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palm readingsi exist in the city limits because i want the wind to make me frail.
fragile like a ghost,
a sorry sin i promise to abstain but inevitably commit.
my bus fare is a kick down memory lane.
i walk instead.
he told me i spun words that dissolved on the tongue
before he even had the chance to taste them.
he called me sugar like a midday ritual,
dressed me in compliments more fit for kings than commoners.
i turned complacent; comforted by new beginnings
and frightened by sudden endings.
my mother never taught me how to avoid heartache.
she only told me that my heart was a gold mine
and i should never let fake jewelry lay over it.
once, out of spite, i showed her my palms and asked what she saw.
she told me that in this world full of practice, there was no time for games.
when i showed him, he said that i am overworked.
now, it is the purgatory between autumn and winter that sinks my guts.
the waiting room lacks couches and candle scents.
the smiles are either plastic or
it was only under the weight of the stars
that vulnerability personified
and he floated into my arms like an honest promise.
we built castles with our mouths,
safe havens with our teeth.
after all this time, i still can't tell
whether he decorated my life
or vandalized it.
and i wonder if i will ever see him again:
painted and proud with those lips like royalty.
pillow fightsthe sullen song of birds is sung
amidst a late-October rain.
flamingo looking ugly
fishing in an imaginary lagoon
smiling with razored teeth.
carcasses lie deserted in spring time,
pseudo-autumn weather patterns bring
water & wing-robbing.
wet feathers paralyze.
despite the rain, here is a parade:
the era of the jungle in which lions hunt parrots.
jaws tear skeletons to shreds, crafting quills; pillow fights.
birds remain sullen, sulking in baths.
migration is not a choice.
some humans just don't understand.
the art of leavingtimes like this, i am convinced that we were just faking it,
how we traded dreams and comfortable anatomy
for secrets and messy closets.
it is nothing less than an unmistakable truth
that our coils are curled around each other
like infantile fingers:
all passion for passing time, no direction or destination.
we were consumed by our desire for warmth,
by our shared ability to extract smiles and steady breathing.
we taught each other the art of leaving
and because of this,
my name jitters caffeinated on your tongue.
i am combing through my bed sheets
in hopes of finding the salt i shed
to decorate my wounds with stings.
the process of healing is one i am continuously beckoned into perfecting.
i have already tricked myself into believing i do not need you;
i have already forgotten the shape of your face.
Farmington Hills, MII.
i have this tendency to hide behind tall buildings.
skyscrapers are home, but your lap
is the most familiar place i will ever know.
when Thomas Edison invented the light bulb,
he did not account for your smile.
the brilliance of the two can blind,
subsequently terminating his patents
and deeming light fixtures illegal.
every time i'm on the highway past midnight, i'm reminded that
the difference between us is a 300-mile span of lampposts.
i'm sure that Thomas Edison didn't consider this, either.
if he had, he would have used that mind of his to invent teleportation.
he wouldn't want me stranded in a bed too large for a single body,
shivering with thoughts of damp fields and crunchy leaves and interlocking fingers,
mumbling about how quickly we turned upside down.
still, i think of you in the moments before i do something brave
like tell a secret or hold someone's hand during a movie.
you taught me that forgiveness comes in floods.
my eyes are a tsunami-tide away
bed sheets hold more than bodiesi engraved the curve of my fingernails
into his shoulder blades, his tongue
sweat with lust. we touched,
real this time.
linens are scrapbooks: snapshots
of midnight and kush smoke
and breathing speech.
i cried oceans for lips that flowed like rivers.
i moved mountains for men
who were often obstacles of their own.
uncut grass and dusty mattresses,
warm liquor and bruises.
someone else's shadow is not for hiding behind.
my mother mistook me for chastity,
men mistook me for a chalice;
both drank me dry.
i took for granted the time i had another body
next to mine and now
i realize his absence with startling certainty.
sometimes it's best to abandon shipin the seas of my sailor-boy stories,
limbs of past lovers have been found
floating like forgotten prayers.
i have made far too many unlucky discoveries,
witnessed far too many good people
burn at the stake
to ever go back to child's play.
he is the rope not long enough
to save us from this shipwreck.
i am the anchor stuck in the sand,
cracking deeper with every wave.
the human heart is a muscle
not accounted nearly enough credit
for what it has been through.
so he folds his arms around me
like a flawless sail and tells me
that getting over people is easy,
that i could just forget the ways i
was altered and affected by the
plethora of existences that surrounds me.
with my flipped gut and over-tested nervous system,
i will trust him. i will listen.
this time, i am too far gone to risk it.
it confused you, the way i carried myself like an anthem.
my honeysuckle hair folded around my face in a frame of
concealment; the way i brushed foreign words across your
tongue like a series of revivals.
we were a resurrection hiding in the shallowest of waters,
so it shouldn't have come as a surprise when we drowned
our worth in glorified tears and cheap vodka.
addiction is a dirty trick: you
with lashing language and all that weed.
me with watching it happen.
it saddened me to mention you, the way our skin absorbed
the hope of every tomorrow in just one night.
how we built castles fit for royalty from each other's morals,
yet abandoned them like stubborn subjects.
we tethered ourselves like two anchors destined for an inevitable shipwreck.
smile, you said.
it's not all bad.
and i can't help but wonder why our interlacement unwinded.
your lingering taste holds me back.
the possibility of meeting again for the first time keeps me going.
neo-Freudian idealsin 1886, Sigmund Freud employed free association;
the idea that a sick patient, terminally crippled with a nameless plague,
could list off the reasons why his bed sheets had holes in them.
paraphrased: the art of free speech.
my mouth is a gun and your name is a shooting range.
damp grass, our backs, semantics.
the psychoanalysts say we establish long-term memory
by stringing it all with prior meaning.
a flurry of sweatshirts and ripped jeans, stroking skin
in sign language only lovers speak.
hands, tongue, everything else.
