emptier and what cannot be

of steel, i said, of steel.

if that were true, how do you

explain the salty oases burning

trails down my cheeks?

your love was much and

plenty, but my empty hands

and restless/oh bereft of rest

i haven't showered in days.

i think i'm holding out that

my face be tattooed on the inside

of their feet: not so obvious, but

there i would be after the long days.

last days--if only these days lasted

what will i do? i'm all alone and

your mercy isn't here: i've

squandered you like a used plate

and how will i know justification?

that our two soul's breach may

be an end to a prologue: the cusp

of our very lives. uncertain yet

uncertain! i know the unknown

it lies within my lungs--it's a

walking pneumonia and a parasitic

cancer. what ever will i do.

funerals for dragonflies

artfully, the silverwings, on the dying day,

complement the red barrow soaked in dapples

of lace-patterned shadows.

the comodification beneath the enchanting words

is enough to fuel the ire of her superficial

auburn strands.

but tremors only plague the corners of her mouth

as the steady gaze reveals all knowledge;

the truth is constantly obscured.

my disputed presence

when it comes to the interrogation

of my hands, there is little still

behind my vacant, searching eyes.

a transient word, curling through

the air of space, silking off my lips

is barely enough to augment this.

my shadow, slave ever to the ground,

responding to the all-consuming light

of your antiseptic, calloused jaw

is a definition in the least, but fares

better still obscured within the

velvet curtain of a broken lamp.

she claimed "it would be incomplete"

imperfection? what is that?

the words spoken from the daughter

unaccustomed to poking, prodding

"you would be so pretty if--" "your

face seems thinner when--" do you

create for me my insecurities? so i

can be one of your group? a cookie

a day keeps the space between my

thighs away, but counted calories will

chase happiness down a swirling,

enslaving drain..

i would my crosses bear to

love the unlovely, to tell lies about

myself so we can live on the same plane--

perhaps my chainmaille isn't

too thick that i cannot find fault.. is it

much? where is my achilles heel..

i fear it lies in utter arrogance.

and then your sweet, sweet words

feeding my soul...

let's be expressive

m m m monterrey
in sylvie bay
we fritter time in
apple fritter time away.

hahaha you said to me
but all i heard was "you
are not enough"

it's like a book elegantly bound but
hey honey, you've won everything
they said you would. i'm crouched
inside your windowpane and the
cuts get deeper all the time. fff
your yellow skin and your slowing
heartbeat, they slow my heartbeat
and whither my waxed over smile.
i clamor for your heightened squeals
and the corners of your mouth--
they get me down.
in a language that you can't read

stretching limbs and wandering wandering
i'm expanding perhaps. the alpine heights
were supposed to communicate the chill
and permeate the silence--but ralston
echoes in my ears even if that terrible day
happened only in utah (what would we do
about the mormons?),;',;',;'this terrible day
happens only in my head: you can have your
heart back, oh temporary fix, you were
my lazy summer day.

waterworks and sandstorms and random
words that jump into my head unbidden.

no. no se puede vivir con tanto veneno.

and it feels good to tell you things.
and remember the flow of the words
that sink sweetly out of my fingertips
the sink and swell of meaningless clicks
of a plastic watch--what am i waiting for?

the art of un-freaking out (this will get messy)

above all, between the organ
notes and the perfect-centered
pitches that lie between us
those perfectly measured lines
separating the coming and
going of the freeway--the far
and the near, but much less
near. kamikaze waterfalls
pouring, jumping, begging to
be let go from those fragile
angry tear ducts that claim
residence on my face. my b
ody is a cage, followed by
the dramatic the most drama
tic organ chords you could think
up for yourself or for anyone.
it's a cage, and i fight myself
with the words i hide and
suddenly let go--as if living
in an age could improve the
cage. does my mind actually
hold the key? i fight, but i
mostly give up. i can't find the
key but all i wish is that you'd
set my spirit free.

if you wanted a good example of bad poetry... well there it is. excuse me while i go kick myself in the face for being a freaking moron.

the lost eggleston

moldy yellow curtain,

falling in loose

regiments. wide archs

and its little crinkles

in your heavy antiquated

fabric. You are stretched

sand dunes, vertical,

catching the lamplight

to the left and basking

in rightly shadows. your

faint, unobtrusive red and

blue speckles break

your sandy monotony

and the slim dark

cave of the outside world

struggles to peer past

your billowing clothes.