The crust built
rallying small modules
on the tongue
to parade the streets
of salts and sweet.
Parsing the pendulum
of fine dining
while picking the people,
Running lips and teeth to chew,
meals to souls, a just avenue.
The coarseness of our conversations
sandpapered the table into a lean,
flipping cups like moods,
as dark as the coffee we don’t drink.
Lovely how those types of gifts,
fettered holiday presents,
sit miserably on the countertop,
and we battle to see
which one will toss it first,
flirting with the only
attention we pay to one another,
ground and pulverized.
Everything is consumable,
and all things dull over time.
I’ve ignored the conversations
that kept me sharp.
Existence is depleting
and I am not being advantageous.
Give me a stone, rock,
a hammer, a quarry,
and built on my intellect,
a cannon, a story.
He opened his chest
to breathe towards the heavens,
feared anything in the form of sevens,
packed up heart with massed severance.
Two droughts, one mouth,
one dust, one fountain,
forgot the deviled beauty
and reached for the standard.
Polished curls and bones thinned,
she opened this chest and I forgot
to put anything in.
Bloodshot eyes on pale white sheets,
panting with vein paints, pressing as
hard as possible,
to break from its holding space,
like flesh-grubbers to freshness.
Paint me a sign of your own lucidity,
without baking the prized apple
in your skull, not as easy as pie.
Hungry enough to eat the whole thing,
and close enough to death to taste
lavender and invasive roots
on your rot. Feel these sheets
close around you for an automatic
autopsy before you lose all pigment
in your skinned life.
Waiting too long for the raindrops to bathe;
customary chamomile left jealous in moorland,
lifting petals for wondrous vacation,
leaving stem vacant, gaseous dew
masks the loneliness.
Posture of the prairie,
knitting the storms to the grasses,
Aster providing the cloth.
Afraid of the step ladder,
step-dad, and stepping out
into the harsh reality
that relatives and relatively
weak individuals will break you.
The world was created to
throw a cog out of our cognitive basis,
to punish the people with problems
paramount, to make a girl afraid
of moving any direction
because we challenge the
A rite of passage,
now writes so passive,
turns right as he passes
the struggling classroom
paper and pen already denied.
Growth in perspective,
revised from the proper methods
of reading, writing, and arithmetic.
Home sick each day without a way
to pay for the bills that keep stacking.
Too young, in fact, to deny the acts
that keep his blood flowing.
Too trialed, bookbag, mild and flat,
holding everything but his thoughts.
holding my finger,
wrapped to you.
Public face hides
deep in the recesses
of the house; it
cracks and laughs
at your weakness.
The interior voice
every room to
amplify your sorrows.
Sitting on the stairs
that transition you
from mortal rage
and courteous cup sipping.
I am the devil on these walls.
I only dissappear when
I walk outside.
Cheeks plump with
a whistling anticipation,
waking the tea kettle,
from exhaustive burning.
Sliding hand to the rag-laced
gripping point, knocking courteously
with the wrist,
pleased to meet you.
Filling ceramic cave
with hot springs from summer,
paired with the herbal remedies
of old. A pairing exquisite,
settling the mood of any
tension between bodies.
I caught the end of a kitchen knife,
knowing the entire time,
simply aware, of my impending slip
of the handle, making my finger smile.
It wasn’t the pain that caused a stir,
it was the element of awareness,
how my meal wouldn’t be my last,
but certainly cause me pain.