fleas

i want to drown them
all. not-so-gently
place them in large black
rustling garbage bags
with a few of 5 pound
chipping bricks, the ones that chafe
the skin when rubbed against you, even
just slightly. throw them
in the river or the bay or fuck
even a ten foot creek. anything
to get them to stop
biting.

dating

after coffee and
forced conversation
a touch
from cold hands

droplet

a knife cuts through flesh
of an apple ripened under a
california sun. the juice slides down
the curves of the apple, slipping
away from her and spreading thin
on the old wooden table below to
be quickly evaporated back
into the atmosphere. some people
call it a cycle, i call it
the birth-life-death game that
everyone loses and everyone wins
and everyone plays whether they like it
or not. the apple halves and falls
seed-side up, raw, exposed, so
tender and womanly. i pick up
one and roll it around in my fingers,
hold it directly in sunlight to brown
and age falsely. make it less delicious, less
perfect than it could be. i take the knife
and halve it again- make the edges brown
like leaves do in the fall- how
the skin of a filipino does after being in the sun
for only a short while. i toss the other half
on the ground and it rolls collecting dirt
and dust, a spray tan for the forgotten
fruit. i walk away with knife in hand and
browned apple pieces in the other. the knife glides against
my thigh, a cut so gentle and smooth that
it goes on noticed until a blood droplet
cools near my ankle. i was told this knife wasn't
too sharp, that there are many sharper ones out there
but today i learned that there is no difference
between sharp and sharper.

christmas eve

a window seat and a stretch
of cracked road below. christmas eve
and a bell boy shuffling bags.
two men cross the street to the bus
stop, wait a few minutes and one parts
ways. their hands slid like in shadows
before one turned and walked off, towards
the park. the one left was bearded and stubby
with an cleft in his chin. sunglasses
and a green beenie, most likely crocheted
by his mother who is either dead or wondering
what her son is doing at that moment.
up the street a store open until 6, the
wine aisle most crowded-- a chardonnay for
2 dollars and 63 cents. a tired check-out
worker who doesn't want to be at work, who
should be at her post-modern apartment with her
post-modern girlfriend making a vegan feast for their
post-modern friends. a quick exchange is made
under florescent lights beating the last
leg of life out of anyone who stands beneath it
for too long. a fortunate escape, two electric doors
slide open and a cold slap to the face. a
woman rushes passed clutching her scarf
to her neck and her bag to her waist. her heel
slips beneath her but she catches the rail before
making a scene. a hotel with an ugly front desk girl
who has the cork screw and nothing to do with her
time. a staircase to a hallway to a room. a room with a
window overlooking the street below. the cold,
hard, street below.

wrapping paper

paper folded over itself into a
japanese fan or an accordian
flattened with a hole
punctured through the center of the pleats
i peek through and see a phantom--
my former self just inches away from where i stand now
i can reach out and touch her, stroke her hair and tell her
it won't be ok but you'll make do anyways--
but i don't. i just stare a few moments longer
and unfold the piece of paper understanding
the concept of time just a little bit more.

the curse

the thought of the cat left behind makes the air ache.
i shudder at the idea of the heaviness of his heart,
it anchors me, a balloon in still water

a boat floats in the distance-- a cold wave from the man steering
almost drowns me, i cough salt into my fist
and throw it over my shoulder

caught in the wind--
at home glass breaks by black paws,
a pause, a deep breath, and a tear shed as memory

gifts

to pass the time i shave
skin off my fingers and try to sew it back on.
when unsuccessful i give it to those who are lacking
an outer layer. they can have mine, but i ask them
not to confuse my boredom with goodwill.

crazy

4 years of hotel work has taught me that crazies like to congregate in the lobby. An overwhelming feeling like a string taut but still managing to knot brings them downstairs, out of the confinements of an overpriced room. Before they came for the window, now they come for the fireplace. All the time it's for the conversation. On my side all I see is endless talking-- all they see is an ear with legs.

