Vulnerability is Vile

1.Salmon.
It’s a fine
fatty varietal
of fish.
My pick
of choices
for dinner,
maybe
occasionally.
You all
are having
salmon tonight.
I am—
but not
with
you lot.
The single piece
I will enjoy tonight
needs no side dish
as a compliment—
scrumptious.

2. Have you ever noticed, when you lie in bed at night, and your mind begins to crank and spin ideas outside of your control that your arms subconsciously wrap nearer to your heart and your waist? And all that’s left, is the jarring sensation –the chasm is getting bigger.

3. I
can’t
remember
the
particular
jump-off
point.
But
I
literally,
ashamedly,
can’t
bear
Silence
anymore.
Please--
just
make
noise--
any
noise
will
do.

Little

Little white houses
with little red roofs
in little towns.
I am little,
the gypsy-man musician
is little,
the exhausted new mother
pushing her child in a stroller
is little,
but collectively
how grandiose
may our force
become?

Don't Love

Don’t love me.
Don’t say
you do.
Please—
Don’t
love
me.
Life is
unnervingly
short
and I will
most likely
leave you.
My own
mortality
knocking
harder and harder
at my door,
shouting--
pestering me
to keep living faster
to keep moving forward
to keep the past, past.
I can’t
breathe
steady,
because it inevitably
means
I’ve stayed
in one place
too long.

Life should keep you
out of breath
as long
as your lungs can
possibly withstand—
otherwise
you become a shell,
lacking
that out of body
entity for which
I cannot fully explain
with words—
But I sense it—
I sense it
there.

I feel the
separation
of my self,
the separation
many a night
and day,
and
I often wonder
if others
notice the
difference
the way I myself
have come to.

Who is the body
I was born within?
Does she fit the
mind I have?
Can they work
in a simpatico
sort of fashion?

The constant
questions
I fear will only
become solved
when that good
old mortality
stops knocking,
walks inside
my home,
my mind,
and takes me
away,
in the most
fitting of ways.

So,
don’t love me
for I will leave you,
or perhaps
eventually
you will leave
the two
of me
first.

Blue Period

You know, sleeping with all those men
is just a phase for me—a period if you
will. It’s like Picasso, and his going
through a “blue” period while painting.
Every creative soul goes through phases,
periods, hard times when you don’t know
how to pick yourself up, or even really
ever want to. You know, except it’s my
“whore” period—

No, I call it your PLAN B period.

Fact.

Never Truly Know Truth

Never Truly Know Truth

Kerplunk.
Kerplunk.
Kerchink.
Kerchunk.
Night drive
on a road
in desperate
need of repaving—
the black veil
shades what
I do not
want to
come back to.
Kerplunk
Kerchunk.
You like museums?
My mouth
opens
with that
single question
as my
heart
simultaneously
began to fill
with the
waters of
disappointment,
and fall—
Kerchink.
Kerplunk.
I thought
she knew.
Damnit.
I thought
she
knew
me.
Kerplunk.
Kerplunk.
Elebows embrace
knees pulled
tight.
Kerchink
Kerchunk
Fuck.
I probably don’t
really know
her true self
either.
Kerplunk
Kerplunk
Kerchink
Kerchunk.