When I was nine years old,

I was honored for a poem I wrote about the moon.

Back then, being able to write poetry meant you were going places

But when your age has doubled and your pen hasn’t stopped,

people exchange “places” for “nowhere.”

They say things like “This kid has nothing else going for her.”

And they’re right.

She must be a deadbeat, a junkie,

or just another slop with a blog.

Write her off and pay her no attention.

She’d look a lot cooler if this were New York City

but this is fucking Phoenix.

Where lizards like her go to burn up and out

and dry their scales

as if they didn’t know their roofs were just magnifying glasses.

Split my age in half and I would be amazed

of the closest thing we have to a city these days-

Gaping, mouth wide shut,

trying to compare the dimples on the moon with my birthmarks.

And even then, I wouldn’t feel the need to write a poem about it.

Now its hazy greys remind me of you.

When you light, you’re doing nothing but

throwing another block into a wood stove.

Sometimes I see pockets in the smoke that escapes you,

and they resemble the flannel of my grandfather’s shirts.

If he were here, I’m sure he’d pull out his pipe and speak no words.

But I was never so wise,

and nightly I lose a fight to resist the urge

to describe your own charred lips to you.

My figure is thin and my disposition shady and

It took me ten seconds after I thought that to

realize I had referenced Eminem

and five more to hate myself for it.

My mother raised me on disco so it’s no wonder I feel dead

and who said a poem about sadness

can’t laugh at itself every so fucking often.

Thanks for picking up the phone and waiting

after I ripped to shreds the film script I began writing three weeks ago

and stuttered over and over

“Just let me fucking die here”

and you’d hear my shakes slap my cheek to the phone like a pair of cymbals

because every meltdown needs percussion

I like when people know not to think they can save me

but instead try to hold me together like

two splinters of wood when waiting for glue to solidify.

Ignore my stutters when I read my poems

because it’s the only thing I have to my name that isn’t backed by cash.

Sometimes I blink my eyelids until they erupt and

make my bones float to the surface of my exterior.

With a tick

tick

tick

I tell you my body is no car bomb or magic trick

and wait for your interest to wane.

I am sitting here

thanking the stars for even just a moment to meditate in your armspan

I want you to hold me as though I am not even there

as though your arms are clasped around yourself but you’re holding out for something in between

I want to hold you like a molotov cocktail

and gently shake but never throw you

because I want to be able to contain you when you combust

and catch your glass in my collarbones when your chest shatters

and afterwards

let me patch up your fists with my own tee shirt

I hope you wouldn’t mind

if I gave your hands some company

palm to palm

sink my fingers in against the precipice

and clasp them

interlock them like a makeshift ship bow

you can steer me and man the sails

because I don’t fucking know how

You don’t need any saving

but I would gladly throw you my hips and a life vest on a whim

even if you weren’t struggling to swim.

there is no greater indicator of love

than talon etches upon one’s back

for a love so holy need not

be graced by the wings of angels

but rather of the dark

and the movement of gemini lips

Our chemical imbalances make a most lethal molotov cocktail when we fuck,

so wrap us up in yellow police tape and turn us in to the pigs,

because together, we’re fucking dangerous.

Every kiss is sex abridged
and we speak in volumes
tenth and twentieth editions
translate it from our native tongues
to a language etched in heavy breaths
and breadths of ecstasy sans pills.

I love you like

I never knew I existed-

as though I were just another thought

propelled aimlessly in space

but you exist

and you are all I’ve ever known of,

for your existence, darling,

is the tediously typewritten courier script

upon these parchment eyes of mine

and without you

I would be remiss of a story to echo,

and you and I

are two equally ripe parasympathetic orchards

and I will love your field of orange trees

even when the plot is barren and wilting,

for you

have yet to desert the apple trees

despite their roots being termite ridden

and susceptible to collapse at the

slightest of picking.

But I hope that we end up

snug in the same wicker basket,

bruised and seasoned though we may be.

We are snapdragons in a psychopath’s sweater

and you are the patch of oak

that was harvested to become this

single sheet,

and I will love you no less than that.

No less than your sacrifices,

no less than all the seasons you’ve survived

and all the stars in the galaxy that

aren’t really stars

but rather macroscopic beings

and they will never love you

as much as I do.

Because I will love you like foreign

but all too familiar beings

watch our every movement,

for they cannot produce love

and they look to us humans to do it for them and keep them alive in its absence.

And despite the hate our planet feeds them

you and I will quench their hearts

with so much affection

that they will be able to live for ages.

Let us teach it to them.

Let us warn them of the dangers

of living without a “you.”

I am grateful most of all that you have stayed thus far,

despite knowing my most gruesome, innermost secrets.

Like that I hate palm trees,

and that is going to make it very difficult to honeymoon one day.