But, I'm the one who spends all day with the window, admiring the cut and the way it reflects rainbows onto the floor or the ceiling or even the couch, depending on the time of day. I've warmed my toes next to the fire more than any of them. I'm the one that sits and listens and doesn't say anything in return.

secrets

a can on a string hangs from my window, reflecting the sun back outside. between it and me is an unmade bed with uncovered pillows strewn with ash and cat fur. i reach for the can but can't reach it. it's the only thing i have that ever goes out, leaves this house: my voice and a piece of string. all else inside, mildly warm, and even more hidden.

the letter

the envelope crease, tape, styrofoam peanuts, a folded closed cardboard box, packing tape, a dusty wooden floor, yellow wallpaper, a sink, a bed, a door, a staircase, an abandoned pink house, white trim, uncut grass, a frisbee with a hole in it, a sideways slide, a fence with missing pleats, an open gate, a field of wildflowers, a street in a suburb, an escaped horse on pavement, light-pollution friendly streetlights, a city with the 33 stop lights, a mountain, a bigger city, a bridge, the sea, island, a continent, the world, tiny moon, a planet, another planet, the sun, stars, the galaxy, another galaxy, space


space dear space you space
space space i space space miss space
you period space i space have space forgotten space
what space your space voice space sounds space
like space period space i space have space forgotten space
the space color space of space your eyes period space there
space is space nothing space here space but space empty space
space period space it's space so space quiet space and
space open period space i space wish space i space was space
packed space away space and space forgotten space

bones

i can hear the wind knocking your insides around. it can be a lonely sound, the jostling of your bones against one another, clacking into the debris filled sky like wood. no wonder we feel so close to trees; some have begun putting their ashes with the seeds in the hope of living twice, maybe even longer this time around. the douglas firs fear the holidays: in the winter i burn my bones, embers catch in the corners and smoke fills the room, removes the oxygen

exorcism

my brother has a demon under his skin. carries it around in the hollow nooks of his head, lets him fill the gaps, swallowing the silence that would otherwise keep him sane. he keeps it tucked away with long white pills, i call them his caterpillars. they bloom butterflies in his stomach and their soft wings push it into hiding. it can't stand the colors. he can hear it in the distance; demands echoing off thought, intelligible. sometimes i can hear the demon breathing when i sleep, when i open my eyes i see my brother's silhouette against the wall, chest rising and falling heavy. his desire to kill is not his own, and neither is his body, possibly his soul.

i want your skin/self-loathing

i.
mine is scarred and diseased, fleas find home in the crevices, drink my blood like wine and ride my stretchmarks like a river. i can see them in their tiny rafts with their tiny wineglasses living only because i'm living; i'd like to kill them at the source. around my ankles it's warfare; they leave land mines that turn into boils, scars. when i'm lying down i'm free game, most of the time they struggle climbing my thighs.


ii.
i can't tell the difference between herpes and flea bites sometimes. the doctor told me they were flea bites but the scrape came back positive. i try to scrub them off but they just bleed, flaking off when they want to; sometimes days, sometimes weeks. it wouldn't be too bad if people didn't treat me like a leper, it only hurt the first time, like sex is supposed to.

iii.
skin falls off at all angles leaving a paper trail when i don't want people to know where i have been. i tear up mirrors for fun, use the edges to peel off the itching layers. even my skin hates itself-- builds a new unsatisfactory layer before the last one is dead. it's equivalent to pushing it out a window.

selfish

she took out her teeth. replaced them with rocks. gnashed them against one another to watch the sparks fly in the mirror. she kissed her brother, one fell into his palm and he rolled it around on his fingertips. he put it in his pocket. the blood in her mouth was ignored, it tasted like cotton candy, reminded her of going to the amusement park and walking through the haunted house with her first girlfriend.

