this hope we holdHope breeds meinto clam shells, pried openand ripped from hinges,the gaping jaw of horror,chest an excavation site…but my ribs are harpoonsfastened to my spine,and every loved one becomesa victim in the crime sceneof this serial killer’s cage;I bury all in silence.Hope is the pot I burnmyself on, blisters opening tospill “it’s common sense;but keep trying,” my mindtoo shakey – wary.I must be pushed intothe boiling water to “try again:”I am a wanderer deliriouswith 'why's, licked intohallucinations of scald marksall over my "temple" body,tea bag bones steepedtoo long in radiation.They are wiped clean witha fistful of sand.Poe, I understand.Dear raven croaking with a throat fullof madness and bile, I understand:my aorta is not pumping blood anymore.It spews Novocain and a bible for survival,primal instincts curdling a mourning song so barbedand disconnected, it could only comefrom skeleton jaws -teet
prompt: welcomingPlacemat runner, because one home isn’t good enough… because one home is not a backup home, and a backup home is not a backup’s backup home, the fear a time someone won’t truly want me anymore, smiles worms curling up in the rain and teeth too polite to cut me with the difference.They don’t let me stay long enough to know the rules, because I am an excess in acceptance, a shape shifter of character, only doable in fractions at each door.
we do not need an oracleAthenian apparitions,but when I loved youI was not real;I was not bornfrom Zeus’ head.I do not know howto lay atop youin regal waves, or burymy fingers into your hairlike a crown.I do not know howto share my body, and eachstrategy is aborted violently,comas that leave onlya husk to house whateveryou decide to give, because Icannot protect both ‘consent’and ‘mentality’ withoutthe sacrifice of the other.Call my mind one track.
prompt: harvestThe roses are wiltingfar faster than I,while harvest skieschase down thesepinwheel lungs.I still wake deepin stratosphereevery timethat loves craft nooses,and hanging evolvesinto weekly professions,done on the side,to forget nicotine slumbersand drug induced dreams -deluded insomniain shivering bones;breathe. just breathe.just breathe.
My thoughts are trying poetry.I know how to wear a Jack-o-lantern,feeding insides to needy hands,but it never feels quite right.-I am twins with the statueson every corner in downtownRapid City, where my grandmothersleeps more than she wakes,and where there is still a bloodstainon the carpet, sinking deeperbeneath her static feet –where I watch the blue jaysfly and curse every referenceto a rainbow road, becauseshe just may walk it soon.-There are thorns in my ribs,but three-quarters in, so whensomeone thinks they’re safe,and shared, they see it’sall just a gag I play. You may not know this,but I am fucking hilarious.-
prompt: wornhis belt-buckle shoes–my cobblestone headachestwice the size of an egg–and the incessant tapof malfunction for release.
Prompt: studythe studyof sea-bed bodiesburied beneath the heatof alarm clocks – reminders –and the desire to fix morethan a door, or a headboard,before each soul is stolenfrom its hibernating shelland read by the frigidpalm of death.
PhaseMy moonskin does notappreciate your sun,because it is a mole that likesto hide with rattlesnakesin the burrowsof fragile things.I count to three,enough to say a prayerfor the thingsbetween my teeth.My moonskin does notappreciate your sun,because you envelopme in shadowed memorabiliaand the cold case files of afifteen-year-old's arson.