cyan and magenta

Drown in as many hot baths as it takes to make
your fault lines disengage

as good as you want to feel is as good as it gets

Thank the crevice of your forgetfulness for the invited and uncut seraphs it spits out

at church everyone is sinning when they kneel
they lick their fingers and salivate at temptation
Blaspheme was where I landed and hope is where I’ll stay

My ankles keep time
A winding clock at arms length
Whenever I cry it chimes the hum
of the core from which I came

as good as you want to feel is as good as it gets

Thank the crevice of your forgetfulness for the invited and uncut seraphs it spits out

at church everyone is sinning as they kneel
they lick their fingers and salivate

Blaspheme was where I landed and hope is where I’ll stay

My ankles keep time
A winding clock at arms length
Whenever I cry it chimes the hum
of the core from which I came

the wraith of the 1 p.m. nap

bathroom stall squeaked white

in high rise, 

quaked 

toothpaste stained 

sink

dim lit 

you under covers,
hiding, 

your face peeking out   like a crumb

you’re my father 

but you are also, 

my burden

} temblor {

feet ripen into suckers

grounded,

heaving

holding,

the burden 

in his bed,

and my heart is nowhere near

a sway

I am a branch in this turbulence

my heart still nowhere near

staggering

bending

you wrestle with me in your thoughts, 

it’s so loud in your head 

i am in there and 

i can’t stand the smell of it

you are my father 

but you are also my burden

i want my heart back, 

i watch the city explode below 

no sound

the panic is silent

and you, 

you are on the bed

unadorned 

and unworried,

unapologetic

it’s a shame 

how you are locked in place

and I stagger

and bend

and my heart is nowhere near

you are my burden

and my heart is somewhere near

Where does all the trash go?

off of that eight hour flight,

midnight—

sipping on 

the breathless murals 

of Los Angeles

flickering bugs inside buildings,

my eyes trick me—

the road rich

with white and red streaks, 

where am I?

105>110>101>10

EXIT

drive me home sister/

black streets, 

the lights are brighter here,

the sun too, 

less green

no mot-mots hovering

no rumbling 

no ash

no helicopters

no gunfire/

wait—yes, there’s gunfire

there’s rumbling

there’s nothing left to do this late at night,

a park waits happily grinning,

peristaltic waves pain my limbs to sleep

eyes wide open, 

I breathe 

in the air 

of these tropics,

this desert—

where am I?

Groupon offers one acre of land for SALE on Mars

—all will be left behind here in this place, forgotten/ sprouting—remember birth-days in crowded places, replenished?—remember the fun you forgot to have? and now in your painted up, you sacrifice nostalgia with a numbing. It wasn’t that your life was hard or that your findings unimportant, it’s that your youth trounced, what was invasive. Unaware that life was meant to leave a bad taste. 

[In days where sleep awakens me, I see my hair pearly and sterling, stunning—it turns into stripping—despoiling a rifle where my third eye died.]

It’s easier, as the days vandalize— to clothe my woes in what I’ve learned, in spoil—we all rot in the earth unless we’re burnt, or we crash into the sea. I wonder what it feels like to die in the air? How ideal the flight of the white-throated swift for a woman able to spiral in death, and in love—fucking through the air of a canyon. To fly into death. Into ecstasy.

Ylem (poem #30)

We are all deficient.
We obsess over documenting ourselves so that
we don’t forget how much it hurt to get to where we’re at.
People talk of sadness as if it’s a sickness,
unable to see how critical it is to taste it
and treat it as if it’s
just another texture
in your mouth.
Lately,
my favorite time
is the midnight air,
lifting ruinous thoughts that the hours brought.
I try to feel out the shapes of my face
and touch the curves of my mouth
where all pessimism lives.
All the parts erupted,
caressed with the jitteriness of my eight track
fingertips planting seeds
into my now drought-tolerant
silvery gray leaves.

Ascend (poem #29)

It isn’t easy, 

being born hating yourself.

Banned from traditions, 

we adopt others that are more convenient in their evil.

We compromise our ghosts to wither, 

instead of being danced around and blessed.

Men go off to war, and the women heal them with their plants.

The other way around works too, 

only gender is irrelevant when it comes to wounds. 

Well fed men protect, it isn’t anything but, no need to inspect. 

The women are the gems, 

you can’t leave them vulnerable, 

everyone knows that.

Dance until you feel everything.

Revive your strength and pray—

if that word scares you, change its meaning.

Wake to the mist of morning, 

run until you can’t see what you’ve been running from. 

I want to go home now, my real home (poem #28)

Start from the beginning—

[Life 101]

Hack: do it well only after you get it wrong a million times.

Remember—alphas cry the most.

Agonize a scratched record but rejoice in a broken heart.

Vague sexuality is the equivalent of kleenex.

Daddy issues make a good baby, mommy issues make a delicious bitch. 

Where is youth if not in the smile, not the eyes.

No one will help, but some people are very kind.

Men are more sensitive than women, I know this because their cocks don’t bleed.

Violence usually means, hold me.

Kindness is binary.

Deserts are for everyone to romanticize, but the desert knows if your ankles are broken.

Be a dirty lover and a compassionate executioner.

Fears are relatable because we are all going to die. 

Death is inevitable, so stop pretending you don’t remember the immensity of your insignificance.