a somewhat mediocre cover

plans shattered scattered
across times zones

hanging strands of tinsel
on cattle skulls n bones

rolling in tumble weeds
mixing with dust

inhaled through new
freshly pink lungs

now youre
there
im still here

i kill corners of bottles
your eyes are finally clear

its about rebellion, isn't it?

you do not have to follow the wrinkled map on your palm.
you do not have to float down flow charts and fafsa forms.

you only need to stay under the influence,
of love's natural barbituate.

meanwhile the world sits, stands, speaks when they are told.
meanwhile they drop to their knees before god.

gesticulating, prostrating,
their lucid hides undulating,
on the floor of the altar.

meanwhile they combat their surges of racing heartbeats,
with slow rhythmic breathing incompatible with panic,
and esophageal spasms and heat flashes and pica ticks.


whoever you are, remove yourself from the floor,
glue together your aching shattered patellas,
stand with knees locked unwavering,
like old trees against the restless
winds of life.

he wanted to be a dentist. but you would not assume it by looking at him. a curl of his cracked lips revealed fence posts veneered in coffee and nicotine. the hum of teeth chipping machinery narrated his awkward gait as he walked the four blocks home to his studio apartment. when it was summer in the city he did so with his shirt unbuttoned and the flaps of his cotton blouse would hang like curtains framing his hungry body. his room was filled with venus fly traps. the carnivorous plants were his army and when he caught a carpenter ant or earwig he would feed the crunchy carcases to his soldiers. today there was no sustenance for them and the sight of the plants empty gaping jaw was too much to take in for the sad man. it was like seeing a starving child call out in agony. he touched a fork prong to the cilia fibers on the inside and it slowly collapsed on nothing. he stepped back and cried over this cruel trick he played.

have you no urge to give it
a dignified sea burial?
that heavy lead promise ring,
rust stains on your finger,
shaky hands glued to your sides.
chums under supervision,
sanctioned by your sponsor,
your old lady, your lord,
who your lethargically wrestle,
three to four days a week.
animalistic races to see,
who gets the happy ending,
uninspired coitus interruptus.
have you not grown tired
of this methodical match?

bare skin above kneehighs
grazing the cold metal bones of my desk,
i am locked into this dunce cap cage, where
rubbing hands up and down goosebumps
can never create enough friction,
to combat this ice box of a room,
which serves to keep anchored eyes
from sinking into sleep.


he is caged in his skeleton,
a matter of six inches of electric energy,
between my plaid skirt and his pleated pants,
wide-eyed day dreams end abruptly when i feel
a touch from an idle hand with a not-so-hidden desire,
to carry out his solitary vice.

and i, in my young body,
accept hands under my uniform while i,
drag a finger along text and keep my eyes glued
to crucifixes and cups of blood and brothers of God,
and how to ignore the pleasures of the flesh.