vomistress.

and for the betterment of all Mankind, I walked/ran/raced through concrete and brick
centuries-old dirt and grime
people whose names were obviously in italics,
what an extraordinary-looking sundress,
until I came to the beginning of the end of the beginning doing laps around the fucking makeshift box hole that you call a cityscape
the curvature of her smile down the length of my rusted collarbone and back again
discarded antics
your words at me like the shelling of a small, cozy town from the harbor
and my estuary carries Intention to Functionality
shit girl, I can smell love in the kitchen
but he's using a microwave and your ingredients are expired
muttering false positives and carrying carrion
you're a bumper sticker
and the last line I replaced with this one because it was too honest

if you listen closely enough, you can hear the sounds of padlocks on the front door and a window shattering inside.

needle tracks.

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
when I remember that you exist
I want to shut off my five senses
peel off all the skin you kissed
.
.
.
.
.
...
.
.
.

we had dinner together.

hey dead scenery, make my life style
blessed pregnant windshields
I'll race you
yeah, my time travel agent
my screen savior
bring me back to the introduction so I can end the scene
trees flickering past like spokes on the rims of a dead exit
baby, I'm a ghost town
just walk right past me and pretend to not exist
inherent danger on the outside, and
just plain nothing everywhere
she called me an absolute breath of fresh air
but she was underwater
and god were my eyes heavy enough to sink a stage
cut and strangle my losses with garrote wire

she gets me!
and yet
she's a thousand miles away and married to a paperweight
chemistry is meant for classrooms, baby
this is my church


*Written in an empty lounge on a train travelling from Sanford, FL to Lorton, VA.

baptism by fire.

you're the light that reflects off of the grit in my teeth
as I chew on the sand that lies underneath
I swear it's my mission to swallow this whole
the streets and the beach and my neighbor's souls

the clock hand has eyes and they cry for me
here it comes
pulling out individual hairs like a science project
I must be finished by now
so walk past me, I'll follow gravity
tense up for the impact
here it comes
soon I'll smell of grease, money and bitterness
and you'll just look like gold
and taste as old

in the bedroom of someone's home, who let me in?
wash my hands
you're all so much in love
it all ends
plug in, I've got one night and I'm not showering
soon I'll smell of whiskey and amnesia
and you'll still look like gold
and taste as old

concentrate, for the lesson is in the lanterns
that we light to lead the way
you, beautiful fuel
you're my worst navigator
never again will I let the darkness lead me astray
the light is the saboteur
a l'outrance

I hope you die of sunburn, my love

skulls on pigs.

In the corner; the man with the typewriter
constantly fixing his hair
eyes escaping up, trying to dart back and forth, only to be escorted back down
collections of secrets all over and inside his body
lost in detail and anonymity
magazines he has never read
conversations he will never have, already strategized
written down like word pornography

shades pulled together to the point where they are overlapping, like it would make a difference and the volume of the television barely audible in case he listens
saved missives from god knows how long ago
clothes he will never wear again folded perfectly
each hidden tattoo a reminder of a mistake in his life,
and the curious outfit he wears barely hiding them all

The people that proclaim loudly that they don't care what anyone thinks of them are the people that care the most. Crumples it up and throws it away.

I hear it's snowing in Houston today.
curious.

what is never said.

when the terrible planets align, I'll be nowhere to be found
as if her name was Militia and she brought a war to town

and what sort of dance is this, angel?
is this sort of destruction beautiful to you? I've pushed the line before
I've had the oxygen mask on
I've designed my own headstone with clay that melts in the rain
but you're not even a murderer. at least they have goals.

it's coming so I starve
I keep the phone lines open and my vein lines open
we are
a mailbox in front of a long-abandoned home
because you haunted away the residents
and I didn't care enough to stop you

(the crowd begins to loudly whisper to each other)
so stay on guard for Militia
because she's beautiful and she's deadly and she's on her way

ode to oxycodone.

codeines and chemicals, synthetic and natural alike
we don milligram smiles
walk out the itchiness like we’re shaking off fatigue
senses sharper, thought processes stronger
these are God pills.

like my veins are taking a hot, steamy shower
like I’m somehow becoming more than what I am
meta-human indeed
I talk like I move, I write like I talk, I move like I write
nerve endings can dance!
there’s music playing in the illegal Speakeasy’s in my body, and we’re all intoxicated in here, except the streets outside
read: the people playing out the roles in my life.
they don’t know what goes on inside the building
as it builds up, my eyes almost roll over themselves.
they can hear the faint sounds of music and laughter
each of them might not know, but they know.
but from the curb, they are all involuntary curious glances
“he’s definitely got it together (cue laugh track).”

like if pins and needles were sexy
fingertips running slowly under my skin
I’m my own electric blanket, one that doesn’t smell like Grandma
she just provided me with the amber bottle

this is why junkies don’t fuck

immaculate, immaculate, immaculate.

(breathe)
As much as you’d like to impeach me
Righteous wind
Hope is too slippery to hold
Your fangs still show in your smile
A languished victim’s denial

I am a lightning strike.
I am your headlights in hell.

Close your eyes hard, little boy
The volume only goes louder
Brace yourself
The perfection storm is near
You can sketch out your route in the sand,
But it will be gone come sunrise.

waycross, georgia at high noon.

we tend to poke sticks at gravel
flick light switches just to watch the world change
at best
we rub alcohol on our eyes and call it birth

I screamed at you, screaming
your face was on but your voice was off
across from the Ware Hotel I saw a room full of old, wet novels
daring me to live in its landscape

complacent life lines
the air is not yet stale enough
incompleted rail lines
our style is vacancy and we wear it well

broken rape whistle.

she muttered my old name and I was a hurricane
under her breath, words lay to rest
never again I told her
never again

I wore the clothes for a second and felt the wind bite
the gusts snapped like jaws clap
every passenger in the car could have felt the ground
each syllable explode

woman, your heart is the color of your hair
never again that name
I'm the rorschach weather pattern forever
board up the house