just because my highest value is love
doesn’t mean I know what that
means. I sit all day
in a rocking chair and plot
the deaths of others,
then just turn on myself.
7.
oh, everyone is mad at
me like I care or have a single
feeling that isn’t moored
with self-depreciation.
spell it then.
n
i
h
i
l
i
s
m
mother, we can be happy
all the time.
I’ve shoved my current project
to the side of my mouth
because I am bursting with
decisiveness and for once,
can you even believe
that I chose perplexity,
a saint’s patience,
not begging,
ruining it anyway
just so I can sit here like
a lonely bitch tied to
outdoor patio furniture
waiting for the sun to go
down or for their master to step
out?
just panting and sitting in
her own piss,
shedding like crazy,
bewildered at the sky’s
sudden brightness,
conditioned to salivate when
your screen door opens
as if I even have a spare
drop to lose in this
heat.
GIVE IT TO ME.
“bells”
I once made up a long, long thing.
I only like the authentic and
I’ll list my seven values.
seven is the number of creation and
eight is the number of stopping.
nine is the manifestation
of hope before your eyes and
ten is when you sit with someone
by a lake for a long time
and then they kiss you.
- organic experiences
2. freedom
3. love
4. organic expression
5. kindness
6. generosity
7. truth
I do not lie.
if I ever told you I loved
you I was lying but I had convinced
myself first.
it’s not my problem I live in a
womb of delusion.
I asked for your help and I was tapped by
a ghost you know to do it.
otherwise, what would have stopped you
from driving without
that seatbelt?
you reckless
fucking moron,
drinking and driving
and fucking eighteen year olds
with pride.
“the extinguisher”
this is fresh.
like when my cat’s claw gets stuck
in my fingertip or when I
bump my elbow on the armoire.
things only last for seconds unless
they are eternal like
God’s choir,
mass extinction,
our howls like bells
like doom
like fate.
I try to tell too many
that this has happened before but
never with the same
patterning; the cavern
patience that’s filled with
liminality me in the
tub and dreaming.
I have no fear of the color
hazel or unmade beds
or the way you let your fingertip
trace my thigh’s Baphomet
as you turn to me
and say
this will never end.
I bet you never say a word.
I’ll grow to equatorial proportions
and bellow.
I have no fear of
mirrors, men,
mirages or monsters.
I have no fear of depth.
I have no fear of flight
or landing, heat
or frozen streams.
those talons.
those waves.
those headlights.
I have no fear of death.
you? you will know me
by my sudden rage.
“the red book (revisited)”
if I wait five seconds,
I will erase you.
if you wait ten seconds,
I will re-emerge in your
doorway.
that’s fair.
they are not shocked that I have
tattooed every lover’s glyph
along the stitching of my skin
but that I repeat the same story:
I have never, ever loved.
“yet such grand displays for men
that have touched you!”
I glare.
in general, I glare.
you can fuck three thousand men
and fall into each one’s abyss and
never touch a feeling but
no one believes me when I say
I have never, ever loved.
“yet you repeat their name with
such fever I think you may be
sick.”
I cough just to get attention.
if we are in a room full of people
and no one has looked my way
for seconds, I clear my throat.
no one believes me when I say
I am a pacified nihilist.
“yet you lend your hand to
every thing and the way you wear
your man’s cologne makes me
think you want so deeply.”
I want to sit still.
I walk the streets wrapped in
beats, a phrase tattooed on my
tongue. a glyph for everyone
I sung to.
(toss five dollars in his cup)
I have never, ever loved.
“the seraphim”
I wish had more words for
everything hurts.
we both saw the lighting storm
and we both held metal rods
under a tree
like we deserved it or
like we just wanted the tingle back,
confusing amends with self slaughter.
we could just enlist–
bring kerosene to the housewarming and
tell your friend,
pour this here
gesture to our clothes
and necks.
hold hands.
watch us try to put
the other out first
so you believe you can
long without conditions.
consider love and
freedom exist at the
same time.
here is what I demand:
eye contact.
a witness.
an extinguisher.
your fit in vocabulary,
whether fresh or stored
or researched but
directed right at me
so I can hear the way your irritation wrestles,
the way you covet remorse and old marks
and I have a new cane to brand you;
mahogany wood hand carved,
if you ever just laid down to take it,
my sting.
let your silence make way for screams
and welts, not fair?
well. that’s what I deserve.
but you don’t believe in any of it
or that you are growing a handlebar
mustache and I’m squirming, in bondage,
under a metal rod under a tree,
amorphous so I can slip free
and the sky is finally black enough.
the antonym of black is everything
at once.
consider love and self-sacrifice
exist at the same time.
consider my ethics and organic
expression.
consider I’d be real dumb
about it.
consider my skin would melt like
altar prayers, wax and I’d be
wasted sending rain, a lake,
a splash your way.
me, avoiding water.
me, melting.
me, disintegrating just to rise in
white like an osprey or
an egret,
perched and
habitual,
seasonal.
graceful, large, eyes on
the prey.
consider love and altitude
exist at the same time.
“the long flight”
daturamoon.com 