dreams are elusive ghosts,
but every once in awhile I will find my the dimples of my back grazing the frigid Hudson,
the treetops seeping into my grayscale skin like lotion.
it is within this reality that I may briefly forget the constant screech of your tired bones,
a relief beyond the sensation of any orgasm or chocolate cupcake.
reality is not such a simple plot-line.
rather than spin you on the dance floor like a lavender goddess,
i’m punishing my liver for existing.
this is where my naïve psyche meets the memory of your golden shoulder-bones-
where my broken, bitten-down fingers feel your unyielding flexibility and stark vulnerability like sandpaper Hallmark cards.
it is a true talent to seep the modest current without searching beyond the horizon-
for the air feels like tar without anyone to breathe it with.
this sultry tease of summer,
skin peeling off of leather and cracked heels on the dashboard,
blisters on feet panicking like geysers,
this oxygen resembling cinder-blocks
slightly more carefree –
imprints of crinkled toes never left the passenger seat.
the bags in your eyes were unmined emeralds-
my bones shared strict resemblance to anvils,
and I was too fucking high to inject these sullen thrills.
the new car smell never comes back.
my stomach is no longer a carnival at the sight of freshly opened eyelids, only a dimly-lit, mold-infested dungeon.
may I begin the Spring cleaning by sweeping your eyelashes off of the leather?
or shall I leave your grace,
along dried crumbs off screaming green dopamine,
in the creases?
passionate visions of my chest smashing through the windshield like a steel-framed freight train,
fueled by every damning item on this laundry list of self-inadequacy.
salvage yards cannot simply exist as ubiquitous rows of lost souls
there must be hope for the hot season to melt away the rose-tinted skidmarks burning my irises.
Sunday newspapers continue to gather fragile New England snow on the curbside,
a stomping ground for purgatory, the home for these roller-coaster thoughts.
i’m not much for small talk.
my clothes are always inside out and i’m raging losing battles with my steel-toed tear ducts-
grunting is a masculine expression,
and so i’ll lift weights,
but gain no strength, just aches of all of the intimacy that I’ve never allowed myself to emit or absorb.
a soggy sponge,
a rotten oak stump,
a childhood meal coming back up over the fists and the heaves.
the alcohol binds the seams;
tear ducts are dams
and everyone needs a method of additional reinforcement.
numbness and empty-mindedness aside, I’m
still a make-shift dumpster lover,
hardwired, disassociated hinge-sucker.
too sensitive to open the window blinds or morning newspaper,
there is still no muscle definition, only
every seed is a perennial flower-
roots embedded within aortic dreams;
bursting dandelions are just defined weeds.
we’re not compost,
just pawns of propagated watering cans,
soaking in messages so malevolent that
eugenics becomes an assimilation heuristic.
seven-billion shells in
six summers of no shade,
six winters of dancing with devils and self hate,
six seasons of victims hating the victims just the same.
sharing a garden-bed to enrich each other’s soil,
fallen petals call for tearful hymns,
not a body count.
the backs of my eyelids are kaleidoscopes-
blender-mixtures of the crinkles of your nose-bridge,
panic attack lullibies,
and waterfall tear-ducts,
the scent of mixture so ripe with potential that love personifies itself
as unlimited clean water in Flint.
in your indefinite (permanent) absence,
it is a sensation not painfully unsterile as a homemade tattoo,
but not quite as pragmatically satiable as a common itch.
hiccups at the podium,
sore legs moving into a third floor apartment,
a fender-bender in the sweltering seduction of summer.
your hemorrhage-generating image is a permanent stain that blends in just well enough to wear.
numbness, my old abusive life partner, trickle down my spine and gush outward like a broken levee.
stay up far past a reasonable bed time to think about a reality where purpose is more evident. work, work, work. learn the circuitry of computer programs that will never solve world hunger. listen to sad songs on the drive home. empathize with roadkill.
float above your body. smell the surroundings and mimic all of the textbooks you’ve read on active listening. grin and nod while your mind transforms more and more into pile of melted wax. become nauseated by the stench of your own life. let it seep into your bloodstream like a rotten batch of dope.
think about death. think about death during breakfast. think about death when the sun goes down on an uneventful Sunday afternoon. think about death during sex. think about death while getting drinks with friends. ponder why this earth decided to play the role of an impolite and overworked host. feel sorry for the sun for having so much responsibility.
cry until the faucets allowing your tear ducts to stop are broken. let your dinner become play-dough. be a gracious host to the parasites in your mind. swim with them like the dolphins. lose grasp of why waking up is so important. swallow whiskey like saliva. promise yourself that you won’t drink four tall-boy Pabst Blue Ribbons on a Tuesday night. drink four tall-boy Pabst Blue Ribbons on a Tuesday night.
hold numbness while it cries in your lap and promises that it will change-that things will be different. allow it to feed you lies like someday you’ll enjoy the sunrise and someone will realize that you’re not too broken to love
rip skin off of limbs. try to make it another day.
my bare feet and the nose-crinkling tickling of sand-
a contradictory image,
for I was taught to never run with scissors,
your image a rusted blade in my femoral.
my heartbeat and the blithe tide have flirted in a far less than parallel existence,
heels rotting, feet grinding down to the ankle-bones
in the softest fashion,
like a dying rose in vase
in a cubicle too small.
I’ve inhaled these beaches before.
white dresses have lit up the July wind like lavender candles,
sunsets and barking labs scalping distant couches,
turning my broken back into your expendable canvas.
your birthday has escaped me,
and the tattoo on the back of your sandpaper neck is a static television frequency.
the rip-tide is welcoming me for dinner, filling my lungs with my favorite dessert.