But I take comfort in knowing that if I proposed we save our frequent flier miles and seek solace on the moon a la Melies,

you’d at least play along.

And that is all I could ever ask for.

And when people ask how we are doing

I chuckle and tell them that you tolerate me.

But I know that it is more than that,

because if so your contented sighs would

instead be rolled eyes,

and I haven’t seen any of those yet.

I’m not just missing them,

because when I was five

I trained myself to be a secret agent,

and I passed the visual perception test

I scribbled onto a napkin with flying colors.

I like you because you would have been proud of me for that.

I could have given myself a desk job

and have been proud

because your smile is the only medal these days

that isn’t made from plastic.

And maybe you stick around

because you were never a Bond girl

and I never will be.

You handle my fickle passions with ease

and you let me write poems about you

when you are asleep on the couch.

Or at least you let me get away with it after the fact.

I’ll always tell you that I like the cut of your gib

even though I don’t even know what that phrase means entirely.

But in my ignorance, there is a purpose to every word I speak to you.

And I know that when I cross my fingers in anticipation,

hoping you’ll say, “We’ve sure got a good thing, kid,”

you’ll always follow through.

‘Cause I’ve got a face only a mother could love

and poetry she can never read

and you have a hump atop your back

that sisyphus himself could admire.

As far as I can see,

we make a pretty swell team.

Boy, you have got issues.

And I know sometimes you feel aimless

But I think you are the most remarkable being

to walk on two legs

even when you are knocked down to your knees

and crawling on four.

I promised myself I would never fall in love, and I haven’t.

Sand is a burden to grasp onto.

Some days I find I am no greater than a disappointment to myself.

Despite back pats and smiles back from those I pass

I feel as though my destiny escapes me.

Limp and numb, I once felt there was no one to turn to,

Solely to call upon  the hands of fate like Manos.

But if there’s anything I learned from Midas

it’s that in order to make your world golden

you need only look to your own fingertips.

So tomorrow I will wake up to a self-imposed monarchy.

Who needs democracy when you’ve got debauchery?

I’ll rule the lands with my hand clenched in iron fist,

because bronze brothers and bitches just need someone to fuck with.

My kingdom houses similes and bitter assonance,

pill poppers and street walkers,

infants and elders,

space cowboys and boogers-

and there’s room for plenty more.

I will never forget that when my mind inundates

with my most primitive needs

I don’t need anyone to hold me together.

I was beamed up to the top

and I’m still waiting to ride lightspeed to the bottom

in a not so Grandmaster flash.

I am still trying to figure out what’s right

because I haven’t been able to propose

whether to build bridges or burn them.

I suppose some things will always be subject to fleeting whims.

But being a queen begs for more than wielding double edged swords.

You won’t be remembered for your marksmanship but

you will be immortalized by the trajectory of your footprints.

So I’ll propose my first decree.

Your land is sacred.

Not too holy to be shown or too modest to be compressed,

be he prince or pauper- a look is just a loan but

Never let a jester define you.

Part two-

good things come in pairs.

In this kingdom, second thoughts are taken for granted

so take second chances with enough grains of salt

to build a thousand pillars behind you.

Three.

When you take the throne,

Don’t ever think about how you got there.

Veer from asking if your father would like the kid

he never gave a chance to.

Your inheritance is yours and no one else’s.

Four.

Never pretend that you are too lofty

to cherish the jingle of change in others’ purses.

and pick-pocket yourself at any expense.

You will always be commonfolk.

Five.

No one may take your crown.

Six.

Scrap any decisions no longer necessary and proper

because the future isn’t set.

It’s just guesswork.

I have set forth rules to be breached

and have only my soul to be impeached,

should I go searching for something more sacred

than my own free will.

Be warned-

One day you will doubt your worth.

You may fear that your throne is made of paper mache,

yearn for the approval of the land’s acclaimed appraisers.

But when you do,

simply look down,

brush the diamonds from your breast,

and connect the freckles in your chest
like you are mapping foreign territory.

When it comes time to shed your robe, remember this-

your heart will never resemble anything but a fist.

And if one day I should be overthrown

I hope it was because my wall was just barely too weak

for an army of trumpets marching outside.

So raise your hand to your brow and bow,

all hail- the almighty power… of the self.

Last night I was thinking about sentimentality.

How I wanna write a poem dedicated to those

who have always been there

and stayed.

Never picked a cup up from the coffee table

but instead just sat

eyes closed

clutching doilies while I ranted

to their faces.

As much as I appreciate that

sometimes I think my life is dependent

on those a little less concrete.
I’m thinking I should firmly glue a warning label

to my forehead that says

“Caution- I’ve just met you.”

So this one goes out to you-

bright-haired beauty in a Cowboy Bebop tee shirt—

Spike motherfucking Spiegel, to be exact—

at the show last November

who had the guts to slip me a ripped piece of paper

when I had been dancing and forgot what

other humans looked like when still.

