Misconceptionsthe extrovert isn't—self-possessed shining,sun in the sky of a millionblue silks sewn together:that summer to come,a laundered morning strewnwith white yearning—no,and the introvert isn't—scraping coins in an alley,smoggy eyes above a mouth likelines: red-cracked but partingwhen stars break gray clouds,calling on their mica bedsto reflect off his face—no,the extrovert is—the man sweet-talking the first ideasof his tongue,waiting for reception—while the introvertthinks.
novemberthe sun is a dim pearlbeneath a blanket of grayhung low from the heavens;i'm your yellow tremorpaled by the cold, achingfor a proper sunrise.
I Don't Miss AdolescenceMy sister asks if I'll do her makeup.Mami promised she would;now she's tired and screamedwhen Maria reminded hersenior prom is tonight.She says, "I have a hickey on my neck,something she doesn't want to cover,and you've alwaysdone a better jobof highlighting the subtle gracesof my structure,the angles we share."I say,"That's okay,but I can't pick you up."So she arrives in a flourish of exasperations,telling me all the family business,waving her nails in my faceand talking about her extensions.She says,"Do you think we need yellow concealer?I plan to take pictures,and the last thing I wantis to remember himevery time I look back,the purple ghostof high school regreton my skin.""It's not a problem.Just close your eyes;when you open them,you'll never be able to tellhe touched you.Maybe you'll forget himin a couple years,as time washes byand new experiencesdull what has already passed."She sets her purse on the tableand smiles,shaking her head."Peop
Blue DreamI discovered a manwho makes me feel incomparablethe same way Columbus discovered America:he existed beforehand and was probably better offwithout a directionally challenged sociopath,no matter what those Thanksgiving craftspeddle to Neoamerican children.Regardless, his persistence withstood my apathetic exterior,and I like his music even if I don't say it,"You're okay," translates to something meaningful,"Pretty great," says exceptional, "I'm really senstive," adresses that he knows what he's doingwith his tongue, his lips, his cock,and ten competent fingers,but now I'm making excuses. I have a big nose,countable ribs, narrow hips, an ass like a sheet of drywall,a shipful of charisma, countless manipulations,social ineptness, political anxiety,and over a thousand pages of writing, which,for the record,in case he doesn't get it:that's a lot of emotional bullshit,and about half of it is melodramatic, petty,unsubstantiated stories about my life
a streetcar to nowherei.he must crackwhen his hands are tulle:paling dry,rough and tearing,bought by the yardor cent-marked minute,spin a skirtthat won't last a winter,shed bohemiaand snort ballerinas,hope he's flexiblelike tulle:thin and shimmering,don't stay another minute,clear the aisles to sayhalloween's over,so he must crackwhen his hands are tulle:quiveringwind-burnt dancers,caught aflameby a craving sparklike tulle:crisp and burning,thin black ashii."name,like your real name orjust something i can call you,something that won't make mefeel like i'm talking downto you. not becausei respect you, i never—no i don't think irespect you, butsomething soft like i canpretend i'm decent,or normal maybe, don'tlook at me, i didn't pay to—where are you going after this?tell meand maybe i won't laugh."iii.swept.
Wadewhen i asked him whyhe took his time with me—why, when i was petulantand often absent,he bothered to teach me—"someday,you will mourn your childhood;perhaps you will hold a son,a daughter—even a niece ornephew, and you will understand;when they say old soul,they mean young scars and somedayyou will understand."
The Only Fact I Learned from PornEveryone is bisexualfor good oral sex.
We Have Lingered in the Chambers of the SeaHis day oozed by, crushed drop by drop into a bowl carved from his patience and boredom. Like oilslickit pooled, culminating in opalescence when Kevin stepped into the classroom at the end of the B hallway. Marked 212, residing on the second floor, it housed an odd number of desks and Lincoln Way High School's saving grace: Mr. Patterson. Kevin looked at Mr. Patterson's left hand and took a seat at the back of the classroom, shoulders weighted by a heavy bag while his wire-frame glasses were smudged by fluorescent light. In four minutes, the bell would ring, and he looked at Mr. Patterson's left hand and ragged nailschewed to the angry quick, cuticles scabbed or bleeding.In four minutes, the bell would ring, and Kevin dropped his bag on the linoleum floor, shoulders aching and glasses smudged by fluorescent light. The bag landed with a dull thud, faded black against yellowed white; hunchbacked, Kevin shuffled through its contents and found his English folder. It was
Why I Can't Love a PoetHe said you're beautiful likeblack birds on a gray sky ora tree that's recently died butholds its last green leaves untilthey wither and crack, swept awayby a northern wind bearing his name.
She mattersShe unloaded her pistol and untied her nooseShe dropped her razor blades, threw them away tooShe wiped up the blood that she had on her skinShe lifted her head up, ready to start againShe descended her heart to me like an angel from aboveAfter holding on to life, she finally found loveSomething changed inside her and she decided to liveShe had heart a full of joy and a lot of love to giveShe wiped away her tears and held a smile on her faceNow she's happy here with me and we found a better placeShe thought no one would miss her, they'd just leave her beNow she knows that she matters, because she matters to me
Are You Missing"Are you missinganything?",she sighed-as she watchedthe snow-ghostsat nightwith her handson the frozenglass, leavingfog printsthat pressedand reached.-as he sat quietly,breathing inthat summerrain.
