She has hair that smells like the trees just after it rains and the sum of her parts smell like dirt, the way it seems after it rains. and there is dirt under her fingernails, but not enough to hide her elegance.
and not enough to show under a chipped layer of pink polish applied like the first time she broke into her mother's makeup.  twenty three or three it is just going to come off tomorrow and who wouldn't want to be three again. and she doesn't douse her hair in oils and even when she brushes it there is nothing polished about the way it falls bluntly across her shoulders or just below them.  and nothing ever fits quite right or ever really matches just the way it should. the way it does when people stop and say "god damn" unless we're at a bar and the lights are too dim to tell that her make up is coming off and her shoes are scuffed. and her hips could repopulate the nation, if the need should arise. but it won't . she isn't the girl in your dreams. the one whose hair smells like trees just after it rains and flowers in hidden places and the one who paints her nails like them too and never needs to brush her hair just so to make it look smooth or maybe you smooth it with the oil on your palms you didn't even acknowledge was there. it looks just as good. the one with the body she dresses awkwardly but good. it still looks good. and people go "god damn" and she puts make up on only when she wants you and she puts on panties too but the kind you never wear to work or you do but it's for you too and it will make it so much better when you finally get home and you can take them off. or leave them on. or dream about them later. or dream about water and melting into her cunt until you are living in her womb nestled like a little baby who has finally come home. and she isn't that. that girl from your dreams. she isn't. she is the girl you fall in love with after you have given all the love that meant anything. the love that makes living red and passionate and real. she is what you fall in love with because her hair smells like trees after it rains and her legs look stable and she has a cunt you can live in but it never. feels. quite like home.

We use to know, and we are just animals.

               But I,   am too vain to act anything but human.

Our new wall!

My sleepy little family.

I am feeling lately as though my hands do not exist and each thing I touch will vanish like dreams in a sun that spills through blinds hung in the haste to just feel at home. As I look down and watch the way my fingers respond to each neurological signal generated by thoughts ill formed I wonder why I was given such passion for languages I can not adequately use. My words are as selfish as my thoughts and I am fully aware that leaders are not born but forged. Reliant on fallacy and the paradox of what it means to be here. What does that mean? Kant said we are all sheep trapped by our self imposed immaturity and incapacitating fear of relying on our own understanding. But, even so, he recognizes the impossibility of freedom beyond constraint. So where are we left? We are all bound to manipulations of the past, reenactments of the same regime. It is only the headlines that have changed, diction and refocused notions of popular syntax. It is through the imagination, through dreams that we most clearly view the future, but that too is filtered through the darkness. We often think that it is waking up that breathes new life to old ideas but perhaps we are mistaken, clinging to ancient notions with brittle palms, of the disinfecting power of sunlight. Within the darkness of my drunk and sunken heart is often where I find the most truth, I shed the most light. Perhaps the night is where magic still exists. But I am sick of the moon and how poets feed on its power, making love to it's immortal body as though Lucy truly carries the universe in her enlightened womb. As though access is so easily granted. Who do you think you are and will you ever get there? These are my questions but they are probably yours as well. I wrote this twice, my first attempt cruelly destroyed and lost in the waning hours. Questions I had, forgotten. Beautiful constructions of all the universal paradoxes of human life, momentarily put on hold.

Acting as embryos

We tongue time in days and weeks

Speaking with the utmost importance

about something 

that hasn't even been named yet

But I am here.

And I am alive and my heart is beating

And I feel it like a weight

A stone sitting in the base of this organ

Dragging it out so slowly

Tortuously, to core out

The weight of what I’ve done

To create a space so hollow

That only the echo of its beautiful rhythm remains

And Men play act juvenile Gods

Exacting sick justice

Or terrible revenge

Something to make their hearts race

To feel the weight of what they’ve done

Or what’s been done

Subside, to justify something

And who even cares in the end, what it is?

Or what it was?

It is all in moments

In days

In weeks

Months and years pass and

who even cares?

There is only here and now

And the reasons had aren’t the reason we have anymore

And holding on to something like sand

Something like time and moments

Is so God damn ignoble

Ignitable like Judge and Juror

Hunting for witches

Bewitched by the moonlight

Tricked into chasing skirts

In the search for morality

Searching for something that has a name

And about sixteen different meanings

Different reasons for the same sixteen stories we all tell

When we are caught being human

That nasty thing so reliant

On moments

So reliant on names, when half the time

Identity is the most indefinable word

In the Human language

But I am here.

And I am breathing

And my heart is still beating somewhere

Lost in the space where my stomach should be

As it makes its hollow way through my human core

I have always loved swimming

The way the waves rock your body

And leave you feeling slightly off balance

The way that balance is so easily restored

Because after all,

I am in control of my legs

The way a head and heart can swim though,

I am not a fan

The way a body can treat it’s organs

Like the ocean treats its dead

The way arms and legs can turn to sand

And hearts can turn to little fish

Consumed by the rocking waves of

A brain consumed by moments

By days

By weeks

By months and years that hold the promise,

The key to all sixteen stories

About what it means

To be here.

And I am here.

I breathe,
In through my nose and out
through my mouth and now
I taste, you
are so close.

You breathe,
In and Out and
in. And
you pause,
"Where are you?"

and I pause. And.
I breathe and
you taste
something like life and
something like the air outside
when you wake up
and nothing else exists
and it is cold
and your skin is tight
but your throat,
It is so damn clear.

And what do I
taste like?

Because you taste
like infinity.
And I,
I am so.

i got a free donut!

and i don't exist. i woke up feeling like a human and i said it and i cried and i bit threw the skin on my thumb and i felt it but even that didn't make me more real. what am i. said not with a question but declarative. period. what am i. there is more yearning here then what a simple set of punctual marks can make of me..... ME. what. of me. MAN. and i don't take that too personal. MAN. is. cast in a mold of immaturity. self imposed. and even when he -simply- understands. he still is sub. sub. par. sub. intellect. still human. fitted. fuck. i hate prefixes. and fuck you kant. "enlightenment is man's emergence from self imposed immaturity." Sapere Aude mother fucker.

i am.
22.
too new.


i want to keep you slightly under my skin, 
neatly nestled inches from the origin.
that tiny seed with each pulsation  gave life to my 
mannequin body. 
in plain sight
 you lay your fingers on the rhythm of my creation.
feeding each undulation with the residue left like 
a finger print slightly smeared on the mirror.