schriftsteller

We are reckless & resolute— trying to gain our footing on ground that never stops its shifting. I tumble & curse you you falter & deny every part of me— the landscape is unforgiving but we each take the role of apologist & absolver. The cracks & faces try to dislocate us but you are there to pull me away from ledges with only your pinkie finger necessary & I am there with my entire body to be the strength under your shoulder that keeps you from falling & shattering into thousands of different mirrored pieces.

We are reckless & resolute— trying to gain our footing on ground that never stops its shifting. I tumble & curse you you falter & deny every part of me— the landscape is unforgiving but we each take the role of apologist & absolver. The cracks & faces try to dislocate us but you are there to pull me away from ledges with only your pinkie finger necessary & I am there with my entire body to be the strength under your shoulder that keeps you from falling & shattering into thousands of different mirrored pieces.

written on the back of the fame poetic dream— all the constants & consonants rolling up on their numbers. I can see you on Main with your pseudo-kowski speaking fuel— lubricant of social sociology— & I cannot fault a fellow outlaw in the land of pissed off water ed down interactions, a hard modernity w/o a place of home between the psycho alpha males & spitting women w/their candy flavored lips, the disconnect in connection now. I was my own aspiring alcoholic a few years back of a card wheel spinning black & red rites of passage— holding vodka hostage in the freezer stomach. we’re not looking for Pulit

With a calmer hand you read my spine— no rooms left vacant for the fading rust, pink worms trapped stationary as photographs or the hard markers of summer’s discontent. The white ghosts remain prowling— frozen in their tougher hides— but every time you face them with kisses the stuck panic in my esophagus releases. You’ve shed my skin & revealed a perfected softness with your Midas fingers with every pass over— leaving fresh blankets of pale in your path. The time spent splattering through different incantations I’ve mastered invented & relinquished doesn’t put stones in our mouths

I miss the hour after pills— the giddy half-sleep when we talked about the scary meanings hidden in the shadows of an empty bottle, about a pledge only I could have broken in my sacrificial cleansing. Somewhere, in the mountains, there is a woman listening to our singer. I couldn't decide if I should give her the song that changed meanings— I stared at it for an hour like an animal that would bite me if I mistreated it. I stared at it like my plant that won't bloom because of recent decisions & the weight turning it bloody. Somewhere, you are laughing over berries & I cannot see your position anymore&#

We used to sleep head to feet. Now I watch the mountains highlighted in bubblegum alone— now you carry my worry rocks & my bad timing wherever you sleep that isn’t home. I could feel your phantom hands flicking my back like moth wings & in the morning I would wake with a rash I scratched into a deeper meaning— where is the hive mind, my uncalculated truth. Buried in the snow you forgot meant me, taken away like ashes every night, I still field your weight somewhere under your rib I was born from— holed up like a mole content with blindness or hiding inside the freckle I keep impoverished under my breast.

There is no tenderness in this form of illness— if you don’t go off chasing after your death sympathy runs dry. I cannot go to the hospital— I am not imagining what bus teeth feel like or counting stones with the currents in mind. This is the worst trick— that nothing matters but you are too tired to leave or even think of leaving. But all that’s left is thought— the bulbous phone battery sure to be giving off radiation, the conversation snippets you don’t want to replay anymore real or imaginary, the sole focus on the clock while it tracks down your cigarettes. The unending repetitions.

She tells me she’s lonely as she attaches the harness in the morning. There is no man in her life but the moon & the ring on her wedding finger is his & just as aggressively sized. In the air, she’s a tin can airplane at the top of the tent— some mass of pure light refraction warbling back & forth in the eddys no one can see but her. She tells me it’s easier up there— the sequins hiding any emotion in their flashes, her stilt-tough hands touching each bar & sealing her secrets inside them. Up in the spotlight she’s only a faceless comet dodging between red & white— no one in the stands knows how she s

I fall asleep to words internally said, internally sour. I spend too long in this position— sparking up conversations with my ghosts by fucking rocks of experience & imagination together. They’re still walking around— existing in visibility to the outer world but in the same sad mocking graves to me— all of them with their old memoria voices choking my throat like rough hands of air. I’m bouncing kinetic across the walls— fogging up each mirror with the losses— nose close & unable to make out a single face in the fugue, losing sight of my self within those fossilized paramedic nights & too

She tells me she’s lonely as she attaches the harness in the morning. There is no man in her life but the moon & the ring on her wedding finger is his & just as aggressively sized. In the air, she’s a tin can airplane at the top of the tent— some mass of pure light refraction warbling back & forth in the eddys no one can see but her. She tells me it’s easier up there— the sequins hiding any emotion in their flashes, her stilt-tough hands touching each bar & sealing her secrets inside them. Up in the spotlight she’s only a faceless comet dodging between red & white— no one in the stands knows how she s