Red ScreamsSmiling at me, shiny silver teethBegging my wristFor one chasteKiss.Grinning at me, that evil smirkMaking my heart poundGoing berserk.So sharp soGoodI know ICouldAnd really IWouldBecause IShould.Arm’s too full of bloodOf scarsFrom attempts toJoin the stars.Photo album ofRuby caressesMy diary of myCrimson lamentShowing oneStatement;I am stillAlive.
into the deepAudio version over thisaway.and the world will crumble, darling, but we will watch the stars--watch the coasts curl up at the edges and the foam-slick sea drag them underand history will bloom in brass and copper nebulas,untainted by the tortured earth and its pleadingflecks of ash below.but we will watch the starswatch the galaxy unwind, spirals stringing outthe taste of ozone and plasticities.the heaving sea will recede--the glacierspour their hearts outthe dunes rise up to the sated horizon.wewill watch the stars.and the hungering infernos hold no sympathy.
1reliantink scars acrosswhite threadsfade lightlyinto new starsand forgottensupernovas,he said:1. he broke open a chest ofwood and bone to findthe faint remnants ofgracious ashes, of2. hey, do you remember?and childhood memories.silently, he peels back the pale skin of aquestion mark and bleeds it dry.3. where the door sits ajar,patient for furtive dreams to slipon by, he waits. it is there he learns that the mystery of promises will never reveal itself4. without search.
To Paint the MoonAnd now the days all stand still,like trees after the wind of a violent stormfalls and dies.A silent prayer hangs in the airwaitingto be snatched up by some forgiving god.Under the dark of the night sky,no one is able to hear the strangled cryof the unwilling sacrifice.Her blood becamethe color of your ink.
The Art of Consent: BurlesqueHowever,i can use the rounded corners ofsullen eyes, too-short fingernails,magnanimous hips, and frosted lipspressed crackling against theporcelain dream heso blackly freed against me.i am four inches envy andsix inches will,and completely engrossed in pursuit offulfillment.And he, still violent and violet, is there,unconvinced and scared, and so perfectlymine.He finds me tied, vaudevillian, to hispercussive heartbeat,falling from mind to mouth,from mouth to spine.Where contact confusessexually transmitted attention forsexually transmitted affection,there is not time to obscure the view thatcondemns him to what is malignand otherwise known as misunderstood.And i felt his eyes eating up where i stood,felt my heart burning up what it could,dropped a flatline topick him off my hemline, and understoodwhat it meant to be in control.i love the heady derision provokedsimply by the act of undressing, no smoke,except for that of the opiate crowd andno mirrors, ex
Untitled1.let me tell youhow deep the mountains go.they fall from the sky,come up from below.the ground that westand on was notalways so. it willall be swallowed upand spit outreal slow.let me tell youwhat happens:the earth's loveis not long enough toprotect what it creates.peaks become hills,lizards become snakes.yeah, it's all saved.it's all saved.i can't tell youhow long the earth's lovestays so.2.so let me tell youhow far my love goes.it goes sharp up my noseand rough down my throat,it goes up thin and blueand scatters through mybreath until it's heavyon my chest and my thoughts,so carefully placed, comeunglued.let me tell youhow far my hope can stretch:just as wide as yourhands 'round my neck,just as long as awhisper when it's leftto silence. drawn out.gone.let me tell youhow long my boneshave been a question,how long my heartbeathas put dents on my sternum.since the beginning of time,since before that,even.i am not strongenough, my love
Mea CulpaSurely you seejust how wrong this is?Even the streetlamp agrees;then again,it saw the whole thing -woman crumpledin a stairwell,only bricks for company.Oh my hands found herso ready and willing -needy,the fog of rapturewreathing her head.My knifefound her best partstucked in and plucked -that treasurefrom her belly -and took ithome.I made a godof her,left her smiling,bleeding outher fortune.
DiamondsI wanted to write something more than words.I wanted to let them flow like rivers, and wrap their delicatebodies in an italic font. I wanted to send tears down yourcheeks, and describe them as diamonds.Oh, how I wanted to call them diamonds.I wanted you to hear violins in the background, andsee my words as only the clearest of photographs.I wanted to write poetry that danced like flamesin that dirty old wood burner I have in the basement,so that you would focus on what was happening insideinstead of the filth that lay on the surface. I wanted tobring up memories of old, hidden beneath your smilesand your scowls.I wanted to use words as lassos, pulling you into mywarm embrace. I wanted to use them as the beautifulthings they are.If only they didn't fall short.So tell me, love, Do you have any diamonds for me yet?
God's jealousyFly with me, my angel,and lend me your wings.Make God blindwith your shiny feathersand close my mouthwith a burning kiss.
spectresred unfurlslike silk scarvesunderwater:adrenaline,steady fingers,mute fascination:curious and sharp,glinting in flickers,unfurled.