She had written,

“You’re the prettiest grrrl here.”

G triple r l,

I wish I was able to read

the last few digits of your number.

Your name sounded real sweet for a bar code.

And you likely won’t remember a gal like me,

but if you read this,

I want you to know that I went home and bookmarked

my favorite work by Albert Camus with your handwriting

and somehow, things felt a little less absurd.

This one goes out to the boy

who, when a lesser one left,

stayed up to talk to me in wee-est of morning hours

until my tears turned thoughtful.

I gave you a silly nickname and you

regretted accidentally pointing out the fact that

if you exaggerate my name’s pronounciation

it sounds vaguely like “fellatio”

and I laughed like that was the first time

I had ever heard that.

It wasn’t.

I should have told you that the cacophony

of gentle cocoons that are your eyebrows

made my hands feel small

which is a lot to say

because I have long fingers.

My mom did too, and so did my grandmother,

and for a moment, you made me forget my lineage.

And somehow you slipped into my most ethereal parts

because one night I dreamt I was cradling

two caterpillars in a woven scarf

and I wasn’t ashamed of sleeping in metaphor.

Or how about the boy at UC Berkeley,

who, when my team was sleeping,

saw I was struggling to carry

a black bag of poster boards

after three days of competition had worn my arms thin.

You offered to carry my burden upon your shoulder

and walked me to the concession so I could procure

some well deserved Skittles.

I would have tipped my hat when you left

but I wasn’t wearing one

so instead I sat and ate my candy.

And when I was done, smiled and tried to

draw your face on the inside of the wrapper.

Your eyes were wide and your mouth was thin

but according to my math grades

I never liked proper proportions.

I slipped it into my luggage tag

so that you might be there

to carry me on the flight back home.

You looked like a “Charlie” but I am sure your name

was August Rudolph or some shit.

This one is for all you human cement trucks

who came and went in the night

but fixed my streets when I wasn’t looking.

To those who confused me,

prompted me to call up Guillermo del Toro

and ask him to direct me through Pansexual’s Labyrinth.

To those as fluid as dreams and my sexuality,

sailing in gondolas through my thoughts.

I am writing this letter with no postage,

no name, nor return address

but I promise I am still praying that the message

will reach each of you one day.

You don’t have to touch someone

to feel their presence upon the page.

I’m sorry that you cannot walk away

without a poem Scotch-taped to your ass.

These days,

I am more afraid of you

caressing the veins in my wrist

than pressing against my fingertips-

as though your sebum could soak through

flood my receptors

and make me more like you.

Meanwhile,

you’ll float on-

drunk off your piss poor conscience

and three shards of a bottle.

If you’re looking, I’m still stuck

untouched in a bar

foaming at the seams like

a sentimental lager.

I hope you’ll take this truth

and you’ll swish it and spit it,

and feed it to yourself when

the breakfast grits run empty,

scattered on the floor and

embedded in your kneecaps.

It’s about time we learned our lessons-

I’m glad you finally might see that.

As of lately I’ve been retracing

the paths of our most frothy nights.

The ones that kept

Walgreens in business,

developing once memorables

into disposables,

scribbling on Polaroids “too much”

or “too little,”

to even begin to try and

identify each celluloid-written grimace.

When the sun arises

thou mayest seek repentance

if your words can flood the rivers

and grow the crops.

You can let your sacred blood spill

if it fills an apology

and not an autobiography-

if it prompts you to ask yourself

where I have led you.

I wish you would have taught me

to dot my i’s

the night you etched the words

upon my chest-

“(darling)

welcome to

prohibition.”

Fingertips callused

from exhaustion of affection,

Never understanding how one 

can touch another and

evoke no connection.

Like the rubbish in the dumpster,

I am all too easily disposed of.

I am just waiting to be thrown

into the furnace by you.

On these days where my intentions stray awry,

exceeding the limits I have established thus far,

I ask-

“Would you deem me more impoverished in these realms

to have blood in my pen and none in my veins?

Or simply an object to pity?

World, is it so monstrous to let my devices rot

an inch from my fingertips?

Should there be something said

of having everything to say—

or nothing— and decide against?

Do we, unimpassioned,

let the film expose itself?

Or need we find reverie and

take inspiration from a lack thereof?”

And all too often

I fall short of my own insight.

I find I am diminishing myself further in your universe

with each passing day.

She wanted to love you like a poetic zine

read you

close you

and never touch you again

your pages fading unkempt

but she still owned you

picked you upright from the shelf

and you prayed there would be no

farewell to arms every time

she sunk you into kissing binges

and made you count the threaded hymns

woven into the sheets

you used to cover your lower half

as though it were still sacred.

Life is a speakeasy

it isn’t a bitch

To this day I’ve been

pestering fate without

ample time or significance.