Growing up means no ones coming
No ones coming when you fall
No ones coming when you cry
And when your fever is 102 you make your own tea
Being grown is the acceptance
Its knowing that no ones coming and trying to be ok with it
Its falling down the stairs and not only having to stop yourself crying but also cleaning up the huge mess you just made
Its puking your guts out passing out and waking up not only where you fell but next to the vomit of the night before
Its falling asleep downstairs
And waking up downstairs
Becoming Cactus Face
He stands among the towering saguaros with summer hands and a cactus face. A steady thing, he is. Sunburnt. Silent. Only widening his jaws once per year when a desert flower needs to bloom under the oracular rains. Precipitation that is as infrequent as his words. He is quiet on most days. The keywords being most, days. What a curiosity it would be to have silence, to have my mouth wired shut, like my mother’s after her carwreck. Eighteen stitches, she said. A face full of broken glass, she said. No one wants to speak when it causes flesh and glass to meet and grind. Discomfort is such an inhibiting thing, stronger than any prescription drug a faux-pharmacist could peddle on a windswept street corner. And sure enough—there he is, growing within the gridline cracks of adobe bricks beneath the lamplight. Dusty, but persistent. Persistent to the point of inescapability. So too is this concept—this idea—of becoming Cactus Face inescapable. I sometimes wonder if my mother’s carwreck was inescapable, a force of fate. Perhaps she was destined to have her face peeled back from the fissure-riddled windshield. Destined to learn the virtues of a silent daughter—of a silent sister. And what if that was all she had known—silence, and waiting? All these answerless questions, and she still feels the ramifications today, with her metal-molded jaw—forced open, gaping. She chokes on the weeds bursting from her throat. Coughing up seeds and spores. I do not wish to be as such. A thousand waxy sprouts are far less inspiring than a single one—for rarity is beauty, even if it is plain.
Blueberries
I could smell
wood smoke
shimmy through the screen
of the kitchen window.
The warmest night
of the year
so far.
I have been choking
on the cold.
Frozen under ice.
I am numb
from the chill.
I am thawing
like hot dogs
in a steel sink.
My fingers.
A frosty fog
melting into drops.
I am awake now.
Waking.
So fucking tired
of chasing.
Somewhere
along the way,
I forgot
what happy
feels like.
I am a comma
where a period
should be,
A woman with
magnolia branches
growing from her
chest.
Pink buds
and grey wood
forcing themselves
through
skin and sternum.
Like teeth
breaking their way
through gums.
Raw pain
and the flavor
of blood.
An urge to be
more than one thing.
Flora and fauna.
Rock.
Dirt and ocean water.
Face ground into pillow.
Sparkling in
glitchy seconds
that break up the dark.
An existence dimmed
to a dull thud
that repeats itself
regardless of
nothing.
I long to smoosh things
like blueberries
between my thumb
and first finger,
but berries are
summer fruits.
I must wait for the days
of eternal light
and a thin dripping
of sweat
on the backs of my knees.
Of bare calloused skin
balanced on
outside things.
On concrete
that to me,
is as much like nature
as grass.
The Bottom
Is it the bottom
Of this flask I seek?
I take a sip - and then another
And for the millionth time, I peek
Should have died
A drunken shit
Yet here I sit
Waxing lyrical-
A spiritual miracle
This is the story of my escape
Rejection of a prisoner's fate
I killed my jailer
An endless "djinn"
Warden
Of my self-imposed sin
Now I Live my life, neat
I run to the sun
On gifted feet, fleet...
Free of the crutch I no longer need-
Abandoned in tall grass, gone to seed
Daffodil Hair
Spring
kisses her
daffodil hair
fluff of the clouds
mirrors her cream face
her breasts are mounds
of rich earth, sowing my seed
of fertile need as I inhale her scent
of fresh grass. Red tulips open as I enter in
soft rain moistens and steams my ardor
I ascend to the top of tree of life
efflorescence builds in crescendo
blooming intensifies and flowers
prized petals of love
rest in my arms
bud embraces
my skin
awaiting
R
E
B
I
R
T
H
Tightropes
We put this tight rope up together.
Over cars, over streets, over people,
We climbed out to the middle.
Looking out across the world,
We made the promise
To hang on together,
To be there for each other.
You were the one to let go.
I'm still hanging there,
With a great view of what could've been.
I guess you didn't care as much as I did.
Now I'm alone, and let me tell you:
The wind doesn't whisper kind sentiments.
