Black and Red

Wary of internalized predation-a step forward
Towards the dimly lit kitchen
To gaze at a river whose movement
Appears to have been reversed,
To watch a cat sneak beneath
The eyesight of an unsuspecting bird-

Lunge and tear
A swan song sung
Briefly by warbler

What honesty comes from nature?

Puff of feathers floating I fell asleep
In the time they took to hit earth

In truth I felt more sorry for the cat

As It Is

Joy consummates the soul, sews the ragged seams of one’s heart shut, cleans the wound and filters that putrid mud which has soiled the liquid purity of blood. All to often however, failure is accepted- falling asleep to Parks and Rec. caked in sweat with the volume up so damn loud your own dismal conceptions drown without a second thought, whispering compliments into whiskey bottles hoping they’ll return the favor with friendship become hobbies. When not working or studying for twenty years of debt these are the things that occupy us. No more do we dream of grand fantasies or shout impossibilities to the heavens as if we ourselves are the gods the oceans answer to. No, we are but human, idle and defeated existing under ironbound weights; our skin a canvas of lacerations exclusively okay, never better, never worse.

To find joy, fleeting as it always is, is to realize that the innocent idea of “infinity” lasts a measurable amount of time. A first kiss unexpected and rushed on a school night walking briskly home before Mother realizes that you’re thirty minutes late for dinner, a road trip in rust lasting a week of curse words and cigarettes- I left my accent in West Virginia, the smell however, stayed for another ten days. Each petty attempt at holding back a smile that would strike a sun in the darkness of my gut remained for as long as needed. For a measurable amount of time the chains were lifted, arteries were allowed to heal, the heart allowed to beat. Let this body be a map of cuts and bruises, perpetually determined to convalesce as much as I suffer, I will find my way home cleansed and honest if only for a moment.

Dead Bolt

Constantly rotating images like a small child who
Recently acquired a red Viewmaster
Flipping non-stop
Laughing so joyously in amazement
Such a thing can exist and be held between two hands.
I think about my own throat
Face turning lapis blood vessels
Breaking in attempt to speak and I am laughing
At a 3D image portraying the death of my beloved Betta Fish,
A fillet knife resting on the table
His eyes looking up at me,
Ever running and rotating
It’s not necessarily a fantasy
Metaphor alluding to a deep rooted feeling of loss or anger
An apple once swallowed
That settled down and never came out
Every time I look in the mirror
My hands are my hands and
My face is my own but with something missing,
Not some sudden emotion that’ll pass or rot
This thought loves me and I’ve been
Biting my tongue on saying it back
Not wanting to admit that violence is my true passion
There’s enough awareness to not walk
On that side of the street anymore avoid
Making eye contact lock the door
In a neighborhood once claimed safe.
I’ve grown old, tired of pain
Being the key to happiness tired
Of constantly changing the locks
Yet always waking up to breakfast in bed,
Settling for acceptance over relief,
Dysphoria over amendment
Feeling whole isn’t worth it
If all the pieces are broken

Sediment In A Wine Bottle

Estate sale personified
As swigs of sand dwindling through
Kaleidoscope irises, slipping sunsets into palms cut
Acting in assumption that such wounds
Close, fade and then ambiguous definitions of normalcy
Can be resumed again
Acting in assumption such pain halts
And forgives the body it accumulates,
Clothes become too big
Fabric promised protection
Sworn, left unnoticed
Dedicated life to living beneath stale socks almost
Visible but kept dark and almost given a chance,
Embraced auctions for relinquishing redemption
Based offers observed pretended to be valuable,
Feign colour polarity
Pallet set
Sleep on hoping prosperity flourish
And wither slip into an unintentional hibernation
Waiting for-but wake up it’s time to move on
Waiting for-but wake up
Quoted as in decline
Liquidate property as hospital visits