and learn to fly.

we’ve heard this one before.

one hundred and one things i’d say if you lived in my bathroom

i keep having this dream that your dead body is found

in the dark

on the seat of my toliet

and i open the door, around midnight,

no one is ever there but i definitely definitely see you

if i sent you a text saying,

look, i want you and lust after you for no reason at all other than i think the world should be explained to you in technicolor and bright oil paints because all the words and sounds i possess will never be the right melody for the harmony of your skin

don’t be offended

say nothing

reply nothing

few things are ever adequate for these moments

only smile at me tomorrow and say

hi, little one, you should really check your

alcohol intake

god i must be a terribly broken record

or a sad woman worried she smells bad because the man of her hour won’t give her the time of day

jesus

i tried to correct all the consequences of those moments but there isn’t enough concealer and you keep making the same mistake

imagine

i never thought i’d write about you

test the limits of salvation of my salivation over bodies and bodies of what the future holds tight in its small and infinite fists

jesus

jesus

jesus jesus jesus christ

i keep having this dream where everyone is dressed in red and resembles birds of prey

pray for tomorrow

it hasn’t enough sun to illuminate its fears

and fear aplenty is the downfall of many a good artist

a good spirit

a good drink mid-afternoon

i can’t wait for the break of day

anything is better than this

anything is better than you

anything is better than the bitter want for skin solace sunlight

jesus

bring us the sunlight

you were a child, crawling on your knees towards it.

we like to watch you laughing.

and you have this great way you crinkle your nose when you’re thinking too hard.
i see the entire galaxy you’ve got spinning
right behind your head
it’s so close to chaos
so close to spinning right out of control
and i think you’ve been there before

was it terrifying?

did you see the eyesores of god?

did he laugh when you asked to come down?

would you ever go again?

it’s okay if you’re afraid. i was too. and i haven’t been to the black lava rock sand that sifts at the very bottom of the ocean. if you went any further,
do you think the core of the earth would swallow you whole?

we only want to be swallowed,
and kept warm in the stomachs of our lovers.

you’re the kind of person people want to wrap up in their childhood memories.
sometimes i think you look at the sky and see
all the puffs of smoke
nicotine addicts exhaled with their dreams
i think you lay your head on your hands
and don’t want sleep
but explanations for the lifetimes you know exist in the whites of your nail beds

you are such an exceptional human being

someone ought to tell you every day, just once, via
carrier pigeon.

so even if you forget to leave your window open,
the bird shit will be resting on the sill as a reminder.

you make me never want to be catty again. you make me want to read hundreds of books, just so i could reiterate how they made me think of you. you make me want to paint portraits of angel fish and porch railings. you make me want to laugh and cry and sing eighteenth century operettas no one can remember the libretto to.

i don’t love you.

i fear for you. and wonder if stitching enough parachutes together would cushion your fall.

was it terrifying?

did you see the eyesores of god?

did he laugh when you asked to come down?

would you ever go again?

i got! rhythm. i got! music. i got! my gal.

so you want to be an artist?

i can help you there, young man. 

let’s have a look at you. 

it’s good you’re thin. it’s good you’re fatigued. it’s good you’re somewhat gray in pallor and blue in mind. let’s keep that in mind. 

so you want to recreate the world?

because there’s a problem. we’ve identified that. you think it’s broken. i think it’s just a little off-kilter. but this isn’t about me. it’s about you, and what you think, and want to feel, and would like to say, and probably should scream, and when you should go to bed every afternoon evening or sunday morning. 

so you want to experience everything?

let’s have a look at you then. 

are you ready for blood? are you ready for immense pain of your spirit and mind? are you ready for a third world that you can’t repair no matter how often you send a letter to the editor? are you ready to realize there might not only be a god but also not a santa or a satan or a feeling of true love? of course. you’ve been the hell and back and you’re only about nineteen years old. 

what a delightful young man. what a healthy beautiful thing. 

oh, you’re definitely cut from the right cloth. 

how do i know?

it starts in the corner of my eye, the left one, and trickles down to the tips of my toes.i know because it falls asleep in between my legs. it rests there, and that’s where art begins. in the bowels of your lust. in the discomfiture of your genitals. in the itch, rub, rancid riot or rot where your heart gave up and your mind left town. 

so you want to be an artist?

don’t waste your time talking to poets. don’t waste your time with girls. 

