The Discrepancy Between

to run the risk of being

deci

mat

ed

by the tip of your finger

means more

to

me

than all the sanctuary

i could find

within

another's

gaze.

peace is only found when not even a breath can nestle between us

from the tips of the strands sprouting from your crown

to the far reaches of your toes

to every strategically placed hair on your body

to every skin cell that i can claim

to every millimeter between one feature and another

to every purpose of that which lies beneath

i have yet to find a piece of you,

my dear,

that does not cause my knees to tremble

and my pulse to race

and my breath to collapse,

and i have yet to find a second of every day

i have been blessed enough to share with you,

my darling,

where love is not the driving force behind

every flutter of lashes

and brushing of lips.

how did i survive without you?

Guinea Pigs and Lab Rats

if a trial-offered

fully voluntary

closely watched

meticulously monitored

sleep

was a viable option

as an alternative to

the rushing

crushing

devastating

destructive

thoughts

that parade around

this skull like

they fucking own the

joint

how could i ever

say no?

Reconstituted Nightmares

We were all deceived.

Arching his hand in the air, directing the flow of once-alive traffic like a demonic Poseidon controlling the seas, we come to understand. He had known all along. The old man's withered, parched lips had hovered precariously close to his ear, breathing words tainted with the foul staleness of age, bribing him to impossible power. The combination of odor and proposition was both irritating and enticing enough that he relinquished and accepted.

I had been the first to notice something was awry.

Entering a darkened room, black liquid decorated the floor in splatters. Eyes followed the trail, further and just a bit further, until a massive heap of bloody cloth was discovered. I squinted in the flickering light, trying to understand if what I saw was real. I screamed incoherently. I pointed frantically. They rushed to my side to understand the commotion when they saw it, too. Something very bad had happened here.

It was then that we heard it.

Scratches at the door.

"What was that?"

"It sounds like .."

"But .. but how?"

"Doesn't it kind of sound like .. ?"

Thuds against the flimsy, plywood barricade, like a basketball without an owner.

"It definitely sounds like .."

Why had we come here in the first place? Staring at the vibrating door, I recollected how this had all began. He had told us to come. He had led us here, all of us so naively laughing and telling stories as he brought us to our end. As the realization slowly crept into my skull, I turned towards him. He was smiling. Out of the four of us, he was the only one finding satisfaction in the impending attack. He had known all along.

His eyes caught the angle of my face and flickered ever-so-slightly. Not enough to turn and look at me.

Coward.

Just then, a scream.

I turned to my right to see decomposing, dismembered limbs dragging her away from us. Her long, black hair fell helplessly as her frenzied extremities attempted to grip onto something, anything to save her. She extended her hands to us, but she was already gone. We could no longer save her. Only three of us were left.

A too-convenient ax rested at my feet. Cautiously, I gathered it and braced myself to hack away at all that even approached me. He turned and faced us, taking steps backwards into the mass of rotted flesh, the remnants of those who once were. They quieted down and waited for his command.

An arch of his hand in the air and a wave began to descend upon my only remaining companion. He thrashed and squirmed and screamed. I tried to make contact between my blade and their skulls, but their teeth quickly sunk into his skin, the sounds of squirting blood and digested muscle drowning out his screams until there were no more.

I gripped my ax tighter, knuckles white, and turned to face him again. I tried to remember who he had been, but my instinct for survival was too strong. With the only battle cry I could muster, I swung my ax overhead and charged, driving the blade down with as much strength as my body would allow.

And then ..

some mouths are better left shut

one loses the right to lament
the daily ongoings of life
and the bigger happenings of existence
if that same one makes no attempt
at grasping the reins or wheel
or steering-device of his or her
metaphorical vehicle
in order to find that which will truly
bring
happiness.

Birthday Nostalgia is Never Very Constructive

physical endurance is a matter of genes,
of sweat, of blood,
of you-can-do-its and just-a-little-mores.

but the pores of my skin
were open just a little too wide
and went a little too deep,
and the collection of saline that
leaped from your face
was enough to turn my cells
to blood and calcium to bone.

where are you now
in this gargantuan speck we
incredulously call home?
do you inhale through small nostrils
the aroma of earth and humanity
the way i have been known to do?
do you gaze at distant fires
and wonder at the ancestors of us all?

i will slip my toes into that brackish deep
and let the tumultuous wind carry these thoughts to you,
oh, giver of life and enigma of memory:
whether i am to ever know the outlines of your face (i imagine it like mine),
or am meant to forever be satisfied to go without,
love has never known a restriction,
from the moment of your sacrifice
to the very breath i now take,
and will never know one in my life

all because of you,
the mother who
had no choice
but to give me
away.

the weight of blood and muscle.

