There are no more ways to feed me.
I wrote you the most beautiful bowl of fruit;
but my words were twisted up in
the flames of your
nodding its heads under
We are made up of the same piece of sky.
And I can’t leave, you can’t leave,
we’ve tried; and
we’ve tried to mix up our miseries
and we can’t even do that right.
I will look for you
in the crowd of my personalities.
Hold me, hold us, hold, don’t stop.
You are the vast ocean, but I’m every drop.
Swallowing your anger
is an empty pill that
makes me hungry.
I stop; look back.
Hand over my eyes to block the
and I see
They glower, vaguely
outlined with my own face.
I’ve peeled their chalky skins for years.
And I try
not to catch their eyes –
It’s a fix.
I’m ripped off and stacked up and left out here.
A new me moves forward,
and I’m frozen in the reflection.
What will she be
after the last peel;
I thought I might give it a name.
It was sweet and it played; it was tame.
The West told me, why not? Go ahead.
But the East shook her dazzling head,
If you give that thing a word,
you’ll teach it hate and fear, I’ve heard.
It tends to hoard and make a lord
of names in cages just like birds.
It’ll think its word is better
than all other ones, I swear.
It’ll label you and know
your label’s different. It’ll care.
I hate to even think – but
it could learn its right from wrong.
Do not name it, please, I beg you.
So, I taught to it a song.
Sitting, pretty, on the edge of our aphelion,
eating unseen forces like curds and whey.
In goes a galaxy, rolling underneath my tongue,
shrieking and dissolving fast; a tasty display.
Wash it down celestially with pure electron water.
Knife into dark energy, a savory filet.
Suck deep on a sour eclipse and giggle at the stir,
dip candied kings in quasar oil,
you want this one?
After we’re full,
we contemplate beginnings and the end;
I’ll fold today like a receipt,
don’t need that in my head.
Leather and wood in my house;
crunch a crying carrot
amidst the bones and souls
of the once-alive.
Watch my cat
eat a box-elder bug
with a broken leg
even though it crawled on my journal,
which was its way of asking
Don’t think about the
fingers who stitched together
sweltering in the healing sunlight,
forcing their glorious eyes to
Use death and
to animate your ruthless
your peaking breath.
Your life is an egg.
Push on the colors in your lenses,
fall like walls.
Everything that’s ever happened to you is yolk,
fluid firming into feathers;
feel them bristle when you see
an especially interesting tree
and know that it’s more real
than you were ever meant to be.
Don’t be afraid.
One day we’ll leave our starless,
our amniotic rooms
a new parade.