“Food for Thought”

I am alive.

I am silence.

I’m still alive.

Only silence.

Life lines.

Meaning of life.

Does speaking make you alive?

Only just,

only just,

only just.

Just look at how made of lines I am.

I am alive.

I am alive.

But I don’t feel it.

Sometimes

I am silence.

Life lines.

A funny word.

A concept.

Does that make me alive?

Only just.

Only just.

 

“Today”

When does it

stop sounding so serious?

When does it finally end

On a high note

curled up in someone else’s bed?

I don’t know if I should accept that.

A bright shiny skyline

hanging on someone else’s clothesline.

Severe

sincerity as a means to tell myself

I am alive.

The truth is

in the differences trapped

In my eyes.

There’s so much fear.

 

 

“Pre-Op”

I didn’t know

I was waiting for something

with two eyes and a grin

to swallow me up

Never spit me out.

I feel Not Myself

standing on a bulbous forked tongue.

Disheveled is a good word

I threw it in the river

with those fish who like to watch their own

suicides on live T.V.

I couldn’t find a note.

Someone’s mother was crying

in a Las Vegas hotel room

trapped by a bright red lotus

whose teeth I later sold.

I dreamed I was surgeon

operating on a Dead Man.

 

 

“Filigree Paper”

How would you feel

about lying

On a glass floor

made entirely of cracks?

Would you choke,

lips in a croak,

sending shivers down your own throat?

This is why we can’t have

Nice Things as a means of

communicating with ourselves.

We break them before

we buy them.

I want you to have your

money stuffed and mounted.

SO long as it makes you

feel

better about spending it.

Take some responsibility

instead

it’s free.

“Not a Second”

There was Shakespeare on his tongue,

and a butterfly in his lungs.

Both made his dangerous.

Both rendered him unloved.

He was afraid

of what to say,

of what to feel.

It all got stuck in his throat,

a clump of paper and honey.

Nothing was easier to swallow.

Innocence was one thing,

but courage was another.

To pick up the sword,

to shout into the abyss.

He was new to living,

but he didn’t want to waste it.

The hilt was supple in his palm,

so were the words to that song.

The one in the back of his beautiful mind.

“Black Water”

A dark mess of intention,

an already-dug grave.

This was her lifeblood,

she had no one to save.

She was drowning in her own mouth.

Tongue-tied,

cast out.

Sin nipped at her elbows,

stained her handsome teeth.

She stepped on a songbird once,

his yellow throat caught beneath.

For him,

death had tasted like dried pineapple.

She buried him in the ocean,

her back to the chapel.

To her,

death was simple,

a palm full of sugar.