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Discovery Channel
i was handcuffed to a seat in court
The Daily World
customer reservation
result: sensing a pattern
head rush
these words taste like wet footprints
konichiwa. watashi wa root desu.
marriage and hate almost rhyme
these car rides are ancient
move on

see, when the princess got out of the limo, she tripped
79 a night, plus tax
the accidental murder
actually, this one was late and the window was open
recite the alphabet backwards and then call me
four-paged red pen
maybe i'm just doped up
he waited too long
this dream box stomach
in my apron and coffee stains
you could have turned me on
my cat snores like harp strings
i would have swallowed
i coughed her name

the last time i saw my face, it was balancing
my heart murmurs at the sight of you
we looked for faces in the ceiling
extra virgin
and everything comes back to him
you wanted me to write you a poem about progress
maybe if life weren't so silver
You wanted me to write
sometimes in my dream i'm dropping
i know i'm just a girl and i'm almost grown
there's vibrations under our street signs
everytime my mom talks about her rape
We both grew up

p.s. i love you
set, action
cold hits all over
classified: man-hater
I love to fly at night because the airport looks like Christmas
He may have a big c**k
Art class always begins with you know:
some days, i just want to move my flesh around--just roll
i wasn't the stupid one this time.
He wanted me to kiss it.
he broke my jesus
we swim like sea snails
this is me:

frustration steams up the eyelashes
mom says i wouldn't last a minute
on hobos and loneliness
i took the leftstairs elevators to your brain
she turns dinner into a tango
see, first the world goes mute
he is reflection front
i'm trying not to be perfect
i think i need a birthday, man.
i stand at bus stops

on hobos and loneliness (edited, i guess)
i conduct invisible symphonies
this is what jobs look like
i'm on a first name basis with the stain on the coffee table
this is a wild place
color crayon on the weekend
your honors, i'm following you
your body is crystallized and imposing
don't even read this one
be blue pen kid
i'm green
i want to crush the trees

there was a goddess in my truck tonight
this isn't where i imagined
suns still rise
he wants to be fingers with teeth
we got married in a field of lightning
she's a goddess of a thought
i must be gormet
i am sunburned on the inside
she sits like there's a wooden stake up her a**
i wish we were still together.
these things are never as epic as we think they'll be in the first five minutes
our bodies made washington.
he pierced his lip with a safety pin.

we are paper
he does back flips
he stomps on africa
you know, i didn't get it (still don't)
we brushed our skin in flower petals
I'm too busy thinking about myself to be interested in you.
As usual, you're out drinking tonight, aren't you?
So, tomorrow comes,
I don't blame you for being mad,
I'm tired of making wise remarks,
Though the subject will be bees
Anyway, I'm going to write you a card.
I'd just like to touch something,

Even though I am writing about the azalea
Under the bed there's a pair of comfortable old shoes
Can you hold up this stranger
I write this
Music both hurts and heals,
When you have nothing to say it's because your body is satisfied.
They say,
A wave knocked your glasses off
i'm relieved
My hotel window let in no sunlight
No matter how much I like a thing
At midnight a can of warm beer
Though man has gone to the moon

Now that I'm stone, though,
dreamt a theater of everyone I've
Life in its immensity overwhelms
He dressed up as a marine
It was if I were trying to get away
On the roads lie broken spears.
I do not love my country. It's abstract splendor
I write a few words
It is the territory of the computer,
You life up a stone
Perhaps this is not the moment
Over your face
After sailing far on the dark and threatening sea

baby, you got me closer to god
your body is driftwood
maybe i should cut you down
baby write me a song
your fingers could dance inside my skin like me
The Atlantic Empress
baby said to circumcise the green from our fingers.
tied my hair up in ribbons
saucers split your face in two
temporary forests
i saw you in black and white
We're olive colored and lying
Your skin feels like river rocks
They pushed hooks through the brown of my iris.
skeleton (don't botherrrrr!)

children, smoking pretzels
we were a hurricane
crumpled money eyes
i wanna drive you insane
To Emi Love Emmi
My Last Two Years
Friday Moon
snow angel rose petals
you'd made me burn, once
i want to make love wide open.
the only poem i've written that rhymes is the only poem i'm tired of
i don't know how to fish
i get d**k sargents

too small for concrete, they said.
they don't make lovers like they used to.
Who takes time for roses, anyway?
Think of the world in this context.
Ignore this one, too
there are things i cannot tell you
i was dead set on yesterday being the one
the handyman used to be my uncle
i lost my mind in you

there are things i cannot tell you
act i: the drive
act ii: the beach
i am writing
now my words are tinged

when we met you lips challenged me to a duel
i am not a lover.
i don't need an excuse to jump into a pool of you.
i am the love stepping on your toes.
A knife is in her hand.
the shade of your eye holds me
i know the taste of your flesh, visitor
hoodoo magic woman

