cannibal

squelch, lard
rubber rolls –
the butcher’s best!
heaving slabs of
gorged, bulbous,
putrid projections.
a collar of spit
a beggar’s garb,
mucous fingers and
pancake batter for arms
i wish i could swallow.
there’s room in the pit,
a boulder in my chest-
i am worried for her spirit
so thin you could not hold it.

4am thoughts

Full bloom is when the earth won’t stop smiling, the world won’t stop spinning into the furthest of reaches.

If I could put your laughter in a box, I would sink like sand. Quick, hold me.

Be the person that proclaims with your being: I am proof that there is good in the world.

High tech marks a forward trajectory, approaching Most Human and then surpassing it.

Phone therapy replaces phone sex. What have we done to our insides?

My ego loves you. I however, don’t.

Time feels like the tired grope of my hands on a rope pulled tight. Down the rabbit hole we go.

instead of studying for my midterm

VIGNETTE

In another life
You tousle his hair and it’s strangely light
— a dirty blonde. Must have skipped a generation.
And you refer to him as “buddy”.
It is a dream that I spit on for its
cheesy fucking sentiments.

MIRRORS

I want to be sweet to you.
Then I want to delete you.
You call for me.
Then you leave me.
You must be tired, too.

TELL ME

I can’t articulate well when you rub my back as I’m holding a fork to my mouth
your body is the sun I think you said and I like feeling bright shall
I keep talking and filling your head with nonsense
you give me room and I spill and
I kept talking until sleep took my place
and now we sleep alone in the dark.

Shorts

“The moon is like a lemon wedge”, she said.
And I told myself it was beautiful and that I was going to write it down.
We ran with the lemon-wedged moon.

– – – – –

What if she never saw herself as an artist?
Would I be the artist for recognizing her art? I’m taking the truth and I am framing it.

– – – – –

We don’t create, we translate. We just don’t remember when or where we had once felt the same way. All of you poets and creators! We are the same! You describe what is in me.

– – – – –

My story is the most outrageous. Until I hear yours.

– – – – –

We are moments colliding. You remind me of all these other good things.

– – – – –

The music is an animal. A moving mass that has possessed me.
A language. We have diffused into each other.

– – – – –

INVASION:
Thought is a polluter. Please, can you get out of my head.