i want to be alone in every direction. the way i stand, eyes closed in the doorway, listening for the rain —            hesitantly; i hinge my intellect to my hipbone, to my holy gray, glacial body —       futureless; a grave that no longer looks like a grave, dreams that always end in death, but i am not bothered by the parts i don’t understand — “the only thing weirder than being born at all is dying.” i am more careful now, soul-heavy, existentially sour, interwoven, rathe

Welcome to the land Of white picket fences Of home baked goods And good homey intentions Where actions don’t matter So long as “They meant well” Welcome to the land Of rickety fences Of burn-outs and drop-outs And unpaid expenses Covered in layers Of dust and grime A white picket fence Stained with Time Welcome to the land With a cookie-cutter past Its pleasant exterior Crumbling so fast On the edge of town There’s Suicide Valley Where in the race of life You’ll always come l

I knew you were dangerous the moment I pulled up to your house, you nervously walking towards my car with a spliff in hand. You leaned in my open window, kissed me as if I was an oasis and you were dehydrated from all the sun you ate. A midday heat tongue-tango, the taste of your tobacco and nicotine breath staining my lips, I asked you for chapstick, you licked my lips. The night I took you out for drinks you toasted to peace and love and I punched you for being cliché, you

I am a cursive body running laps on your notepad telling you the story of how we first met. I am the best type of tickle -- a spark that lights your spirit, warmth -- like the sound of good morning. I will be bittersweet -- the first bite of a fresh peach, the color green, stars dripping -- Apogee. I’ve heard my words can make you weak. I speak because your thoughts shriek -- bullet holes decorate the page, your brain wants more, and we both know this gets messy, but we both

I’ve been cracking open my knuckles Under his nose so he can smell my marrow. § I’ve been letting him scrape His fingers across the clay ridges Of my valleys, because he Likes the way it sounds. § I’ve been showing him where I hide My pockets of time, in the cavities Of my back molars. § I’ve been painting my ribs Blue to match the spokes of The tires on the bike He learned to ride as a boy. § I’ve been tying ribbons From my eyelashes, to cover wallpaper Roses that do not wil

I don’t want to forget. I want it to linger. To make a nest in my body And burrow in the depths of my being. Until it nibbles its way to the trigger, And rage thrusts me forward; Until my suffering heals the broken, And moves the motionless: My pain will be felt By everyone I touch. And by you, Who touched the most precious parts of me. Without Asking

A man without a job Parades around with a rusty old car key And judgements far too abrasive to be helpful. His pockets full of scratch tickets, A beer belly that never dissipates for his Fridge is filled but lacking food. A spotless house with not a spec of dirt. And a perfectly manicured lawn, Spoiled by a broken down Pathfinder. He’s drained his wallet and the last sip in the bottle And you’re constantly crying Imagining a world without him. Never does it cross his mind tha

I. Whiskey Ship There is a frozen piss stain in the snow Beneath his hips and betwixt his haunches. Just a bum, who succumbed to the butt Of some cosmic joke. His fifth of bourbon beats in his fist as his Handle of crimson life juice shatters Against the pavement of his ribs. Like the stars, Reflecting off of the empty vessel on the sidewalk. It lays beside his starboard foot, lacking a Boot with a toe protruding from a hole in woolen socks, Nibbled on like a bit of cheddar b

He who wants honey must abide the bees. But, the bees are going— Our glazed eyes avert. I am the speakeasy, I will tremble against the amaranthine snows forever. My brittle bones crumble, I crumble. You will encounter one million different people in your whole life. As part of a world more meaningful. You read a gently worn book on dog fighting and the dogs never win. This, this is our history. Intersectional, but indifferent.

You wanted so badly to show me All of your brain tissue on that couch Sticky with tears on the television as It moved in the wind in front of us You spoke quietly and softly I watched It and you with no words the leaves Were carried away by the wind leaving The gray asphalt gray like your brain Now in front of me like your tears I thought it was beautiful and I sat Silently I knew you were trying so hard And it kept dancing in front of us Through the screen that r