document every moment obsessively
if only to kill and stuff these golden times
to press with pins, anesthetized until still

chronicled and counted against time spent ill
or escaped in a too big drunk
or gone unmeasured in countless mason jars
poured up the stairs frantic and justifiably so

up ladders folding back in their ascension
to join ghosts kept like bugs crucified
in dusty cobwebs twitching out of habit

gone like the glow from where you stood
in the one and one silvering vampirism
burning the mist through to some other pool
where everything must be so easy


As always, Cliche circulatory Imagery Poem

Mustn't Keep Secrets

Share ourselves and shame ourselves,
flow as blood that does not belong to us,
pump fists, lock valves.

This heart here on my wrist can't pump through anything at all,
This heart is a cynic. It bleeds through cliches,
uses damage as leverage for jokes.
It gets paranoid, gets flighty, floats up like sputum,
which is to say, it chokes. It coughs.
It hits ceilings like a sore throat after too many smokes,
folding there on the hot roof of my mouth, waiting to be frightened and swallowed back like thought, scratching into an already dug out point, scratching at wetted eyelids and cheeks enclosing dry eyes.

I can't feel what once lured me in check with myself. What once tried to tell me how I'd know if I'd be okay. I can't feel it. What grounds me, or sends me flying to rooftops like a tongue pushing against words before they're bitten into syllables,
and what keeps these thoughts from running together.
It's been a trying beginning to adulthood, privileged and lazy. Lucky but too fucked up.
It's been heavier thn skin and it has worn thinner the line that knots and seperates anxieties from reality.



looking back what i liked most of all was drinking gin on the floor
and the silence before we turned the radio on
eating stoned wheat thins because
you had nothing else to offer me

i remember now, your face
somehow smiling and laughing with every muscle
while i winced and pressed my palm to the carpet
speaking with authority on the outside world

it made me want to kiss you if only just to taste whatever it was
that made the drinks go down so much easier
and bound truth to a moment and emotion
what set your tongue on fire, numbed your cheeks to the blush

it was freedom i was looking for and that's why i did it


little wish

pressing a finger to some pricked spindle
i turned to the morning light blue and hollow
faced another day stillborn and whimpered
mourning hours forfeit and a life gone to rot

"i just wish they hadn't lied to me all this time
or that i had believed them, even once"



I threw myself against a fence
hoping for a spark to catch then give
in a rush of poppies like a fever
yellow red roiling black fingers raking sand

From an eroding cliff came the late bloom
a ringing filament in the spine
pulled taught by some needful thing
then left with gravity to splinter and burn

Left sinking against black into some divine haze
where want gives way to want and stems turn
the flames are contained owing nothing to hunger
where smoke doesn't mean a fire but a lie

Even the immolated needed to breathe
and needed a place to burn their hunger
and a hunger upon which to place this discontent

A place for flames that bring no light, only heat.