[Backdated to 8 February 2011]

It creeps back into my mind. It finds every crack and every interstice that may (and does) exist. It slithers and slinks so silently, so perfectly, that it could be killing me now, and I'd be none the wiser.

The loss of control is palpable. Fingertips and toes go numb as the glissading vulnerability continually constricts, rendering me useless.

Rationality begins to sound the siren. Warnings and unnamed exclamation points swirl overhead. This isn't safe. Where is the net to catch me when I fall? Did the craftsman lose the fingers needed to weave it? Were his unique modifications replaced by the stainless touch of steel?

Retreat. My god, how I retreat to the safety of the lonely, melancholy brush that has been my shelter for so long. I do not know where else to go. I do not have the strength to escape. The smell of you alone would be cruelest form of torture from so far away.

I must keep myself safe. I must protect the bloody mass that I have slowly been tearing in my hands. But you have defeated every wave of ribcage soldiers I could have rained upon you.

You terrify me with your smile and how it can unravel me so. Curled, hunched, I am paralyzed underneath the weight of who you are and who you have made me: someone willing to love.

there's simply too much.

[Backdated - 18 February 2011]

There's simply too much. The body cannot endure the things through which we make it suffer. Once delicate, fragile, touched as though a petal - turned to weathered appendages that have seen too much, toiled too much, lost too much.

It is just a perfectly haphazard slop of chromosomes and blood, incredibly housing the viscous parts that keep us alive. Nothing more. But we know no other way to show our gratitude for what it does than to abuse it. We inhale carcinogens or imbibe ethanol to deadly degrees, and then marvel at how, one day, the body simply forfeits the game, unwilling to be a contender any longer.

But what else can it do? It has no choice but to relinquish its crown, crushed underneath the debt of this thing we incredulously call Life.

euler's number falters in comparison

when eyes close
and ghosted fingers
trace over goose-bumped skin,

when unconscious
states coax heavy lids
and whispers swirl,

when forms collide
and diaphragms strike in
rhythm with each other,

when fingers divide and conquer
delicate strands of hair,
brushed back from peering globes,

there is no other,
both in truth and in idea,
whose fingers touch,
and whose voice beguiles,
and whose skin delights,

quite like yours,
oh, half to my half
and piece to my piece.

it has always been you.

it will always

be you.

a one-way journey

one could

get lost in

the space between

the letters

on a page,

swimming against

the current of curves

and jagged lines,

amidst the swirls

of an s and the

loops of an o,

among the loneliness

of a z

and the enthusiasm

of an e.

one could

simply get lost

and never return;

and i would not

have the

courage

to

beckon

me

back.

and suddenly i am galvanized into fear

self-confidence offended,

reassurance dissolved.

your tongue, your eyes,

your hands,

chisels to the stone

upon which i've come to

rely.

hundreds of thousands

of minutes spent

building,

protecting,

guarding,

undone in a matter of

moments,

the contact of lips,

the brushing of skin.

you have undone

all that

i have worked so hard

to temper.

they are all such relative terms

proximity is merely measurement

cold hard facts

things that arouse scientists

and others with reason to wear

sterile white coats

an inch a foot a meter

just mortal ways of understanding

here to there

and there to where

but even dung beetles can measure

distance with their frequent

pauses from transporting their

excremental gold

thigh to thigh

elbow to elbow

the measurement is minute

but the distance is gargantuan

hollow hollow

through and through

the wind can still nestle between us

This is the Only Escape

oblivious.

a screaming siren adjacent to ear

would barely grasp my attention.

but even i can see the unadulterated beauty

which pulls like magnets to a compass

in you.

there are others far more perceptive,

with bright eyes full of wonder,

drinking in all they could possibly discover.

you cannot stay blind

forever.

It Cannot Be Left Alone

it must be suppressed

before it will(and it will)

consume.

but how does one unhinge

a jaw and swallow it whole

if one was not fortunate enough

to have been born a snake?

A Reflection on the Remaining Fragments of a Recovering Psyche

i. how?

this exoskeleton has grown so rigid,

so impossibly stubborn that it can not be maneuvered!

suffocation(and therefore death;

it

typically,naturally follows)is imminent.

we've no choice now

but to wait

for the darkness.

ii. and then?

cracking,along the spine.

wallpaperskin begins to peel,to curl

away from the soft pink underneath.

a wiggling finger,a vibrating toe.

darkness has not yet

won.

iii. something like?

rejuvenation. rekindling.

arduous symphonies sing of the

rediscovered tombs

from days past,

glorify the freedom felt and

understood from

sarcophagi which were too small for

the most compact of

bodies.

iv. but after?

a touch. a kiss. a flittering

of lashes against

dewey skin.

like enzymes and substrates,

locking and keying,

exhausted bodies collapse

onto one another,

fueled and masked by the

laborious breathing

of lungs and diaphragm

grappling desperately for oxygen.

v. and all for?

a moment.

that moment.

unification, completeness.

press closer, harder,

but to no avail,

for even "together"

is never quite

close enough

for me.