Dead women fill my bedroom— in a formaldehyde free free box on the shelf in the closet with her jewelry & tiny beads clutching her in place, on the vanity without a live picture of how her life imaged for her, only a patent leather hearse & coffin busting white through flower seams, the bare knuckled woman in white multiplied & squared three times to cover enough ground for an accidental savior, her name a mantra for every vulnerable girl who feels unwanted & unpretty. The long winded suicide notes line my bookshelf— thousands of bladed & bound pages outlining how a life implodes & leaves only the ink behind. All those wom

The flowers opened their organs, Exposing themselves to the world, Flashers. We laid among them— Hearts bursting through shirts. The gauze of air hung low, Our lungs filled with the cotton Spraying from the trees like rain. It littered the ground Like photographs of dead celebrities, Lost pets. We swung in trees Like we could fly above The pylon family members, The sickly sweet drink They forced down our throats, Sold as progress. It tasted like exhaustion. You had kittens— Twenty paws forcing us downriver. They smiled like sweet pea And smelled of forgotten regrets But we could still feel them— Dead

Inside it’s grey-tinged like a dirty dove’s wings from the opaque bokeh of rain-light— my hangover sits beside me like a miniature ship too big for its bottle-head. Every night I’ve been drunk on intellectual wine— smoking daisy-chained cigarettes like sanity, taking shots that respire my faith in the id & ego- less conversation, eating glass after glass of patchwork idealism until my mind slopes to the left side’s primary colors & stumbles into the alleyway where needled prolix meets nervous combustion. In the morning my body throbs with slow motion redundancy, four pairs of discerning eyes watchi

in that photo your clavicle juts out like a sail— a beam I could trip over into the ocean of the tender skin beneath it & daydream. Wondrously.

I'm sick to death of messiahs & devils— the constant pulls of unwarranted faith & dissolving into sin. Give me a simple life— living under minty starlight & a tin roof that chimes out love songs every time it rains. I'll make jam & knit enough children to fill a school bus— a woman of newborn trust & happiness so electric it lights the entire house. As long as you come nightly to my incandescent body in the window— pull me into the everlasting smell of hard labor & safety— I'll stay up late, listening for the clicking of a key in the lock & knowing that with it all the locks around my heart

The bugs whisper of your coming with their legs, As the moon hides— Turning my edge of the world black— I cannot see, but through the pinholes of stars. The trees rustle, Shivering as you pass— Your heat removed. I hear nothing But nature rebelling against you. But then all goes silent— The sea stalls, The crickets feel your vibrations— Stopping them dead. The trees hover in stasis, Wishing they could uproot— Travel somewhere You can’t touch. I welcome your chill— My bones make music enough To fill the air, My breathing— A sea roar, its own. I am as aware of your presence As

Flies are attracted to my body— a year past the internal rot & incessant picking— I can’t tell them no. They want the vein scars or what went missing & there’s nothing to do. I panic & flip them off— afraid of my imbalance & resigned to their aural reading. I fall asleep convinced I am no longer breathing— it jolts me every few minutes & I am broken up trying to survive myself. I am trying to fault my mind for physicality that may not exist. I fall asleep & dream that you love me. We have that conversation without the gap & I am convinced I’m glad I didn’t die before. You. Again. & th

There is no resurrection for this— becoming an adult by kissing a ghost & the familiar cat's cradle on my back. Still feeling your iced-heat I crept around the windowpanes of the slumbering house— watching your REM-busy eyelids for dreams of me but only met with a slap of concrete reality on the teeth you made tender. I spread brick dust around every doorway to keep you out— the voodoo of your mouth was a long forgotten curse coming back to haunt me. I cannot stand the Gothic architecture of our past— all the gargoyles staring back with my silly bemused next-morning eyes & the only place I could

I know if he were looking at me I would see that stare. That state of glazed over doe eyes. I wasn't completely honest with him either. I said "I love the idea of dead men." I love dead men because they make the best lovers. They never complain and only come around when you want them to. They don't tease you about how you look like a preteen girl some days. They don't care that some days you just want to lie in bed and think about joining the circus as a sideshow act. They lie in bed with you when you feel the cool breeze on your back. That's how they get in-- the window. Always leave your window open. When you don't, they don't know how to

there are five documents, countless more piling up daily & this isn’t at all what I want to know or say to you. I want to say that your flamed enraged hair still haunted me this fall. the fall so long away from where I can remember between medication times & remembering that eating is a necessary component of being a human being. some days I can’t remember where in the calendar I’m supposed to be living. the days flood & ebb across the hours of the sundial outside the window inside some similar shape to mountains or the bank parking lot where I watch with myself distended over every small person every morning. I am terrif