I find a kind of peace
in the scent you’ve left
with me.
But these things
these things tend to
fade quickly.

Hooked. I think
and sense
this is nothing
but a warning sign
something similar
to an ignorant
denial.

You’re everything
I’ve said no to.
But these red flags
aren’t blowing in the wind
like they used to.

Your scent
brings me a kind of peace.
I think this is cigarettes
and late nights
inhale
and release.

But I breathe you in
and try to hold you
in every second.
The distribution of your cells within
my chest
it’s unhealthy obsession.

I don’t know what
smells good anymore.
Or what my own skin
is supposed to remind
me of.
I’ve lost all my senses
it’s all mixed up.

These are late nights
and cigarettes
and I remember
how I don’t want
to go back to those
moments
that I used to forget.

But I already seem to be
forgetting,
what it is I’m made...

The guitar strings enter
my throat.
The feeling of
metal intwines me
my tongue is squeezed
but it is soothed.
The wires are not
sent to damage
to cut
or to make bleed.

They are full
of joy.
And they
taste good to me
and to him
and to his finger tips
that run
quickly
hands that slide
back and forth.
This may be
the only joy
he knows.

And for the first time
in a long time
I taste the joy
not the depression
or the bitterness.

There is no call for requests
but I throw out my requests.
I want desperately
to feel our voices
twist together
as we are transported
to the first land
our blood was shed on.

I request war songs
I remember
from childhood
never knowing
I was singing of war.
It was celebration
and culture,
stained with death.

And now I sing of war
with him
and am
simply
reminded
of childhood.

Strange
how the savory sound
of violence
reminds me...

They taste filling
like I’m eating them all up
eyeballs
ears
mouths for keeping quiet
this is
my
delicious
audience.

They taste of pennies
their blood
like my blood
runs warm
as I devour them.
Metal
eating
metal.

But wait.

I am at once
a malleable
substance
melting
molding
they chew me up
but swallow me
whole.

Beautifully
they
devour
me.

I have come to them
on a platter
and as much as I’d like
to believe
the mic is my utensil
it is actually
their fork
their knife
my dress
their napkin.

I watch them
as they wipe my blood
from their mouths
sometimes
a groan
a moan
to follow
something I said
tore me up
and let them drink
me down.

This is
metal
eating
metal.

I exist for their tongues
their stomachs
and those porcelain
thrones.
They will digest me
before their night
is through.

The full ones
the ones who loosened
their pants
with the...

This
this is my ordinary poem.
The one written
not in times of great conflict
or
overflowing joy.
This poem
is written in a space that
doesn’t feel special.

This is about that old man
in the red hat and glasses
trying to lock his car
but his hands are full of presents
a balloon floats above his head.

The kind of poem that
looks upon an orange cone
sitting on a playground
as if to warn us of
something
but we can’t be sure of what.
I watched as it just came off a child’s head
and I’m willing to bet
the current placement is not accurate.
Of course
danger moved by
curiosity and no consequence
to show us how
we don’t know what’s
really dangerous anymore.

This is the poem I’m not sure
I’ll ever read out loud.
It doesn’t seem to be
coming alive to please me
or to please you
it’s here only for it’s existence.

It’s the quiet one
who never had the chance
to dance
...

There’s not much in the way
of a man’s progress these days.

Not much but a hesitant mind
a contradiction of desires
of movement
or of sitting still.

Can we sit in movement
or can we move in stillness
in such a way that
satisfaction transpires
without much thought
of what satisfaction was ever meant to
look like
to feel like
to taste like?

Can it be both bitter and sweet
without our noticing of such a
dichotomy?

We must merely breathe in those
moments and make note of when it was
and how it is.

There is no thing for us to rush
towards
no love so great that we shall skip
breaths
or have our heart skip beats
to attain its gift.

No God worthy of
dying for
these days.

There is not much in the way
of progress
but those thought that derail us
when were were only moving forward
and no one was being harmed.

But watch
how we kill
to get back on track.

