it's like the time when i lost my shoe

[being an English Lit major] i'm pretty sure my most favorite form of expression is analogy.

Wedding Accessories

I laid face down
under influence of
ibuprofen and Xanax
needle puncturing my body
at 140 per second
gripping paper covered vinyl
prepare for the big day
match my flesh to my dress
share pain, artistic expression,
permanency
our life. our tattoos.

Waste into less

Her fractious grin won his heart in 2 beats
he jumped on her bandwagon,
watched her throw
punches in the cafeteria,
her 1987 Porsche into gear

he dropped anonymous bombast
through vents in her locker sporadically
viewed their situation like a rom com:
eventually she would realize
he had been there all along

egregious behavior only drew him in
lip glossed cigarette butt bouncing
off his tennis shoe
as she passed him near the art building
flirtatious laugh aimed at the world
her slim build wasting into less
hazel eyes sinking deeper

showering after P.E. he heard
football players describe her in detail
underclassmen whispered
jealous remarks in the hall
her outbursts growing less frequent

by senior year he didn't see her every day
her sweaters perpetually looser,
fingers fragile, crooked with effort
futile curl of the lip to prove
she was still as strong

then one day she no longer sat throwing
pebbles onto the track after school,
texting her latest conquest,
leaving tire marks in the parking lot
she simply disappeared

she had been evaporating for years
and no one noticed but him

Splashed Dark Bath

my dream place familiar,
done with the next corner
anticipating vinegar thoughts
feelings events vibrations
there. dream. The thing drops bloodshot
into the place where we exist.
A reason to audit there before turbulent
excruciating, vivid amps of vocal anguish
i feel the detail. months. years?
Whose time haunted hard eviction
evidence, feeling dread of reunification
with those stalking through the house
running with toys of
something i might remember.
scared I woke to pray
a hug, safe from the thing in my house

waxed my house. closed my house. my dreams deserve
an audience in the attic.
hidden doors, in a long hallway runs excrement
the shear length recycling it, pushing it along
my house. a wall left for boundary
walking lengthwise to the hollow echoing tub
a maze with rooms to the other side,
tuning both ends to the unmistakable hum
of hallway, staircases that convoluted twist
down down to the cast iron idol
turn, old,
down down floors
plowing to each nook, cranny
the passage itself licking my warm limbs
dark water beginning to fill the bottom

last night i went to the basement to find
acres of what i think was time.
i can't remember for sure, knuckles white,
out of the ordinary
and it was muggy, scary, SCARY
as the cold verge of the attic.
weird because the attic code
is like a playground for me.
always an uneasy feeling there,
like cessation but time passes,
it is a place where i have swapped histories,
been able to fly
it's always amazing to assess mysteries:
try and find my way, abnormal
passages and saddles and
hidden doors.
for foil covers cracks,
plastic sheeting creates walls
lament the fragility
unfinished
always about to get remodeled.
but safe changes minutely on its own
my mind has defective security
a whole construction crew could barely
build a vent to reality
now i see my dark reflection rippling back

and i feel like i'm the only one
who knows this place of humiliation
although water nymphs sing
a feeling to me of home
surround and protect from
phobia that i grew up in, many many ivy
covered years ago
maybe yet another life
although last work night
i may have been forlorn
now someone here, with whom i can wade
with whom i can plunge beneath the dark water
the tub no longer hollow
kinky, filled with dark liquid and us
writhing, enveloping, groping briefly before
it is following
me, wet hair
jumping
3 at a
time
down the
stairs? not the thing,
the other who
flees with
me?

not there,
wish i cynically
could be. that's
sadistic, no?

I'll delve into this more as I grow

What if i try to not be more eloquent than I am in real life?

sometimes when people (me) write, they try to hard to say what everyone wants them to. the tendancy is to try to sound more intelligent, more aware, more witty, more interesting, more more. with a better vocabulary and larger bank of experience and better sources and better connections and better better.

what would happen if everyone just WROTE? just wrote what they would say. just wrote what they were thinking. just wrote what they wanted. just wrote. and didn't edit or second guess or write for a specific audience...

what if we all wrote as if no one was listening? that is my goal. that is my first step in my new mantra: One day I will be myself instead of who they want me to be.

GRITTY SHEETS is ready!!

omg, i thought this day would never come... i can't believe how crazy it is to hold on to your own words in book form. i know that poetry isn't the most widely sought after type of literature in the world, but mine means SO MUCH to me, and i actually can't imagine my life without it... i just hope that someone else out there feels like it's actually worth reading. in my head, each word has significance and power. each phrase brings me back to the moment i wrote it... it totally doesn't chronicle my life in the sense that i use it as a diary; it works as a catalog of feelings i had at the time. the stories and ideas may not have any truth to them, but the emotion behind them does. some of it is gritty, some of it is painful, some is goofy, some is depressing, some is just life...

it will actually be sold on Amazon soon, and major book retailers will have access to order it for customers! wow... that's all i have to say.

so anyway, here it is GRITTY SHEETS !

Innocent Machination

Verboten entry ignored
the child nudges gelid pane
with stifled rapacious intent
Climbs out of windswept garden,
clinging before the drop through
unlocked basement window

A pecuniary absence guides his body
a sacred thing, the impulse to find food
in his mind a future
roster of possible parents, friends
full stomach, full life