her teeth were kept in a mason jar above her bed. from time to time she would hold them in her two palms and lick them to remember what her mouth once tasted like. oil, metal, vinegar and death, she decided. she kept them up there for safe keeping and to scare the kids away. the only problem with all of this was that she stopped smiling to keep her new teeth in. every happy moment was given to someone else and pocketed for safe keeping.

one miserable day, she sat in the darkness of her room to keep herself from smiling, to keep her teeth to herself. she was looking at a book about violins and chuckled, inhaled a black rock that had been jagged over time from the gnashing. She choked: trying to spit it up only cause it to rip apart her esophagus, an unfamiliar blood trickled up her throat, dark and tasting of rat poison. when they found her body it was covered in dead rats that had eaten away at her skin. it was considered a suicide.

avoidant

ask

time best spent

skin pops & fingerpaint,
a bedroom turned patriotic, exotic,
psychotic. chug a beer & choke
on bullets: a meal best taken warm.

pull intestines through the mouth, inch
by inch, tap your foot to a four count--
cymbals clash, symbols clash. a house
built on graveyards. bones. broken
souls come through the floor boards,
grab at toes. hang

your head over the edge of the bed,
sweep the dust from your mind. let the blood
rush out, spill through the cracks
and into the basement. another flood. another mopping.
another day wasted.

to tell the difference

the best thing
that happened
to me today
is that
i didn't
get hit
by a train.
Or maybe, that's
the worst.

transplant

remember that time
i removed your organs
and replaced them with mine?
i wore your skin for months after.
nobody noticed the difference.

confusion

i don't know
if i miss you
or i miss
your dick in my mouth

metamorphosis

my cocoon
is made of fleas
and liars

i emerge
with new bumps
that itch and bleed

psoriasis scales shed--
skin defined
by fleas and disease

for: ben

ask

impossible

on your back, watching a cloud cover the sun, you realize you can't picture the future like you once could

sides

a fist fight
between what's right
and what's righter

growl

she approaches him with stealth on her
heels. her gaze froze him, she
circled him twice. nearly nuzzled
to his ear he could feel the warmth
of her breath against his neck.

perspective

live life like
looking through a big, bay
window, double paned

misanthropoet

i prefer the company of myself
over the company of others

i prefer the company of music
over the company of myself

like winnie the pooh

we stand on a bridge
on an overpass
surrounded by water

instead of sticks
we watch cars
race away beneath us

i break the silence
with a question:
"if you could choose a flavor
for cum, what would you pick?
I would pick honey."

radioactive rabbits

to eat and eat and eat for
pleasure. hedonism turned into
rabbit shit-- melted the plants.
a body pool: how many bodies
do you think we will find? Buy in:
20 bucks. a chase ensued, and
we all returned
empty handed
and happy.

bitten

at work, waiting
for my clothes to dry.
my feet smell because
they ache. my stomach
aches because i
have not eaten.
they tell me
the basement is haunted
but i go down there
anyways, spirits
or no spirits, i need
to get the fleas
out of my bedding
so i can have
a restful sleep,
not worrying about
my body and losing
blood.

pt 1. word pt. 2 definitions

word

someone said
they could
sum me
up in
one word:
vagina


definition

a muscular
tube found
in females

the sheath
around the
base of
a leaf

a wet
dark hole
for an
erect penis
or a
couple fingers
or something
else entirely

the place
where babies
come from

flaps of
skin and
a smell
that won't
go away

unless you
are really
old or
really young
it gushes
blood monthly

if you
ask a
young girl
she will
call it
her no-
no spot

if you
ask a
young boy
he will
say he
doesn't know

the space
that fills
the area
between my
torso and
my legs

the space
that fills
the area
between my
left and
my right

the space
that hasn't
been filled
in 8 months
and counting

red light/green light

there's a stop light
five blocks east of here
with a faulty sensor

you can sit
in the right lane
for hours, waiting
for the light to change

two options arise:
wait for another car to join you
(who knows how long that will take)

or make it change
yourself. This might require
driving around the block.

