I. “Define usable”

—demanded

her sheepish, wolverine smile

the beckoning strait—

narrow—a needlepoint

on a map of skin tightly

molested to fit

over the crags in his face.

It’s ill and unnatural.

II. “What I mean,” his answer,

“is that I am

not the globe

or territory

dotted with people

places

or things. Usable is

the focus of the camera—

his hands not covering the lens.”

This body is bile

III. Cars storm thru highway 99

nudging aside sand

dumped from the hourglass; particles

cascade, floating down to cover

Korean BBQ’s in

dust.

Complications: none. Recovery: soon.

IV. He became a lesbian

accosted; compressed

inside a psychedelic

cigar box. Where he hid

tampons for nosebleeds. Ovaries screamed out

from the pit.

“NURTURE. SANCTUARY:” took bookform

Theories of Rubberboots

sits on his mantle. Unopened. To wade

in menstrual blood; turning to the chapter titled:

Spite + Reform.

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Good Morning

is the first stare from closed eyes,

when your hair is tangled into mine with the

complexity of a sun rise.

By what name will you call me

as you leave:

Angel, as you brush my cheek?

Babe, forever doting?

Rose, honey, as you whisper sweetly?

Or Paradise, a nomad of the morning?

You lift the duvet like you’re turning a page

exposing your side of the bed to escape.

There is no rope strong enough to bind you heart

or your fingers

that pirouette through my body like gentle dancers.

I do not have the heart to bind my own

so how can I cage yours?

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We let demons grow at their own pace

Haunt us slowly so that we may never break

From their prisons or apartments or

The few living people who kept us in line.

Our cells were made of liberty,

The bars—just for show; we could escape

If only we had the desire.

Business is pleasure and pleasure is pain.

So we confine ourselves to gruesome history

Ask: “Why drop the misery that makes us strong?”

You, the sad surgeon. And I,

The world-weary jester.

It was easy to blame fate for

Gifting us with such horrors and keeping the

White plains so neatly hidden.

But it was easier to blame we.

I stood in isolation as you tried to sew

Her back together, to discover the best can fail.

Me, a product of systems and you, a product of people.

We share the same madness.

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The Moon burned brighter than the Sun

as she fell towards Earth

carrying catastrophes in her knapsack. She studied

Evil and the ceremonies that can persuade him to be Good

Then she bribed Chaos to Order her schemes.

God gave the Moon blessings for the apocalypse;

it took twenty three hours for the world

to become nothing but immolation.

This is TERROR!This is orientation:

Three women drowned in The River.

Their faces were on the front page

with fragile smiles that seemed to tremble

when the Editor cried.

He had never known them,

but the story was familiar like the ghost of his mother

who had no face at all.

This is TERROR! This is manipulation:

A Couple spoon in bed and pretend to be asleep

while wondering how they should leave.

They hold in their coughs that cause their lungs to convulse

and silently swallow their phlegm.

Man thinks, “I can never leave this bed.”

Woman thinks, “I may never leave this bed.”

Then like ships, they begin to sink.

This is TERROR! This is sublimation:

Read More

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I like the way

this deal turned out. I didn’t think

they’d go for the royalty. Five dollars

a sale. Five dollars until you pay me back.

I have less emotions than Kristen Stewart.

Like, I don’t (initially, I included a verb,

 but I decided “no”) any empathy.  Reasoning:

it’s too late to care about my aesthetic.

I didn’t think they’d go for the royalty.

I’m gonna marry you for reals

and maybe you’ll like it. Maybe you’ll knot

your necklace like a noose

and take so many pills that the dueling heart

charms burst like (It’s funny how every time I speak,

I hear a different voice

providing commentary) whales transplanted

into a lake featuring algae, tires, and PURE MUSSEL.

If you were a flavor of ice cream, I’d call you

the tipping point. Direct me to the office

of “All Apologies.” I’m running on empty

clichés (This isn’t an intervention,

I am admitting that I have already failed).

Have you ever heard of Autumn?

I’m going to use the pronoun

“he” and the deceptinoun “my friend,”

because I have a few things left to hide.

Have you ever disappeared? Did you break

and then enter her heart?

Have you ever heard of Autumn?

I can feel an angel slipping next to me (huh?).

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going home

is “I want to be somewhere else.”

consider Mother,

whose arms stretched forever

until she could cradle the whole universe

and sing away the stars. Mother,

after mistakenly eating human meat,

wrote an article that dismantled

the procrustean myth of individuality.

consider Father,

whose arms swung in tandem

with his lover’s braided hair.

She consumed beauty, but Father,

after mistakenly telling the truth,

directed a convention that dismantled

the American myth of individuality.

consider Lover,

who desires arms around him

and is going home.

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Violent sleeper, will you sing me a lullaby? I long for the screech of your voice as you call my name. You beg me not to kick while we’re in bed.  

I mistook you for a nightmare.

            Violent sleeper, will you pet me tonight? I need the dark calamity inside you that never knew I once lived a gentle life. The night is kind without a target.

I need to be guided.

            Violent sleeper, will you rock me tonight? I miss the careless comfort of cold sweats and reassurance that I’m still dreaming. With lithium there is rest.

With sleep, there is regret.

            Violent sleeper, will you love me tonight? I need the days where everything was ending. There was a countdown to how long we had left.

Those numbers are negative now.

Violent sleeper, will you take your life tonight? I need the threats, hunts, and dangerous chases. I long for the love we never shared and future that we borrowed.

You are the dream I never had.

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