And Then The Synapses Misfired and Things No Longer Make Sense

swarms of sleeping larvae are writhing in this fleshcase, gently reminding that existence continues, even if apparent life does not. sleeping forever, after all, is hardly a punishment. gather up the twilight-haze and tie it with an atropa belladonna bouquet, so innocent and explosive in its deadly deception.

lavender poisons the air as lips whisper unheard words to a far-off ear no one can see. but not even the most powerful of ear trumpets, as far as it will burrow, can amplify the sound.

the toxic mist moves in like a silent stampede, and, much to the terror of the unknowing masses, brings apathy wherever it goes.

The Human Race of Nesting Dolls

We are hauntingly capable of so many things.

Regeneration, compassion, kindness, love, healing, invention, discovery.

Anger, hatred, murder, apathy, disdain, selfishness, greed, pride.

Constantly grappling over Jekyll and Hyde. Can they co-exist in some twisted form of harmony? Or will anger always try to kidnap happiness, covering its head in a burlap sack? Will hatred always try to deceive and turn compassion, willing it to ignore someone in need?

It is no wonder we spend our lives searching, wandering, looking for some semblance of peace.

We are but a collective, chaotic chorus of screaming demands, each trying to be heard above all the rest, each trying to reign supreme.

The Language's Last Stand

I have run out of things to say. I constantly search for the proper way to tell you all of these things, these swelling things that sit so deeply in my chest, but the end of every journey is the same. My tongue goes numb, paralyzed by the overwhelming ardor that radiates, practically poisons all of its surrounding neighbors. I am reduced to my most primitive state, grunting or "mm"-ing in a last, desperate attempt at making you understand.

I know that I am a jumble of letters, of words, of failed attempts at relaying what's inside of me. Tangled and interwoven, I have come to accept that there is simply no hope at making me orderly again. Thoughts interrupt other thoughts. Feelings dissect other feelings. I am surrounded by the seemingly hollow cross-sections of pieces belonging to a larger whole that I can no longer locate.

You make my skin want to break free from my body, wanting to leap and run and feel the wind through all of its pores. You make me want to sit in the sunlight, cocooned in the whispered secrets of the breeze. You make me want to drown in the ecstasy that is Life, leaving no joy unknown and no love untouched.

Oh, but how can I say these things to you?

How could I possibly find the words, the ways to manifest and create a concrete thing out of nothing more than the stuff that kissing-in-the-rains are made of?

I echo the sonnets and odes and words far more poetic than these in my reverberating chorus:

I

I love

I love you

Oh, how I love you so.

His Last(?) Train Ride

the fluorescent yellow combined

with the constant swaying of the tracks

make it difficult to memorize

anything,

let alone decipher each

verticalhorizontaldiagonal line

that comes together to create

something called

"a sentence."

but he's run out of time.

it is his final journey

in this aluminum-and-steel sarcophagus.

success is promising,

failure is threatening.

he doesn't have room

for ambiguity.

words slither out of his lips

like a letterchain-snake,

falling silently to the muddied

ground, whooshing to

nothing more

than a whisper

as they collide.

the voice of a god beckons

through the wordgrater o'erhead.

packed and put away,

he commends himself,

tests himself,

prepares himself,

stands,

and exits.

The Girdle of History

the chattering of obedient silverware

married with the hushed and quiet

fadings of laughter and lifesharings

come scampering down this

horrendously-pattered carpet,

speeding through treads created by

the boots of workers

(suspiciously like servants)

and the heels of high-brow ladies who are

wrapped up in the furs of once-alive creatures.

the comings and goings of luggage carts

and thousands of stories

are embedded into each frayed thread

(well, the reds and beiges, at least,

but perhaps not the sea-foam).

the cheap perfume aroma of far-off edibles

invade each nostril,

masking the faint odor of history

until i cannot remember who was here last

and i am once again distracted by a

thunderous commotion,

trailing behind its owner like a curious puppy on a leash.

the flesh-colored wallpaper is encrusted with

songs and tunes from who-knows-when,

like a meticulously baked pie,

drowned by the clamor of present patrons.

how i wish i could breach every layer and

play each soundtrack against the

delicate needle of a phonograph.

the padded thud of a boot against the carpet

forces images of tasseled dresses and feather boas

from the depths of my cluttered crown,

reminding me that we will all someday be

the soundwaves captured in these walls,

waiting for the day someone will set us free.

Answering the Unanswerable

the prospect of

articulation seems

impossible

when confronted with

an inquiry

no lexicon

could ever hope to

expound.