rejection:

when metal moves
away from skin,
leaving scars or holes
where it has been

liar

i promised myself
i would never
write another poem
about you

dreams

i wish i could
wish myself
to death

hope so hard
my heart stops
this painful beating
in my chest

forget it

i take your fantasy and wring it
wildly over my chest, drink what
you had thought was yours

it tastes of saline and false unicorn
tea-- i mean false reality

if i hadn't taken the truth through the wash with me
i doubt you'd listen, i doubt you'd believe
me anyways.

displacement

i published
a poem
about you

i gave
the book
to another man

he really likes
it. he thinks
it's about him

work drunk

the taste bites my tongue
overhead, a fan spins
the bug bites on my legs bubble
and pop. the pus runs clear.

train station

september winds widen the air space
between my house and your backyard

i find myself cutting
the grass, trying to incite your allergies

i wipe your sneeze off my sleeve
look to the sun and breathe deep

too often i reach out, over
the fence and pluck leaves from your almond tree

cup them to my nose, eyes closed

my middle name is also eva or eve

curved fingers dipped in gold gripping plums
like palms purpled from the beating of strong winds and summer sun--
when pressed to lips they shiver and bleed flavor of shadows and breaking down liver
i carve a bucket from my thigh and let you drop them in so as not to bear the weight
my excuse is your arms are twigs and my legs are branches

licking the skins of figs the leaves leave shapes burned to our bellies
your gray wisps whip my lips and i tell you my sin
my secret of the snake and how i starved it to death
bagged it and buried it beneath the orchid that no longer blooms and is home
to a garden spider

no number

i can’t remember the last time
you called me. as each day passed i threw
a poppy seed on the ground and now there are so many
i don’t even believe i can
count that high.

sobriety

hands flailing skyward, to hang from the moon
would be ideal

the water coats my face, below a mysterious
darkness beckons

the surface breaks with a struggle, september
disguised as cement

a craving for a towel and clean clothes, the shoreline
miles in any direction

awaiting me: sunshine, the sensation of
sand in between each toe

a place to rest my weary arms, a hair tie to keep
everything else within sight

meditation

a walk in the hillside exposes a fallen cedar. it erodes under a crest of light and a pile of pine needles. spiders nest in the holes built into the spine. southside: 3 mushrooms absorb what little moisture is left sitting in the soil under a fern. a shadow cast eastward awakes the owls while the women in town tuck their children into their beds.

vicodin

sore ankles support a sack
of skin, scaly and saggy
and pulling on the bones

bent from the inside out--
intestines tangled up in the chest
alone like the tree-line

my attention is elsewhere
and i can no longer feel
the pain

an elephant never forgets

a memory crossed between
now and then, soaked in saline
solution to take off the dust

when i was
when i was
when i wasn't

like a ghost

(ask to read)

schadenfreude

a certain type of tongue flux,
we called it. a geriatric type wavering,
a holding on to a life long dead.
i tried to sip you one more time. loose lips
grip your hips and i laugh
and call you an endomorph-
your flesh curving out between my fingers. we are the types
that hold on only to
prove we like the other one less. to prove
that we aren't the only one
without a pulse.

dream analysis

the cat dreams of mice in a meadow in switzerland. at least, of what the human thinks is switzerland; the cat thinks it’s grass.

depersonalization

an injection of hand sweats shakes quick heartbeats
red face: when you can’t tell the difference
between love lust
and anxiety. i am everted
heart facing out and my face
facing in. it beats to no one
and i strain to see through the dark.

tight-rope tippy-
toed eyes closed thumbs guiding
hands guiding heart
guiding head: an impersonal thought
stops

traced in light--
3 AM hiatus won’t let us

i take a bite: spit drips
puddles high on your thigh

called a rainbow jump
in dream-time--you’re here one minute
gone the next