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.

My Stomach Turns.thepage

No amount of food or desire of my tongue will satiate this unbearable hunger.

The hungry ghost ravages and feeds, spoiling my stomach with any delectable taste it can imagine; "here you go," and "have this," and "try this," to no avail.

In the end, I am only left with the gutwriggling sharp pangs of disheartening reality.


There was a time I could wildly devour this intense anxiety without even the slightest retaliation, secretly banishing mounds of food and feelings to my belly until it could stretch no more.

As my continually evolving spirit is birthed and expressed in physical form, it declares a slowly decaying pattern here, demanding a deeper awareness be cultivated.

Only the Deepest of Pleasure

I pine for only the deepest of pleasure.

Not the pleasure that sweetens my tongue,
drips down to my heart in a ripple of waves,
then crawls back up again, asking for more.

But the pleasure of feeding my soul
with my own hands, the gentle nourishment,
hearty and green, extending through my lower belly and beyond.

Not just the pleasure of emptying my heart
onto a blindingly blank page,
only to have more and more to purge.

I want to scribble my heart onto the walls of my room,
spilling onto the paved sidewalks,
around the block and up the hill,
to the ocean, scribbling in the sand,
retracing a spiraling labyrinth, over and over,
sinking deeper into millions of grains with each guided revolution.

I want to sit. I want to soften and open.
And just sit.

And experience my ecstatic body shaking,
my head hypnotically circling,
my torso rocking as dynamic life force
courses through the deepest of spaces within.