I’m done spitting on your face
and  on my way
to pick up a bag of cutlery and dishes
for our house from the front porch
of a stranger’s
when I stop to admire the cracks
in the side of the building.
the wall is coral, faded but still
garish and stands out; it’s
brick and

this building has no doors and
one broken window.
these defects in the painted halls
lining my new city catch my
eye each time I run an errand
and I pay my respect in
photographs, stopping at each one.
trying to remember how the boulders
haunted too; how the ocean felt
on my wasted ankles at gloaming when I guzzled
vodka Big Gulps and watched the
ghost crabs roam the bay.
watched myself dissolve into
the bits of me and can I remember
how the sunset looked draped over both tide and
flatirons,
hold two things at once
without favor?
how it feels to lose several
small countries you claimed.

all I see are metaphors
and I’m intruded.
these overcoats that rot
without dismay hold space;
there is natural beauty
here but it shines brightest in demise.
these bricks are painted to distract from
its true inability to keep a home
safe like
the way men have held me,
touched with their claws,
I cracked   I only see them in their
handsome sway.
I snap a picture of the edge of the broken
glass pane and the beginning of
the paint peeling into
white, the fissure.
I trace my finger
over a chip and watch
it flake.

how they left me.

“doors #1”

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“I think everything is curse.”

“You think everything is curse.”

“No, I think everything is love.”

truth is the great surgeon:
it will cut you open
but it will also heal you.

it’s Friday and we are
processing hard truths
before we seek the auspiciousness
of everything; before we rest,
pay altar on Sunday
like
:
sometimes some things
just aren’t meant for you.
it’s true, the blur,
life is rushing and swamps
with it’s shades of
blue; azure
(you name things)
sky, or cobalt fluid
or nightmare
like a wall of nail polish
you’re reading every
dressed up inch of you,
every feeling to decide
what to bathe your magic
tips in tonight.

with or without your
undivided presence,
your inquisitive fantasy,
the moon moves.
time heals all those
unsewn wounds and you embrace
things now with reticence,
but you’re open to the aphorism,
to the temperance,
to the tombstone epitaph
you made him carve across
your eyelids that night
on Jupiter:

I remember everything.

everything you grow to love,
you lose.

“xxx”

“i was dazzled by the way he talked to me, without any subservience.”

What is more concerning, he was thinking, was the space between us and our religion which governs us. He was setting the votives carefully along the stairs and praying quietly. A sense of mania surrounded him but it was muted, almost invisible. Like an electric fence he wore with snicker and paranoia, only he could feel when he stepped too far outside the perimeter and was roped back in by pain. He was careless in general but cautious with people. Dusk had brought a snowstorm and the blizzard had ruined his plans. Many people had cancelled. He paused at the top of the stairs. Each step was lit with an alternating white and black candle.

“You’re living in a fantasy,” Sophia shouted before she slammed the front door.
“It’s not a fantasy. It’s the past,” he said out loud, now, long after she was gone, before swallowing the last of his beer.

He moved into the living room and looked out the bay window with some furtive longing he masked with his budding alcoholism, his apathy at his friends’ choices, his dismissal of everyone. He was lonely.

“I’m lonely,” he said.

Tonight he was being decisive: which candles to set, where to place them, who to invite. This filled him with a sense of purpose but the depression swallowed him regardless. It was winter, six pm and the sky was black as death outside. Already six inches on the ground, the weather predicted a foot more by midnight. No one is coming. The burgundy filled him by four and he was into the beer quickly after that. I have given up already. He had given up already. He continued to light the candles, to set the ambience even though he knew. David was the last one and he cancelled too.

“We just don’t feel safe driving,” his phone blinked.

Sophia’s face danced on the pane in front of him but he didn’t reach for that. He stood stoic; numbed by the alcohol, frozen by the climate, taken by the idea of it all. No one else was home on his block when he heard the knock.

you’re shrouded
in caricature of self
under pressure:
embosked in

crouching vines,
twigs and berries, my clothing
and your permanent frost that
molds you into something
statuesque–a snowman frozen
in my front
yard but I’m suddenly feeling
myself so sun,
so warm,
arms wide open,

cherry lipstick,
leper with no island and a
strong want for community.
need to touch your fingers with
my tongue,
audacity,
some ire,
some unresolved bleak black,
and I’m mad at God for every season
that brings the buried back.
I’m not over it,
I’m batshit and
I’m terribly bereft.
I’m hot
they say.

you’re melting a
little and I keep talking about
myself to fill the space.
I used to be
a vacant room
but now I’m full of
places,
suspect,
other people’s things,
vindictive trust and other people’s prayers;
the hurt of how they wear me once,
or at night or in their head
and then hang me like
an amulet above their door
to gawk at, clap at,
ask for favor like I’m God’s
only walking angel and really
i’m full of enmity and
you and I are both full of
me.      pinch your carrot nose
and wait for the high noon
rays to hit your coal smile
so you become the puddle
at my feet the thirsty
dog I leashed laps
quietly and you asked me.
what do I long for?

the cloying puffs of air
near my ear saying
come here and
the weather changing.
i’m adding a hat to your costume when
a man taps me on the shoulder.
he wants to ask what’s become of the
others that came before you
and I want to get to the
bottom of it.

“the sun”

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