Everything, Generally, Erodes

A yell visceral and ground wrenching
Shaking ever so viciously

My legs learned quickly to be rubber
To bend when the wooden shingles shook,
When concrete rippled-
Like waves of a great gray ocean-
To its foundation,

And I would stand as witness
To two fault lines giving way

And I was powerless
To violent assaults of furniture
Ambushing defenseless dandelion fortifications,
To crystal shards of windows and sentimental porcelain
Shattering
Upon kissing floor,

This is the only affection I saw

When I was young my feet were magnets for glass

Cleaning up debris like a vacuum
Lubricating tile and linoleum
With blood restore a shine long lost bond-
How easily can earth be brought
To a standstill when bearing witness to the destruction of innocence

When I was young my feet were magnets for glass
And my house like my legs were impervious to complete collapse,

Drifting apart like Pangaea
A sea of alcohol slowly splitting land masses in two,
Mother an island of rebirth
Father a faltered landmass of pollution

Now an adult
Now the quakes come no more
But now an adult
I still remain a vacuum,
The exception being
Now, I pull glass from my wrists and thighs
And no longer
Are my feet magnets

A Moment Alone

Found a place to rest- a rotten log within me
Brought downstream during Spring’s flood,
Now all that is is a shallow river
Rapid only when snow melts and forests momentarily forgotten
Are able to flow and feel alive,

Oh visions of self-actualization
How violent you are,
How passive I’ve become,

A beach of sand and debris beckons these bare feet
To stand and sink,
Aspirations stutter
Beget a life without success
Unmoved by opportunity
Trapped by chance
Only by sheer force of violent circumstance
Is progress met,

A rotten log within me I rest,
Watching red roll over rock struggling
So desperately to turn white it’s summer,
There is no energy to be dignified
There is no energy left to roar,
There is no true desire
To be anything more than what today has offered,
There is only wish and fallacy
False nostalgia for what was or never will be,
There is no energy to turn white with triumph,
There is no energy to be acknowledged,
There is no energy to roar,

Gently into the night the river flows

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

Happy-Birthday

Wrote to you casually we haven’t
Talked in a few years but you still
Read my poetry and it’s sad but
You get it more
Than ever now

A faulty connection
Static radiating from radio signals
Held and let go of in water droplets
Falls from the sky born in pewter clouds
Ink swells spilling from vials
Passionately onto paper
Cascades from cheek bones-
Bottles of vodka these days-soaks into the new
Carpet bought before spontaneously collects and
Flows as if gaining sentience a great
Lake with strong currents, life
Riddled with electricity and interruptions
“Never enough time to devote to breathing
Constantly swimming to catch a clear path
Always and only being a fatalistic rendering
At what point is this classified as drowning?”
Wondering if not the affair could it have been
The ability to never complete a sentence
That caused the divorce

So I read your reply and it
Rained in the middle of January