The pages are empty,

and yet...

they still taunt me

with invisible words.

Ether's smile shapes

silhouettes, fleeting...

greeting every

gasp of inspiration.

Elation?

Each creation explodes

expectation far past

lazy days wounded

with empty

wells of waiting.

Ink me up baby.

No time for down

trod dilatory dandies,

whining tearful

over lagging lust

for verse.

We curse. Then,

with truss and tendril

bend will and word to

finest fill of parchment

waiting.

Or pass to madness trying.

Tail

end of joke

again

wondering

if I'm the

Tale?

do not break

your pretty toes

for soldiers of tin

you are meant for

a starlit stage,

a snow birch shelf of

trinkets and sage

do not bruise

your nimble heels

for goblins of greed

you are born for

a cloudless night,

a heavenly page of

wishes and flight

do not trade

your kindle sway

for a fairytale end

these cold tin hearts

are paperweights,

a ball and chain of

lifeless fate, and

you are meant

to dance.

you thought i was

tattered lace and

wilted flowers,

an easy fix of

stitches and sun

but i will take

the needle and

leave you the thread

to reopen wounds,

i will blister

my hands

to grasp the sun

and blind you

so you never think my

tattered lace and

wilted flowers

are an easy fix of

stitches and sun,

so you never think my

open wounds and

blistered hands

are the sinless scars of

purity and love,

so you always know i'm

a monster

in tattered lace, and

i will eat, i will eat

your tender heart.

You can look at her,

But do not speak.

For long ago

She has ripped the

Apology from

Your mouth

--and that is how she healed.

Bogus beast, demons unleashed

dark depths of netherworld explored

deplored, abhorred, waterboard

He rules the realm as he sits at the helm

Beware Americans, hold on for sanity's sake,

kiss the ass of our newly crowned sheik -

pretend you don't know what's at stake.

Not one of us escapes alive to survive,

to strive, to thrive, to connive, to arrive.

Predator King Trump lies as America dies

but he'll never waver in your favor,

slicks his hair to transform, perform, reform

into phantom of urban legends on history page

stands on center stage, traps us in a cage!

History grovels on its knees if you please,

blood shot eyes kick and scream with his dream

as he watches blood being shed, torture he says, okay!

Unwind, rewind, remind of blasphemy of kings,

catastrophe, politics and greed, planting the seed, 

flailing nations's needs at full speed as we plead.

Curse the stench, breathe fresh air but don't despair

as American souls are sold in cold moves so bold

for fame and wealth and hidden stealth.

Don't interrupt with profane streams of dreams

clean your side of the street, he demeans.

Lullaby of death to humanity plays

as bricks are layered on wall, that's all.

Pacing man, stirring frenzy in air, doesn't care,

cut's off health care except for himself,

stays privileged on his own gilded shelf.

Cavalierly gives go ahead on pipeline

the Hell with Indian spirits so fine.

No funds for planned parenthood

forget birth control, have babies, babies, babies

but don't fund their cost, forget the loss.

Don't let anyone into our fair country

unless they think and look like Trump

a red-haired jackal of all trades, but

master of none, not even one!

Tax, tax, tax the middle class

Trump doesn't pay taxes at all

It's not fair but what does he care?

Trumpty Dumpty sits astride his wall

The bigger he is, the harder he'll fall!

But who will save America after all?

To put it eloquently, Burt was a connoisseur of coitus. To put it bluntly (and more accurately), Burt was a perv fuck. His face was buried in a saucy little publication, a magazine devoted to anonymous love making between public restroom partitions. Therein he found an application to partake in such fleshy encounters. The women pictured were of superior gene pools, only the finest for subscribers of "Glory Hole Gushers".

Three items were required: 1) A copy of a government-issued ID, 2) Laboratory test results confirming venereal disease-free blood, and 3) A photograph of the applicant's reproductive organ.

An expired driver's license and forged lab results (Burt had previously tested positive for gonorrhea, syphilis, and hepatitis A-C) completed 66.67 percent of the task, so close to 69. Before the big photoshoot, Burt glammed up his gonads like a '40s Hollywood movie starlet, primping his pubes and powdering away all unsightly blemishes.

The good news came two weeks later: Burt was in. He arrived at the given address - some nondescript edifice - at the given time. A suit with a ponytail so greasy it was practically dripping led Burt to the sex space. "Have at it, boss," he said.

Burt unsheathed his bacteria-gorged snake and deposited it through the hole in the wall.

A voice from the other side squeaked, "Not so fast, mister." The voice belonged to a leather-plastered woman clutching a giant black dildo slathered in vaseline. "You're coming in backwards. I'm going to need you to turn around." 

Pray for the sinners

They need it the most

Shelter the beggar

Who has no home

Protect the fighter

Who can't hold his own

Educate the people

Who fear the unknown

Hold on to the child

And help him grow

Keep your head up high

Most times strength stands alone

I wish I could have saved him.

I think that if I had, I would have saved so much of myself as well.

Now we both just float.

So much of that dead weight gone.. but it was not lifted, it was not freed.

No. it was lost.

I can't speak for him.

Lord knows, as much as we are alike, we are so very different.

His mind, it divides at different volumes..

it halts at harsher speeds.

That's why this pain, the way it used to hit me, and the way it is hitting me right now.

Right this second, taking control of, and over my livelihood..

I know that it's that same pain that has got him by the throat.

It's the same pain that is putting an end to his time.. and therefore putting an end to ours.

But it's all coming together finally..

I was even told once that all ends meet somewhere.

But if that's true.. then tell me, how is a loose end born?

I think I know.

I think he is my loose end.

The one that'll never be put to rest. Not even after his own life is below the soil..

I can see it now.

A far less than perfect picture.

One my mind paints skillfully,

making me anxiously uncomfortable with every brush stroke I manage to invent.

And somehow, his name still sparks something deep within me.

It moves at that pace that keeps me at my knees, ringing throughout me..

even as I read it off a gray slate of surrender, of self sabotage.. of self defeat;

I'd be the girl who never left the grave.

Her mourning becoming second nature far more then she'd settled for.

Cheap looks would always be sent my way from the eyes of the bystanders.

Those blurry faces in the background, looking up at me, glaring as if my cigarette smoke were somehow a statement.

A sign painted in white fog that danced around me.

Inviting more death.

Welcoming more grief.

So I'd try just to smile.

Smile, and forget.

I know that they too are driven only by their own overwhelming loss.

But I'd be the girl they feared.

The girl who'd been draped in all black, long before she became that unwed widow.

The girl who had conversations with his bones, as if they could hear my heart dancing for him.

Yes, I'd be her.

Slowly becoming overgrown with those flowers.

The ones that had reminded me what it felt like to stare in his eyes.

At times it feels I'm already there, missing him.

It feels as though I'm already alone.

I guess it makes good practice.