Respirator

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

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Fault Line

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

Seasons

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.

Dracula

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.