Why were we made
so weak, these lungs
need a transcendental
transplant
or maybe it’s the air
we breathe to pretend
surging to unplug
and loving all along
so content with
discordant harmony
it’s what we breathe
who we are
asthmatic airways
claiming openness
and deep breadths
restrictive strong points
keeping us in stride
aching to be full
and centered
surging to unplug
Said it once,
and I’ll say it again—
ain’t no such thing as moderation.
Memory banked
deposit
indirect erection
looking for direction
with a busted
compass point
no north
no birth
no life
no death
no motherfucking bearings
no in between
but things
they seem
to creep
thorns they
seem
to cause
bleeding
a rose budding
on a blistered
thumb print
allowing key card access
to digital virtue
jacking off
in tissues
my nose is running
for
some higher purpose
my nose is bleeding
I smell iron
searching for
I am
hey man
I’m sand
in hand
and so
are you
we are
so few
dripping through
the cracks
in asphalt
looking for a fault
line
January,
where you gone.
March,
it’s November;
I’m still
singin your song.
leaves
on the ground,
and I’m still
pickin
for fruit.
snow flakes,
and I
unappreciate.
lookin for sun,
and I’m
lookin for shade.
September,
yeah I made
another year.
February,
still it dares
rear.
earth is salted,
and I’m
lookin for sweets.
this apple
so sweet,
and I need
a
bitter
cup
of
tea
to satiate me.
I am so tart,
and she,
lookin for
saccharine.
still lookin
for that season
to alleviate me.
Looking for mermaids
in the sun of shade;
so thirsty near the water
Razors hide behind
ribbons of purple and pink;
death decoration
What is it we hide ‘neath skin?
blood begging to be surfaced
There is a Dracula inside of me,
sucking the very life from me,
draining my veins
of all passion, and creativity.
I used to be so…
something I can’t place.
I used to have a name,
and expressions on my face.
When did things become
so routine, and so cliché?
(I didn’t always feel this way.)
I used to have a goddamn say.
But, you see,
we are dualistic beings,
blending the seams
of folklore, reality.
If I’m harboring a vampire,
I surely have a stake,
and a sink of holy water
to splash upon my face.
Where is Buffy when I need her?
Where is my Van Helsing.
In a web, you bet
all sticky &
tangled
interconnected
in symmetrical
thread
in the center
or sideline
waiting to be
consumed
in a joyous feast
of heart & head
I am not stuck;
I am living,
am not dead.
Remember me
for sum
thing greater
than the hole of
my parts.
