people this people that

calloused lions hunt clouds hung too high

hungry ocean swallows sky

little girl next door swings

big tree holding her sings

swigs of yesterday sipped slowly sigh

maybe it’s time to say goodbye.

 

he hangs his head, like droopy ice cream

drips with summer haze and

too many tips

from people this and people that

saying here but running there

confusion like a jello ship

 

simple like baby fingernails and

snailmail why isn’t the color

purple

seen by flying things

sometimes we

make up

what we think.

 

starving lions like

protruding ribs and stares

neglect and scares

what if they could see

what they’ve done to me

 

it’s time

say goodbye.

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stream of thought

berry blisters and chocolate Sunday’s melt like ice mirrors in potholes and pocks. grace writes my name in opaque fluff through periwinkle lace, calls to me in the musty mold of depression and vomit. a circle of unicyclists, people trying to pass through mountains with hand drills, and I’m there, too. my heart’s in my hand, shiny pointy glass shattered in six billion two shards reflecting my somber mask, droplets pool on the pieces stillborn like an ancient swamp, preserved and stuck, stoic and sad. I smell the smell for the first time I’ve breathed. No, that’s a lie. I smell it again, again. Maybe yet to come more. The smell of hospital wafts like chemicated medicated chalk rubber gloves, slick and concealing skin, hiding what lies below every throb. discreet. (or so they think). no hospital gown—that other lie of a dress, like undressed mess bare and raw before the front of accreditation.  the back ties barely glued conceal nothing as I sit square and cold like people do in waiting rooms, rocking themselves like mothers and moving sloths, remember. Just let it go, the fussy, hungry woman before me dictated. inject this in the spiral notebook spine holding you up some days: go to bed and rest, let go and dissect yourself until you come to the beginning of the circle.

momentary

smooth, green bench frozen in cement rectangle,

like memories that scare, scream for attention,

lodged in crevices of file cabinets on lobes,

creeping forward to say hello.

tin trash bin containing yesterday’s debris,

today’s discontent, stationed at curb,

ready to descend.

seagull licks ice cream puddle underneath pay phone.

man in purple tie clips by.

a cloud observes, cries, floats forward.

at least gravity isn’t backwards.

fresh

tectonic threads woven in earthen

womb loom–

shifting, shaping, becoming.

baby star blossoms,

chick tinkers with her wings,

light breaks night, shatters dark, develops

day.

one click and stark, charred film

fades away.

one tock tick and yesterday

gives way

to new volume.

kaleidoscope wonder world.

juicy jungle’s

innocent seeds

summon

cloud

tears.