24 Jul

it is uncertainties catching on fingertips
with their own sort of roughness

it is the owls that want to be flowers
and the girls who want to princesses
and middle-aged men who want to be

anything other than what they turned out as.

it is nooses snagging around necks that think
in dual arguments, unsure what they
are supposed to be talking themselves into

because it feels like a fight both ways.

Urban Myths

24 Jul

it is the same.
it comes out, the same.

the penmanship may be
better- the swirls
more deliberate.

but it always makes stories
of roses, and courage;

fish finding legs,
and the knives that come after.


21 Jul

He left again,
just like each time before.

I fell in love, understood
the honor, the arrows.
and it hurt no less.

and it will hurt no less when you
leave, even if it is for honor,
or valor, or vengeance,
chasing after the end of a story

or me. I suppose
it could be me, that
milky fish-half, always
getting in the way.


21 Jul

I don’t even know
if I could say I hate them

-the in-between spaces.

those hollows, where
they bloom, the inches of air
beneath the soles of your feet.

i know they should not
live in me too. my body is
already made of crevasses,
bridges, and corners.

and i know i am not
a light-bearer’s daughter,
i cannot make light to see.


21 Jul

there are fearful oceans
in my belly.

today, they are not of afraid
of mortality, or even time.
not the slow creep-crawling of starvation
or the vomitous urges that are
not nerves, or any other sort of

no. they are afraid,
in their childish fancy of
not being first, or only,
or best.

they are not even afraid
of hurt. that perverse
monster lives inside them,
they made their peace with it.

but they do fear those depths within,
like children, they never
stopped being afraid of the dark.

Shards of July

20 Jul

Its still slamming into
the glass wall in my head

Afraid to break it
for the shards, the blood loss.

Until it becomes a surreal drumbeat,
and in repetition becomes lost

While the reverberations stay in my bones,
I have always been confused
by the characterization
of endings.

Like victories, they always seem
to be inexorably tied
to the institution of hindsight

and the fear of loss.
I missed putting them
here, and now they have
fled, hidden from my
rejection of their need.

to exist, as they were.
Maybe it is simply,
that all writing is prophecy.

Necessarily, by virtue
of its constancy,
the accuracy of sentiment

even when recorded through
the haze of last night’s drinking
or today’s fear-wrapped sorrow.


19 Jul

i guess it will always
be constructed realities.
building worlds and people
from the fragments of a mind

made to do just that.
The alar that makes
this type of insanity

but I cannot make
you. Why can’t I make
you. Like all the rest,
into a gross approximation

something sucked out
and deformed, covered in lettering
called miraculous for the
silvertongue that brought it forth.

that consumed buckets of glitter
to make it so, keeled over in
indigestion to know it could still
create. could still make

the world something not totally
the product of the whims
of gods, boys, and writers.

liminalities and contradictions

14 Jul

And I still feel the shadows

Creeping up my neck with

Ghostly, unwanted kisses

Wet, not biting.


Where there are empty

Spaces, or flower buds

Seeding with the wind,

Forcing their fertility on the earth.


I feel it in the respect

For the weeds and the

Crow’s calls, half seen

Across the trees


Their overcast on the paths,




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