Freud said that sometimes, a cigar is only a cigar.
i tell him how smoke spilled from your mouth into mine.
stale breath and gentle fingers probing, squeezing,
i trace my steps back to the night we crushed leaves into potpourri.
the scent of cold coffee permeated into the forest,
the tree roots soaking up our caffeine.
i remember you most clearly in the heartbeat between page turns.
you are full and real, the lump in my throat.
you are the holes in
the future starts slow.he calls himself a veteran of my love, and i say
does the frequency of which these northern lights blink
follow less than the static asylum of your mind
radioed fully, accidentally, before the product of this love?
do you traffic your caustic breath
just to signify the distress
of wayward eyes, strained skyward prayers
excommunicated fall to grace?
have you resounded the avenues of beautified language
to form quiet absolution or artistry
in the design of foreign suspension, piloted death?
and let me tell you, i say: i bore witness to the purge
of argent skyline, rendered raging dawn obsolete-
stole a man of his libertine and hung time as a testament
of this struggling entropy.
we once proved that god left impressions and imprints, insurgency
on the backs of our eyes; broke the compulsion of inertia
bursting from the miasma of occupied blood, and freed the departure
of agrestic living from the dystopia of our hearts.
listen, veteran: we once marked ourselves with the rise of exo
day eighty four.there was a frequency in the air that sizzled the way telephone wires do
when i picked up the electric buzz your body generated next to mine.
swam in it for a while; curiously mistook the hub of electrolytes
dancing ionized glory on the surface of your skin for something far less
superior, or more.
and i swear, i swear our continuance shifted. i swear that the stillness of
wavelengths radiating from the base of your throat rendered itself
the course of grace. dawn frowned upon day like it wasn’t supposed to be there
just yet. night crawled under the covers of starlit gaze. and all the while,
you just cracked and popped in time-strewn intervals dimly, vaguely
here and there,
here and there.
symptoms of red a materialist
inside of you
unknitting your sweater
& in your dream
you are a wolf eating
a flower in an orange field. the world
is ending. an unnamed girl stains you
as if she were tea
giving up to a
she writes a story: the unrequited
blurry visions of two visionaries
Like this, you come to
me; moonlight on water,
a desert mirage, only
In dawn, you are
aglow: the sun becomes
a wisp of dream, like
The Problem With Elia.she could have been a violin;
born a week too late, she had
melancholy in her bones: doctor lizbet
took time out of her schedule to pluck her
newborn strings - calloused sanitation against
mottled pink-and-yellow flesh & thrashing limbs.
in three more years, she will have
nothing in her bones at all: doctor estair
diagnosed her with iatrophobia to fuel her
instinctive chords - ripple-free shells of liquid
lobotomy & a capsule to callous her pink-and-yellow
flesh against the thought of just getting over it all.
ten years after that, her mother will
find her face down and thrashing: her dust
bunny bones will flex as she retches up her memories
for display - lawyers will spend the next few years pawing
through them with clawed hands and heaving breathing until
one day, they find lizbet and estair huddled amid the rubble of her bones.
quandarythis is what it boils down to:
4:20 suffocations, but please do not forget the kerosene-
beta stole the sleight of this afghan skin,
so light me up. teach me the dogma of a smiling child
so that i can remember the innocence behind the inaction of not holding
a dying mother’s hand. charged: eight counts for dividing two zeros,
one for oscillating time’s eternal haste with morning wandering,
watt’s tongue, mint leaves, cold showers, and careless flights
on tearless days. so instead i cradled the brownness of my eyes
before the womb of dawn’s noetics, parted by the breadth
of nomadic trees (who were then convinced of the sincerity in
swallowing peace). unbeing dead isn’t being alive,
he says: thought proclaims moronic beauty of youth
i don't need to sell my soul laughing against frost,
stylish arsonists + I still
escaping from your lips
SurrealismThree a.m., and
God is in my bathtub
a freshwater moon
in the mother-of-pearl sky.
flight riskwe unfold wooden fans; a dozen hidden splinters
in the blades, cutting us before we have the chance.
you drew me in like a stringed balloon, your smile
faded into the wind - a daffodil breathing poison.
little black books bearing burns; we scraped
our knees on sandpaper with boredom.
laugh, you said,
and i did.
the clunking of an out-of-tune organ. the ritual
of a thousand horsemen galloping blindly into
a forever that won't last. the tousled manes of those horses,
how they vanish like inevitable sunsets.
there is an ache where your eyes once were.
i brush it out with the fans. not even the wind can
scatter the memories.
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
[transmissions of a dead girl]i am the
moon: i am
the silver pill
to weigh down
into leaden eyes--
i am the
of the dark.
the stars are
all dead in their
you'll be safe, dear,
as i am the moon,
with all of your
(i am good bye and yet,
you think only of romantic
i am the moon.
i am the crescent
and dead altogether,
i still die.
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