The moon stops following you

down the highway like it used to.

You both know better.

You pick up a baby bird

and call yourself a savior,

you killer.

How many marshmallows

can you fit in your mouth

without crying?

Your parents call you

by the wrong name once or twice.

You forget yourself, too.

The wind no longer whistles,

it whispers. You notice nuance,

shadows.

So what if the rumors are true?

You swallow watermelon seeds

anyway.

If you jump, you will fall.

You shut off the TV.

Try again later.

all you can do is

sit and let it.

sit and let it raze you;

say Elohim.

say Elohim

that fucker, really?

that fucker really

hurt me.

~repeat after me: anger is not a sin

selah.k_x

ALWAYS alone with my thoughts now, i smile quietly, and know what it is to never go empty, not a damn thing passes me by. i fill it in with the worst of colours if and lost the score, terrible rotten carrots in a plastic bag with a caption and the month and the year, i dont know what it means or what ive ever meant by claiming exception, in every crawl space or weak spot, scooping my chin, im boundless, eyes like jars sealed for canning, asleep in the weak spots, the exception,. asleep in that paper mâché elbow crevice . chicken and spinach. life is a tasteless charade sometimes, no one ever really wants to know the thing, i pulled a half eaten apple from my purse. it doesnt matter. its immediate taste is like salt crumbs and lens solution. then it quickly resumes to apple. it doesnt matter. im golden, the exception. im peeled open, never emptied, glossed and sealed and filled again.

They said a transformer blew,

all sparks and shrapnel raining down

around the neighborhood, live wires

on the ground, hissing like snakes.

Last night, marriage was proposed.

I awoke to find my lips had formed

a yes below the no. All those children

I told you I never wanted, dancing

in my dreams like ghosts.

It is stained glass and broken porcelain,

here, where the sky smells only of

cedar and mildew. It rains and rains,

trees cracking and crashing in the wind.

this one ran jagged; broken sharp

by one too many turns of harp-

infested melody, long strummed

across ears loathe to hear. succumbed,

once wounded beyond simple fix,

using tools at hand. we’ll not mix

shards with charms left strewn and scattered

down her empty arms…unflattered.

that one too showed worse for wear. more

rough than razor-bladed, dull; wore

scars abundant over calloused

patches. faded? true, yet ballast

heavy as last days…overboard

tossed, in last attempt at unmoored

hope of healing. no man, nor might

of love, could fuel his final flight.

two hearts, too many days of nights

left unattended drew in sights

best left unseen. no clinging cloy

lent suture strong enough for joy

to blossom, breathe or even show.

it matters not if lovers know

when meeting, where the road will wend;

but ever onward go…

With autumn, I'm a quiet thing, 

the skirt of fog trailing as

engines whine alive. Go find me

among the grinning burs, restless 

with some tale of me; in 

cyclones of dust; my kiss 

on every balmy blade of grass and 

blushing leaf. 

One day, I will shake the bones out of these trees. 

I know that you want more from me.

But today I watch the red sun 

between seams of rain clouds, curled 

up in some spot of warmth, a 

quiet thing with autumn - let me sleep. 

1.

I haven't shaved my legs in three weeks. A week ago, I was floating by on general laziness, but by now, it's officially A Statement, whether I like it or not. In all reality, that statement is, "I no longer need to adhere to mainstream beauty standards." But then again, I suppose that that's what all non-leg-shaving statements boil down to, really.

2.

I tried to write a poem a few weeks ago, and it morphed into the same nonsense that this is morphing into. A Statement. In the biz, we call something like this an "Advertorial." An advertisement disguised as an editorial. And on nights where I can't sleep and I'm not half as tortured as Don Draper but I'm drinking like him, and I want to write a poem, the only thing that comes out anymore is A Statement. The kinda thing you write when you're looking for attention or admiration or something. Applause, maybe. An advertisement for yourself. And you hope someone's buying.

3.

I live in the woods. I ride my bicycle into town, my leg hairs floating in the wind. I get buzzed by rednecks, in ridiculously large trucks, screaming obscenities. Or maybe they're just trying to hit on me. They can't see the leg hair from here.