Petra

How will we ever know

the right choice,

when choice cracks

under the weight 

of every course delayed?

The grooves

in your hand

will never be moved.

Your fingers
grip the wire
and fall into
petals,

from
your kindness

stems a rage

that will one day
blossom whole.

And so you roll.

And so you roll.

It's all good and not enough

Look, none of us asked to be shafted this way.

Wanna know why the minnow bucket looks so alive? They're all trying to forget how to swim, and I've got nothing for 'em except a head full of bigger fish to fry.

Silly lil' fish, you are so funny, why can't you just die?

Look. Maybe I'm not so smart or strong. Maybe playing pretend was all I picked up on. Maybe.

I am in a bad way, coming off 22-jump already street, hesitating before traffic, feeling something cold in my stare that condenses my inner fluff.

Look, as I said, it's all good but I have had enough of this grind, enough grinning and bearing, it’s become a chore to chew by now, and this mounting burden of knowledge is crushing me. My verses come up short on breath. The birds gather to split the bread.

So many smiles take their turn to pull me out of the wreck... perfumes push me away from the edge, that look in the eye, that momentary salute, that call to arms of embrace that shakes me, the twinkling voices that wake me. The slope is more pronounced each day. I mope for lack of trustworthy hope.

Look— I do not entrust these thoughts to you. I am hoping quite openly that these thoughts die

by allowing them to live forever and ever.

Have you ever asked for mercy? really asked? Look I had a vision of myself by now as being this appropriately frustrated, as being this appropriately appropriated, as being used and screwed, as being the fool, as being so hopelessly behind, as being more than a probable statistic, as being more than all that I am. But this— this was not what I ordered.

God, how I am continuing.

My images have conspired in vain.
I am drunk with the absinthe of absence. I am screaming at my insides to give it up. My insides want so bad to stir it up. I think I might die very lonely. I think there is that something which emboldens me to search a while longer, but do I know it already?

What is this fine line I'm walking to get at the point? What is this here that defeats my purpose? What is this fear?

Panic! At The Rosh Pit

Entrenched in the battle,
fighting the good,
perpetual fight by proxy,
I pulled the trigger
on my pulse for the play,
until hey, wow, my heart 
is beating me bloody,
then the screen turned thick
and blurry, I thought not now,
please not now, we've put
in so much effort
that's now being swallowed
up by the throbbing
of my head, and holy shit 
this sweat, I stripped
my clothes and laid in bed,
pained to understand
which mode I chose,
fight or flight, 
and I wanted to fight,
no matter the cost,
but my body chose flight
and so we lost.

Song for the Salvaged

Connecticut is calling with the latest update
on your fate. The tea turns milky grey
in a way that feels significant. Disregard
tomorrow's bombshell threat, make cat calls
at the rabbits who live beneath the shed,
seduce the laborer into labor. Promote
friendly debt into savage debt, credit
yourself with another day well handled.
Help yourself to the handle. Don't slip.
The roof drips and forms a continual
rink. Carry on carrying. Cast a spell
that just can't be helped. The smoothing
stone of routine softens the howls
to barely audible mews and dulls
your jagged doubts. The thoughts
of being held by whatever you love
hold you like a joey in its pouch.

Community Service

Reluctant stars

descend on the

pastel waves.

I flutter 

over the litter,

forming gutteral

sounds, 

dwarfed by our

garbage fetish.

Waves fade

into a roil

of boiled blue

as I lift one hand

to block the light

from the sun,

the other hand

buckling under

so much wasted

effort.

Live and Let Down

Waking in these sorry States,

forgetting what broke me down

this way. Scraps of choked up

speech lay strewn on the tiles.

The wind has no waiting room,

it stuffs my mouth with a poverty

to please and partitions my teeth.

I s'pose I assume responsibility

for every attempt gone south

for the winter. The drifts of snow

strike their quiet pose. I listen

closer, and expect the main things:

the puff of trains, the whistling

of the restless wind, the silence

of sunlight. Then, the soft scratch
of the needle stitching it together,
as if the common thread
existed only to comfort me. 

You are more than what makes you sad.

You are more than the sex you've had.
You are more than the hours you put in.

You are more than the drugs you've taken.

You are more than the leavings of your losses.

You are more than a work in progress. 

You are more than the sum of your parts.
You are a dying art.

Hyperbolic Angel Chamber

I saw you in there,
and all my questions
were reduced to a quest
to keep you this close
for as long as I could.
I cannot forget when
your dress of silver mesh
and tinsel-tangled hair
gave me no reason
to keep breathing.
In fact, the moment
you tapped my knuckle
with your icicle fingers,
all sound was swept
into space and every
nerve in my body woke
from a life-long sleep
and every word I ever
wrote flew into my face
like birds against glass.
I have a question,
and though a kiss
is hardly a question,
I think it must be
the answer.

Is This Doing It For You

I am a fun and outgoing person,
if failure's fun and the going gets
rough. Look at me dragging my
tongue across the plate of butter
and salt. Look at all these thoroughly
used tissues. How are you so undecided?
I am well-versed in justification.
I was born under an indifferent star.
I know my way around a promise.
I could vaunt this way all day!
Holler at me if you hate dogs.
I have a dramatic flair for detail.
Details, details, details!
How else can I convince you?
I take great pride in moving
my ass out of bed to suck
down a death-stick. I float
from job to job, none
cool or fulfilling whatsoever.
To quote my old sweetheart,
I'm a certified fucking loser.
No hook-ups, please.

Lightning Flash Asuna

I know why the caged bird
sleeps, dreaming of a feathered
bed in a cabin by the lake
in the woods. Bound by fetters
of keratin, there is nothing more
to save, nothing left to protect,
except the visions which crowd
her sleep: the glitch in the cradle,
the roused fury of a rapier,
the dying scream of a murderer.
She trembles but doesn't stir.
Waiting, waiting, to wake
from the folly that befell
her spirit when the world
crumbled into clouds.

Pray, Tell

the ice reflects
the new-year sun
air lightly salted
and fresh smelling
as detergent
I felt again
the smooth voices
of the dolls
waiting their turn
to be made
into a breath
I felt again
the frozen dew
holding back
the atmosphere
of an accident
I felt all at once
the sum of my
efforts sing
and seduce me
I felt once again
fit to be captain
striving for nothing
gaining
with every step