.
Mojave Bones PreviewThere were bones in the Mojave, but there were also flowers. Brown-eyed primrose, lilac sunbonnet, and California poppies sprouted beneath Joshua trees, honey mesquite, and coyote willows. These were my grave blooms and I had to give credit to my killer. There was both genius and irony in his selection of burial grounds. My impromptu tomb was an abandoned silver mine carved into the foothills of the Funeral Mountains. As fitting a resting place as any, I suppose, for one who was never given a funeral to end their mortal days. Of course, there were more bones than my own encased in the dust of Death Valley and those skeletal remains bore their
Earth WormsBoot heels sink  
into damp
earth.

Movement is a wet
suck and hiss of
soil shifting,

a suction of man
and mud.

Sparrows dodge
raindrops,
flitting on fleet
wings

from the shelter
of the eaves

to a magnolia tree here,
a gnarled oak there.

From the wet they emerge:

quivering
on concrete,

squirming at the prod
of a brave fingertip,

hiding from footsteps
in rippling puddles,

mucousy,
mud bathed,

alive.

The sparrows
keep their eyes open

I watch my step.
CarnivalFerris Wheel Wind

Only metal and miracle
suspended you there
above the sloping roofs
of the village...

above the blinking lights
and the kettle corn stand,
above the dark haired boy  
licking cotton candy while
his mother fussed at smudges
on his cherubim cheeks.

During the brief pause
at the highest point
of the turn cycle,
you let your fingers slip
effortlessly into his.

It was natural then, that
your mouths should meet
in a powdered sugar kiss...
zeppoli on your breath,
whiskey on his.

It was a lip lock
that would not end
until the rotation
began again.

It was a love
that sprung
from iron s
The WaitressShe was all smiles and cutlery.

Missing
silverware,
spilled drinks,
and broken dishes…

These were all swept away quickly
and with flourish.

This was an integral part  
of survival:

the croon,
the charm,
the gasp of horror.

She was too busy
synthesizing it all…

all that humanity
amassing

at tables,
in niches,

those close quarters.

When she floats away
you say:

she must be easy,
an easy girl and probably
a real spitfire
in bed.

I shrug,
noncommittal
as usual

and I let you figure out

her tip.

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April 24, 2011
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[x]

Venom

:iconultimateoutlaw:

You are thirty years old.
You are unmarried.
You have no
Children.

You have money in the bank.
Enough.

You might not be beautiful
In that way that porno
Girls are.

You know.
Those ones.
Those other girls.

The ones your lover loves
To watch while he
Fucks you.

You may not be beautiful.

But remember:

You are a valuable
Commodity.

You are an
Asset.

Beware, though.
Be wary.

All parties
Involved

Have a stake in this.
:iconultimateoutlaw:
I give you piss poor venom. But that is what is in my veins right now.
:iconyouinventedme:
`YouInventedMe Apr 27, 2011   Writer
amen.
Reply
:iconbrassteeth:
*brassteeth Apr 26, 2011
As universal as it is personal.
Reply
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