Heavy with the weight of skin cells
feet and toes
bones and blood.

Heavy with the weight of angst
broken pieces of emotional waste
fall through cracks in veins
and steamroll straight to the heart.

Light with the feeling of a blase attitude
beer bubbles rolling down your throat
disinterest crawling over your brain
with the delicate touch of a spider’s legs

Light with the feeling of impervious solitude
because the stench of other humans
burns your nostrils-
the feeling of other’s skin torches your flesh.

A cat yowls,
speaking to me in foreign tongues.
The wind howls,
breathing down my neck in mocking tones.
My heart races,
a manufactured sense of happiness ensues.
I cannot escape,
my nose bleeds and you don’t question why.
Letting broken pieces lie,
so I hid in the bathroom until daylight crept up and found me.

When I was ten I told my mother
that I could not determine
which parts of life were real
and which parts were not.
Standing in the doorway to our apartment,
she answered me,
but I do not remember with what.
I wish I was a poet,
I wish I had an endless amount of
time
and ink
and paper,
because I have an endless amount of emotion,
yet I lack the room to keep it contained.
I lack the binding to keep these thoughts stagnant
on a black imagination’s background.
I lack the courage to let it out
and hold tight to my heart, the fear to keep it in.
I wish I knew thousands of words,
but I only know one.
I wish I could stop letting cold blood drip
through my fingers,
but instead hold the sticky fluid tight and make it
warm.
I wish I could have told you “I love you” and meant it,
I regret telling her “I love you” with feeling.
I wish I was a poet,
because I lament that all I am is human.

I love her when she brushes her hair
because she cups her body
into a beautiful
C-
shape with her
milky ass almost touching
her slender neck, strands of jet black streak like ink
down her sand washed back while
two white birch arms beautifully
extended, forewarn the world
of her white hot anger.
I love her when she brushes her hair.

Human interaction,
when the lanyard
of one’s mind becomes
intertwined
with that of another one.
Uninhibited reactions
run down the chain
that connects intensely
to the brain
and flush out the bloodstream
pumping iron and oxygen
quickly through the veins.
Tell ‘em you love ‘em
because soon you
won’t be able to say
a word.

he said his one critique so far is to be unapologetic with my writing and to never hold back.

I love it

I found that fog one
day
just like that chief
did
in that book Kesey
wrote.
I just fell into it face
first
when society decided to
turn it on.
No rope to hold
onto
no horn loud enough to
pull me out.
Safe in that nightmarish
fog,
a beautiful blanket of
silken air.
How soft and safe and
trapping.
A face never appeared detailed
enough to remember
and a hand never appeared welcoming enough to hold onto.
So the mechanics of that social machine keep whirring,
filling my nostrils with the metallic smell of fear.
I walk in that fog unobstructed,
because society deemed it my home,
to the point where I believe
Them.

I know it’s cliche,
to lay in bed and listen to the awful sound of the drip from a faucet.
While two large eyes full of light look down upon your bed,
crouched in
weird positions
under blankets.
But it’s happening
right now
I can feel it,
In the pit of my stomach
that’s churning towards the happening of tomorrow

Do you ever feel badly for the chandelier?
Sure there’s a body attached to it, you could make that point
but no one cares about the body or else it wouldn’t be swinging.
Do you ever think how heavy a body must be
to a poor piece of rope, fringing and ripping from the weight
Of dead decaying cells, heavy with the drip of sorrow.
Do you ever wonder how angry the paper must feel
with all those sad notes scribbled painfully with a razor edged pen.
Perhaps you should feel badly for the shoe that dangles
precariously atop toes that no longer pump with a
beat
of
blood
holding on for dear life, lest it fall to it’s demise
with a quick and painful thud on the floor.
Why feel badly for the sad sack of bones and flesh?
Because it has a soul the rope took away with it’s rigidity?
A beauty the shoe is blatantly disrupting with it’s disobedience?
The memories of a living creature that the paper and pen gave no justice to?
And a lively being that only the body could hold up as it danced?
That the chandelier just held back instead.

One day a little bird was born. A beautiful Baby Bird with two powerful wings covered in brilliant blue feathers. His beak was strong and his legs in perfect condition- but this little bird was unlike all the other little baby birds born that day, that week, that year. This Baby Bird did not posses a third wing. His Momma did and so did his Daddy, and so did their Mommas and their Daddies. Both his Momma Bird and Daddy Bird were upstanding citizens in the Aviary Community who plucked worms from the ground like all the other grown up birds and had a baby bird just like all their friends. Unlike all the other baby birds, this Baby Bird began right away, to fly. Without the extra weight of this third wing that every other baby bird possessed, our little Baby Bird began learning how to flap his wings. He quickly knew how to let his feathers sing in harmony with the wind so well, that he soared high above all the other birds. One night while baby bird was practicing his flight, the Aviary Council had an important meeting concerning the Baby Bird deep within a hole in the large old oak tree. Baby Bird’s Momma and Daddy were there too. Fear sat heavy upon Momma Bird’s breast and worry upon Daddy Bird’s brow. The head councilman cleared his tiny throat and began speaking of Baby Bird’s defect. How it was wrong and quite obviously a test from the Bird Gods sent upon this community. Chief Bird was convinced that Baby Bird was some evil being who must be dealt with swiftly. And how could he not be? Have YOU ever heard of a baby bird being born with just TWO wings? Not to mention the ability to FLY?! In all of Chief Bird’s many years, he had never heard of such a thing, all birds were born with three wings- no more and no less. What sort of scary nonsense it was to see a bird flying. How unnatural, how appalling, how mysterious, and chaotic it was to the community to let Baby Bird continue to fly. Baby Bird must be punished for the way he was born, for, as Chief Bird said on this historic day so many years ago, “how dare a bird defy the morals of this society. How utterly ridiculous it is that he finds himself to belong above our people.” Momma Bird cried and Daddy Bird pursed his lips in silent heart ache as the decision was made to “deal” with Baby Bird.
On a cold autumn afternoon as the leaves flew silently through the air towards the hardening ground, so too did Momma Bird’s voice carry on the wind calling to her Baby Bird. The community gathered round as Baby Bird flew from his favorite tree to answer her call. As he soared down upon the community with a beautiful light-hearted air, dozens of wings rained down upon him, crushing him to the ground. Chief Bird stepped out from the crowd and pinned Baby Bird’s wings against the face of a boulder with two heavy rocks. And turning to his people, he raised all three of his terrible wings and said “on this day, the mutant has been dealt with. Forever will he stay pinned to this boulder as a sign to all future baby birds never to defy our community values. Never again will we live in fear of our own kind.” Sad and caged, Baby Bird spent the rest of his days unable to fly,
spent all his days just like everyone else.

Because that was the point after all, wasn’t it?