Discovery Channel

no, love doesn't start from the top.
it snakes through the toenails, makes
pink pearls curl in their casing, turns
calves to fillet mignon.

the seduction
is in the belly, how it sprouts
imaginary insects like acidic
compounds refuse to agree.
just before the patilla tendon is cut,
makes your knees slip.

drugs climb your fingers up
the cliff of cheeks, dusts off debris in lashes
of both your hands. it spikes
the fruit of the lips, turns
the juice to jungle and still finds time
to pop your lid, slip
the knees in
to the crevices
left by love's

too many daddy's girls
become train conductors,
melting their fuel over fire.
the spoon burns but not
as hot as the furnace
of their bodies, pouring
that crystal gasoline into a
hypodermic tank, tapping the air
out with three blows
of the whistle.

they're injected. running
trains up the tracks of
the elbow and wrist,
foot and hand, pushing
countryside scenery and 'daddy
didn't love me' through
one more time.
i was handcuffed by harry to a seat in court.

that gear was hard to ride.
pitching this body to the o-
zone layers was[n't] a cure
but this cancer ache faded

in remission.
the b***h relapsed.
wrote junk on the insides
of my veins, tore through
the blood-brain barrier
like a welcome introduction.
to say i didn't want it
to pitch me to euphoria.

i'd lie on the books,
punch holes in brownstone.
bobby whispered deisel
to my bloodstream last evening;
i'm not fighting for remission
and they won't take a plea.

bible quotations
before rendering the verdict.
i'm riding the gavel
on the next fall to smack.
The Daily World [newspaper]

those eyes were yaba.
i swear they changed
from one bright pill color
and begged me
to swallow harder.

dissolve amphetamine,
dextroamphetamine, even
methamphetamine into the water
of those lips. i don't care just
make them my addict paradise.

i'll sweat the lakes that make it
rich, increased libido driving me
skyclad. my eyes dialate too much
sun when they look. these fingers
itch for building blocks
and alphabets.

it was an air raid. i forgot
to build a bomb shelter. now
i'm being pelted with semi-
synthetics. buprenorphine
treatment drug: 'safer
in an overdose.'
customer reservation

even the trees sing
creeks of sap, tempting
psycosis. in that quiet
disconnection with roaring and melody,
your hemoglobin stops first.

we'll trailblaze and eat carrots
(a toast to nature).
those gnarled branches with knots
speak to me like old men
arms twisted. i touch them
but you can hear them singing.
result: sensing a pattern

anorectics don't suppress my appetite
for phen-fen combinations
(probably because they're the same).
it doesn't take a scientist
to figure out why phentemine is most prescribed:
just look at the results.

all the amphetamine effects
and you don't have to be chronic
for weight loss.
head rush

funny is wicky stick
being called crystalline.
there's nothing crystal
in that powder, only waiting
for respitory arrest or
the next seizure.

if snow was anything
it would be diamonds.
it's forever. so are these
traumatic lungs
filled with cocaethlene
and the increased certainty
of sudden death.
these words taste like wet footprints

my body is a crime scene.
whoever wanted to rest
this soul left fingerprint
smudges on my eyes,
painted my lips
with my fluids and mocked
whatever came.

it would be nothing. he told me:
'in the middle of california
redwoods, i don't need two feet
under. just a dump site.'
konichiwa. watashi wa root desu.

the intros are real killers.
if my life were that security
tape, i'd rewind and push
that damn boy's hand off
his rig and bob him
through the neck.

i was a bag whore once.
these craters are healed
and i got my own a** up
to say hello.
marriage and hate almost rhyme

there's still that part
where you're five (again)
screaming profanity at seagulls.
hate to tell you kid
but that body's old
and there's no milestone
for your future.

even through your wrinkles,
when you cease for once
i can see the embryo.
'no matter how many times,
they just won't stop turning.'

'they're birds, grandpa.
they won't hear you shouting
from the bottle.'

i survived band camp
without incident or ********.
pushing snickers at a dead man
over the rims of our lips, we spilled
conversation through a susaphone.

i know now
you were overcompensating
for the size of your personality.
these car rides are ancient

i'm holding a jewelry store
at diamond point, perfecting
my scratch-and-dash method.
they're on edge and vibrating
this confusiondoubttrap up
but i'm the dangerous one here.

these stones are too small.
they won't key a line down paint
and they're not worth the blood drops.

send them back to africa;
this one needs more lives
before i'll ever slip it on
and say it's perfect.
move on

i won't support your change.
i'll force it down your trachea
like a sadist's sexual fantasy.

i'll work it harder and ********
these daytime dellusions.
yeah, right in the middle
of CNN.

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