Amplified

Electric shock of .you're alone. sits stinging,
radiating panic of a time past,
new born, still unable to crawl,
dying of deprivation,
dependent on the world of your touch.
Engulfed, this is my reality.

This. Meshed with a watery clean container,
inviting this process,
a safe place to feel unsafe.
My entire body brimming with buzz,
This electricity feels terrorizing, traumatic.
I feel dangerous here,
like i could break my neck convulsing at high-voltage.


I am like a fish, still alive,
while parts of me cook at high temperatures.
How terrifying, to witness
the transformation of one's own flesh.

I switch to the widest channel:
comforting Mother, stroking my head.
The more courage i walk with,
the closer She caresses me.

Its All About Timing

I'd hate to lose you, but its about the timing,
Pressed petals on a silver lining.

Smile and wave hi.bye
A terrifying fly by
The clouds here zoom past
My face at an alarmingly fast pace.

Incapable Tuesday shows up on Thursday,
And patterns collide, midair.
Rearranged heart pangs.
Clarified chaos, shocks like
A jujube stuck in the throat.
Keep your thoughts up where I can see 'em.

Shouldn't gifts be fun to give?
Like a bright fuchsia dino in cellophane.

Spiral Muse

Joyfully glittered tresses and dirt caked cuticles scramble onto the spiral path. She feigns rabid dog,

While harmless lime armies reign conveyor belts, no sign of march, nor heart, relenting.

A lioness in pearls lays, lengthened and propped, coiffed and coutured, enjoying perfumed fine furnishings. While secretly starving, she patiently reacquaints herself with the depths of her den.

A rising in me rinses my face clean like a Mother with a wash cloth, delicately deepening my tender experience.

The late night cars announce themselves below my window in a discourse I digest. If only they would remark back to me, or if only I could speak their language,

this Love might be witnessed.

The crest of a wave with a wish seizes skyward, almost breaking free, only to resentfully recoil back into the vast container of connection which created it.

Keep Out

Junkyard dog,
scruffy and cute, but don't dare touch.
As you come close,
a sharpness pierces the air,
a reverberating pain that contains
the surface of your skin like steel.

Toolbox Full of 26

Going deep is now,
like ill buy a vowel,
and then the whole alphabet,
cause i got a while yet,
to arrange these characters,
into deranged literary skyscapes,
and even less at stake,
Pictures made of R's and T's and P's and C's
until complete rings the bell. Now cease.

And what more of these letters I've bought?
With unknown surprises, the journey is wrought.

Scraped Clean

The fastidious scraping, the lining of my innermost heart.

The incessant cramping and contractions, the contents of my upper rib cage.

The abortion of you. The excruciating grief.

The child gasps for air,
convulsing in shock
as its life support
is abruptly disconnected.

.(Can you feel that?).

My attention evades this experience.

A loving hand gently shepherds my chin,
lends me the courage, returns me to an inward gaze.

Thickening

Things around me seep.
Musk laces the room with a certain density.
I'm glued to my laptop. Glued sticky.

Dreams drenched in fog.
The question begs to be written,
the haze shaken off by a humble hand.
I notice, I want to make myself wrong.
I notice. For not having this figured out.

I envision a time where I nostalgically acknowledge
this insatiable purgatory for the rich experience it lent.

Nothing to Show

I have nothing to show for this utter emotional agony I burn through.

I envy prolific souls, and their bodies of work,
into which they channel their energy.

What do I have? Nothing to show.
Nothing to show but endless days of sitting,
sitting here overwhelmed with feeling.

My body convulsing in undulations,
tears of longing burn through the carpet as they burn me,
rising up through my throat.
Even these are but a passing movement in time.
And tears evaporate, without a trace.

Only the empty wrappers of snack bars devoured,
piles of worn heavy clothes on the floor remain,
the accumulated relics of my consumption.

This, the only measurable dimension of this experience in time,
the only concrete proof that i exist.