Heat AdvisoryWe are an air-mass thunderstorm at the heightof an Indian summer -- a cloudburst collidinginto a cyclone, raising the temperature of anywho wander through our sweaty inversion.I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,straight into a clap of thunder conceived bylightning fever. A roiling heatwave travelsacross our connection, evaporating the atmospheresurrounding the eye of our storm. Your humidbreath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.And as the barometer spikes, my heartbeat quickens;I am sucked into the vortex of your tropical storm.
augustyou tear apartevery aspect of me,and i lie on the ground.dissected;still not whole.
a monster's romanticsI got a nervous habit and I drink too much.Can you tell I haven’t slept very well since the last timethat we spoke? “We’re killing time just a little bit faster.”The words come with a new kind of sadness.If it looks like Armageddon’s coming down today,please don’t tell me that I’m dreaming; I can’t tellif he’s real or a made-up version of her again. Andthe hardest part of living is just taking breaths to stay.
breakingtime ticks on and you changeto survive, but survival of the fittestalways seemed a bit skewedin the history booksof whoever won this war.you're a chance to show themthey were wrong;pull the trigger one last timeand let them knowwho you're going to be.if they smother you, shinebrighter than the fragmentsthey're made of -- don'tlet them make you a ghostin the machine that spins awayin forgotten dimensionsuntil it rusts. the craters of the moonwill always call for you,changing the tides endlesslyuntil your voice crackles throughthe radio and shouts back,"no one can break me!"
charred journalsStripping all of me from the page,tearing off 'I's and 'we's;to try and stuff myself backinto my body, to struggle withfinding a way to becomewhole again, despite the missing pieces.Tears -- of s c a t t e r e d &
Manage MeI took a walk around the worldto ease my troubled mind.Top down in the summer sun,the day we met was like a hit-and-run,like a rush shot through you,everyone is watching you.Say goodbye to the halls and the classes,say hello to a job and the taxes.Seen this place before, back when I was youngand I had something more to prove;I'll die fighting -- inside methere's a fire that burns.Let me know that I've done wrong,when I've known this all along.Everybody pay attention to me,I got the answer.Manage me,I'm a mess.Turn a page,I'm a book,half unread.I found God on the corner of First and Amistad.
Parentheses(I wonder if parenthesesever see all the letterscaught in between themand feel that distanceas though it is tangible;if they ever craveto be close enough togetherso they could intertwineuntil their inkscratchescollide to incoherence;if you’ve ever noticedhow your right hand ellipsesand curves just like a parenthesis,and how my left hand is its opposite.)
LuckyYou talk like you always have a grain of salt,to throw over your shoulder.Every word is that hard cheese,and they swing those whimsical wishbones much like carousels.You're wasted on your self-image,staggering down with rigorousness you don't own.They're taking that steed and throwing horseshoes,as if one of them might ring 'round your neck;and save you from yourself.You'll need a necropolis filled with pennies to barter,and we won't lend a cent to save your sorry soul.Your demons count clovers to kiss you,gluing that fourth leaf to camouflage the truth.They'd promise you an elephant to watch you die,sucking sevens to keep you from entering Heaven.And you can sing your superstitions into space,but it's dead and empty.Somewhat like the hollow shell you lounge in,as the charms make you see spirits.You say somewhere there's a rabbit dying to give its foot in your favor......but don't bet on it unless you can see that whites of its eyes.
SynestheticSometimes I taste test names;Anita – sharp citrusand lemongrassfor the ann-i,a tortilla for the taa.Brad – I likeits weight; a slabof marbled chocolatemelted on my tonguebefore the last letter.Charlotte – somethingsavory, but sweet; porkmarinated in honeyon sweet rolls.Doug – vanillatinged cheesecake;a dusting of grahamcracker shavings;an Oreo with no filling.Elena – spiceand heat radiate –eh-layne-ahh – a coronabursting fromthe second e.Fletcher – it’s syllablesmesh like mashedpotatoes, lumpy yetconsistent.Gladys – driedlemons and staleSpree candies, rattlinginside and empty pitcher.Hawthorne – brackish,the leftover remainsof a magnificent feast,the apple still stuckin the boar’s mouth.Imogen – leanand stringy. Greenbeans and chickenbroth at a small,weathered table.Jules – red velvetand hot peppers, a weekold cake with hardfrostin
The Morning Star Concert HallGod’s favorite concert was a ‘98jam session in a hellishamphitheater downstairs.The producer bookedthe big ones – Hendrix, Cobain,Joplin, Johnson – one nightonly, fallen stars rise again!Saints they ain’t, but Godhas one ear for prayersand one for souls wailingsoul into a void with no echo,no applause, no expectationof anything more than their ownrelief.And when you’re top billingin the Morning Star Concert Hall,the fans are the only comfortyou’ve got left.
Turn my words against me.I want my words to takeroot in your stomach and growup your esophagus, the calyxof your tongue brushing the edgeof your teeth until the words blossomfrom your lips in a slowexplosion of elegance, jawlinetrickled with nectar, charminghummingbirds and honeybeeswith the promise of butterfly kisses.
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