don’t waste your time. it’s few and futile. remake the world, you beautiful bright thing. 

remake the world. 

sacred roadkill.

when a boy tells you you deserve better when he tells you how bad he is for you how he’ll only hurt you and himself and wants you for selfish reasons and that one day you’ll wake up and realize what he knew from the second he saw you,

i don’t know,

maybe you should listen up. 

but you were drunk. and you were wanting. and you were open and honest and willing and excited, oh my god you were so excited that you leapt at the chance to feel his mouth all over yours and his hands devouring your body like he had imagined this moment as an oasis of you in a desert of flesh,

i don’t know,

maybe he’s not lying. 

and when i say you, i don’t mean you. i mean me. i mean me as i am small and fickle and wanting and willing and scared and sacred excited oh my god i am so excited like a child finally allowed a sparkler after six fourth of julys of being told you’re too small like that moment you discover you can cross the atlantic it’ll just take effort,

i don’t know,

maybe it’s better to keep to yourself. 

myself it might’ve been better to keep to myself than tell you, and this time i mean you, darling boy, darling man, darling creature that makes me feel buried under the sound of heartbeats and heavy breathing, to tell you that you are exactly what i want in the simplest terms with no ability or practical use for artifice,

i don’t know,

maybe you should’ve shut me up. 

but. 

time is of the essence, and the essence is the amount of saliva two mouths can produce before they long for other liquids, and i could drink you dry if you’d only let me hold that glass. if you hate me, tell me, if you’re terrified, tell me that too. i won’t get prettier. i won’t get nicer. i won’t get worse or better and you’ll go away because you have to go away and no one will think twice about it except me when i think hell maybe that was a bad choice

i don’t know, 

i’d rather make one than imagine the possibilities. 

you and i are living on the brink of an illusion.

my days are filled with enough deadlines and headlines and homophobes to make a better smarter nobler person quit

my life isn’t exciting

it’s erecting itself
slabs of discard marble stacked on
terracotta ruins
so history will meet expense and
wear its dissonance on the
sleeve of
tonal architecture

i could speak for days

for the days that are overcast
for the nights that are sparkling
for the wine that has soured
for the coffee that has coolled

i want my calendar to turn itself
and scribble in at eight thirty every pm
‘time to drink’
at six am
love someone
at three fifteen
blink, because you haven’t yet

everyone’s lives are full
and everyone’s eyes are tired
except for the vegans
they’re fueled on pretention and parsnips
leaving the cow methane for
mouth breathers
and
muddy little children

only children for three more days
then your self-taught shame kicks in
and the resurrection of your
invitation into a world of indignity insecurity and doubt
appears on your doorstep

pick up the card, i dare you

my days are filled with more streetlights and weather sirens and weathered shamans to make a better smarter nobler person quit

and i’m not complaining

i’m pontificating
i’m considering
i’m talking out my ass

the air outside is so very tired
it shrugs slowly down my lungs
rolls sonorously out my nostrils
and begs and begs for a rest

let me give it a rest

there’s time enough
in another day
to talk of the state of things.  

such selfish prayers, i can’t get enough.

maybe i’m maladjusted. maybe i was born sideways. 
i can’t imagine a world in which i am the most evil trollop in a room of trouts
flopping about
begging for a drop of water
a speck of air

maybe i am incredibly evil
and the rest of you are incredibly right
and i only exist in what’s dark and granite and filthy
i can never rise above the gloom to see the stars

you’ve been blessed with them in the apples of your cheeks,
haven’t you?

and thusly i must bow
at the feet of those cheeks
and hope and pray and wish for the day
when you deign to look at me

no.

no i will not.

no i cannot.

no i refuse.

if i chose to no longer participate in the facade of this life
in the grand delusion of several young girls
it isn’t because i’ve been divinely illumined
it isn’t because i’ve been granted  any sort of license to appoint flaws
i can point to plenty of my own

maybe it’s only because
my stomach is weak
and cannot digest the bizarre go rounds you live in
my mind is simple
and cannot process the unreal statements you hold as biblical

maybe i’m maladjusted. maybe i was born sideways.
if this is the case,
ignore me.
kindly, leave me be.

i’ll survive in my crooked vision.
i’ll make due with what kaleidoscope i must see from. 

and above all,
keep your distance.

it might be catching.