Tag: august 2017

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With great intended care………….no,
               let me start again
In hand shaky haste, I slid the package,
               all that I had left,
                             through the slot in the cloudy glass.
That chunky glass they want you to think is bullet proof.
Behind the barely transparent smudge wall,
               the man scrutinizes it with a jeweler’s loupe.
Taps it with a small file, snaps at it with his teeth.
“Not interested. Gold plate”.
Seriously?
Are you kidding me?
All these years I so zealously protected it.
Tenderly placing it in it’s velvet storage box.
Cleverly hiding it in a basket of dirty laundry
             whenever I was going out of town.
I had held onto it for so long, cherishing it as
          my most precious of possessions.
Keeping mine whilst my friends and associates had long discarded theirs.
All this time and effort, to find out it is just
              base metal and gold paint.
F#*king halo.
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90’s

The high today
is in the 90’s,

sun beating life
into a salt-soaked frenzy,

liters of sweat sealing scars,
old wounds to never reopen,

save for those quiet eternities,
internal bleedings at 2 AM.

8 AM now and the shirt’s
drenched in heat and liquid,

messy start to a scorcher,
bodies of water beckoning me

to indulge in immersion
(they’d love to touch).

A day to swim through,
some stubborn lessons to learn

and forget, all colluding in
eventual bloom, the growth of ages.

The high today
is in the 90’s,

and the sun is too tired
to set, sleep, and slumber.

Blinding waves of gold break
through the discomfort of bare

legs stuck to the seats
of public transportation. (more…)

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The Differences between Caribou and Man

My boots feel stuck, attempting to grip the crackles of ice, as I take a walk through the bar strip off of Allen Street. I still wonder how Caribous feel, as their hooves transform into icepicks, trying to piece through the frost just to move a few feet each time. We are both walks of mammalian life, we both need the air of to breathe, but that is where the similarities end. The migration of the caribou is for survival, as they nomadically roam from home to home, not settling in one place for too long. (more…)

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Dashing through the waywards ways of how one should stay to

Attach with the golden enterprise of the sauntering side of thus

We have missed her while it is still of some esteem to plead over

The nasty but concurrent has been here to faithfully ponder the rue

Of a moreover steadfast caved in is the luminous sounds to not cuss

Overlapping was the needled and not so much of a torrid vapid clover (more…)

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     I never wanted to sell hands. I had never thought people would want such things until a lawyer told me I had inherited my father’s hand shop.

     I hadn’t spoken to my father in years, so I was surprised that I was even in his will. Then again, who else would have received the shop? He had no other children.

     I wanted to sell the shop, but according to the will, I had to sell the rest of the inventory first. No reason was given. Maybe my father was punishing me.
(more…)

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IT MAY SHOCK readers to know that I am a so-called inanimate object.

Please let me explain. While inanimate objects are indeed inanimate, we are skilled communicators. There are varying degrees of communicative ability among inamimates, but for the most part, we excel at and are capable of rapid, clear, and expressive telepathy.

Unfortunately, we can communicate only among ourselves – not to the animates who surround us and, in some cases, like mine – create us.

Humans speak, inflect, and move. They use posture, volume, expression, gaze, silence and a myriad of tools to communicate. Similarly, animals communicate among themselves and, with varying success, back and forth with humans. Inanimates send and receive our thoughts and feelings telepathically. We emote through the air – thick, thin or absent. (more…)

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lemon peel

I want to be soft,
jeweled,
like fine china
sipped antiquity
brotheled smut
I want my navel
to expand
each time I think of you
I want my skin
to turn to sand
and slip between
your weathered hands
I want my eyes to land
inside your mouth
so you can see
I carry innocence
abysmal purity
beside sharp shards
warm milk
old wounds
still bleeding (more…)

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#4

 

Sister Midnight, Queen Midnight, Red Midnight, Red Queen, Carrion Queen, Attic Queen, Sister Twin, Sister Dusk, Sister Eclipse, Sister Arson, Sister Nero, Queen Red, Queen Blank, Queen Tremor, Sister One, Sister Two, Sister of the Velvet Basements, Queen of the Back-broken Chairs, Queen of the Rabid Statuary, Sister of Fortune, Sister of Grace, Sister of Obscurer Elements, Queen Tarot, Queen Serpent, Queen Mourning, Sister Morning: (more…)

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As a mentally ill writer and artist? I’m a disability porn star. With an online peepshow window of masturbatory personal essays. Lucky my only sex work is metaphoric. Given my mind is broken, I’m surprised not to have to sell my body. I survive by government Disability benefits and familial patronage. Comfort my shame with art therapy.

College poet friends were consumed by the Portland sex industry. Wipe the Nars Orgasm Blush and Urban Decay Heavy Metal Glitter Eyeliner off my face? Narrowly escaped stripper stares back. I wrote erotica for San Francisco rent money before that porn site went out of business. Failed even at sex work. Never learned how to work that pole. Missed my window. Is it sad? (more…)