If you believe in Gaia, most likely you recycle (poem #7)

The world will never rest again.

How long did we feel we could live—? Eyes closed—?

Now we mourn that which was comfortable, but still—didn’t we complain?

Aren’t we complaining—now?

I am blood inside—

I am 1.2 to 1.5 gallons circulating—

I’ve been living with the same amount

since I was robbed,

of what I’ve been trying to reclaim.

This is how the Earth works too.

With her 326 million trillion gallons of water.

Diseased.

Trying to reclaim.

This is how it regulates.

How it retreads.

How it feeds,

itself

what it needs,

or how it deletes

what it deems,

catastrophic.

That would be you and that would be me.

worriment (poem #6)

I’ve kept most of my concert stubs as evidence that I once left the house.

I’ve thrown away lovers as evidence that I am not a hoarder.

You hear the word “lover,” and panic hits the metacarpals.

A blame game of, it takes two—and yes, we do consider criticism, and often misinterpret love for hate, and lust for love, and all of the above.

But during outbreaks and contagions—

I keep insects on the corners of my mouth, 

I keep you on the corners of my mind,

I keep me glued to disproportion in case an earthquake hits.

I keep me looking forward for something good to eat.

We live with a degree of how important we have told each other we should be.

We are as important as the dirt beneath our feet.

We’ve built—erected monuments for our cocks to educate, 

the salient drip of what we call our language, one of the ways we assimilate.

Milk dripping from the precipice we’ve cut to hide our bought distresses.

How many more times can I let you fuck me dry in hiked up dresses?

We are American, or human, more than—

We have enough to share but we are solitaire—wet necks hanging from whatever we can find there.

As days turn, and minds churn, I remind myself that—

I’ve kept most of my concert stubs as evidence that I once left the house.

I’ve thrown away lovers as evidence that I am not a hoarder.

I talk about you to myself in 2001 (poem #5)

Wildfires in the distance,

it is summer

my hands are ants on a keyboard—

I never learned to type, 

but I learned to ask questions/

alone, not lonely,

I want human contact, 

but not if I can smell it.

I want to imagine that words on a screen can mean, 

that love lives in there too—

I shave my head because humidity lives on my top lip, 

I am 20/F/L.A., 

because I refuse to say I’m from “La Puente.”

No one gives a fuck about this place,

I am ashamed 

that this is where my story became a story—

I am curtains drawn, and Marlboro Reds,

I am broccoli & cheese hot pockets, 

I am Kern’s mango nectar,

nectar.

necktar.

nektar:  the word is derived as a compound of nek, meaning death, and tar, meaning the ability to overcome.

I toast abundant.

Love comes refined, 

in patched holes and ripped pantyhose/

begrimed and messy,

you are scrubbed 

and he bleeds easily,

it was only a chat,

it was only a room,

it was only a gaze,

it was only six-years worth

of what youth and a conversation is capable, or culpable

of.

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[instead of celebrating 79 years of being alive, my mother told me it’s been 70 years she’s been working] poem #4

Please stay a little longer

so that I can take you

to IN ‘N’ OUT and have us sit in a park

while time swings—

I have a few memories of us alone, but not many—

I thought I loved my father more‚ but now

as a woman doing woman things, I love you best

He never treated you the way he should’ve—

I understand your need to scold him—make him pay

for all the love he gave to

others and all the times he went astray—I get it now

your hate—your secret garments from a man you never got the chance to let love you—

I always thought you hated me, because I sat as a reminder of a night you fought hard to forget

I understand—please, hate me all you want

I love you still—

You did the only thing you knew you could,

you couldn’t bring yourself to kill me before I even grew—

thank you—

But please, do anything you must to heal—

curse me, or him—

forgive, discard, retrieve—

do it until the pain is lessened—

do it while time, swings gently

on our smiles.

Do it before you forget, you are allowed—

mountains and returns (poem #3)

I want to cut off parts of myself,

to see if like the axolotl,

I’ll regenerate—

A soft pink thing is often how,

I’ve felt stepping outside my apartment.

I have decorated it, my tank, with rocks and nooks, in case

I don’t feel up for interaction.

My lungs and legs swim around excuses to stay put.

I want parts of my brain removed, bad memories—small fractions from the hippocampus.

Sliced into tadpoles and worms.

I’ve always swallowed gravel,

from birth, volcanic soil spewed—but slow, like honey.

Buoyant and spry, I age according to the weather—

juvenile face replaced with late thoughts,

still—

I dance.

when mourning goes into its cruising speed (poem #2)

in Ecuador, bodies are being left on the streets,

morgues/full capacity—

in the US, over 5,000 are dead, and the hours bring more death than Spring.

here, in my town, zero confirmed—but the neighbors keep having dinner parties—pointless interractions

my inbox today reads: Romantic Venus enters versatile Gemini

is this the cure?

is this when my heart relaxes?

is this when my heart expands?

lately, i’m flexible and bonding light-heartedly—

my April horoscope , only $14.95—I’ll wait it out

exciting times (poem #1)

Holding you at night, is a great tragedy.

It is a struggle keeping my happiness from rotting.

Joy isn’t easily digested,

it is destruction,

hypocrisy,

desire.

There are moments,

where clutter turns humorous.

Where plastic is a reminder of negligence.

Where you are the bitter taste of a morning routine.