You may have come to me
in the middle of a nightmare
I didn’t sense your presence
or when you left
but I know you laid upon me that night
I noticed your marks in the morning
unaware
you were always following my breath.

Your branding stayed with me
for days
I blamed it on another
like we often do
when evidence doesn’t
just point one way.

It could have been anything
I thought
but she raised her eyebrows in concern
then we quickly blew it off.

Life went on
amidst your absence.
I’m thankful for every
drop of blood
I was allowed to keep
but now as the sun sets
and I twist myself up
in one sheet
thoughts of you
keep interrupting
my sleep.

I lost patience that night
as I grew in fear
I’m all about life
I let them all go
it’s this pattern I can’t break
but you
I tried to make you disappear.

I watched you flay
as I began the process of suffocation
but a crack in the...

It felt like an understatement
of what it meant
to be in love.

Passion didn’t pulse
through ready veins
and she thought
maybe love would never
be felt that way.

Maybe it came on subtly
through a laugh that
was truly hers
or it was a breath
that filled the spaces
between words.

She feared she’d never know
as her mind skipped
subtleties
and reminisced on the intense
that only came through
memory.

Maybe love
was meant to feel like
an understatment.

It’s not the pouring rain
but the silence that
lingers between raindrops.
It is not the roar of
thunder
or the bolt piercing
the darkened sky
it is the patience
between spaces.

It is the waiting
the listening for
how close we are
to destruction.
And how we’ve proven
that we’re always
far enough away.

Maybe love
is safe
it does not keep us
on our toes
but grounds our heels
and has us stand tall
without...

It’s moments like this where
I wonder if a pill could save me.
I wonder how much pride
could kill me
and I can’t swallow that pill
because I can’t swallow my pride
I tell myself it’s the demons that
lurk inside
that I must fight

I must fight

And it’s moments like this I wonder
if a pill is what I need

But I can’t swallow a pill
because I can’t swallow my pride
I tell myself that
it’s really fucking dark
inside
but it’s me
who has to survive

Me who has to survive

And if I take a pill
I’m not sure
that it’s really
my life

I’m not sure
if it’s really
my mind

If I take a pill
I’m not sure
I’ll be right

I don’t know
who I’ll be
and maybe
fucking maybe
it just won’t save me
and what if it doesn’t
save me?

But what if it saves me
so fucking good
What if it saves me
and takes all those dark moments
and lets them last
just a day
what if saves me
and...

She left me only with
awkward declarations.
Awkward declarations
that demanded that I
morph.
But I sit amidst transition
I give it to time.
This is not relaxation
this is a hardening heart
and a running mind.

She used to speak to
me
in a way
that squeezed my soul
a morning stretch
this is not
suffocation.
It was safety
laced with challenge.
A watering of roots
a growing of stems
we bloomed this way.

But as is her nature
she flew away.

And what we had before
we built among the
night watchmen.
We met
shovels in hands
bags of bones.
The corners of our mouths
pulled at the sky
corpses at rest among us.

We pulled skeletons
from closets
this isn’t what they
taught us
but this is what we
decided to learn.
We filled graves
with old bones
we buried pasts apart
and pasts together
throwing dirt
as if at play
we told secrets among
ears that lost themselves to...

It begins with consumption.
You gulp and within you
a snake begins to move that
you don’t remember swallowing
yet you trust it with all you hold inside.

A flicking tongue
to sense your insanity
your built up debris
your humanity.

This is a cleansing of organs
an investigation of cells
what lies trapped
has been reborn
year after year
you thought you buried it
but it continues to reappear.

And how you’ve never been able
to escape
your downfalls
or your safety nets.
Now she pulls them from
under you
as you let her work her way
through al those crevices
you thought no one could see.
But she’ll find them
with her eyes closed
she senses the heat
of trapped memories.

Like how you could
never hold a woman
in all of her composition
of heart
mind
and soul.
She’s only been an object
of your infatuation
now she dances
in front of you
wearing a Dia De Los Muertos mask...