Untitled

There are clinical terms
That I could use
To describe the things I am feeling
Just like you can take a pin
And slide it through the flesh
Of an insect, an animal
And mount it on a board
Take a clean white paper
And carefully label it
Preserve it under glass
A stagnant moment in time
Freed from context
And easily digestible

I've seen scorpions in resin
Dangling from leather cords
A decorative motif
To dress the necks
Of rebellious youths
But like the skulls on leather jackets
Or in baroque paintings
They are only a reminder
The suggested recollection
Of the existence of poison
It will never instill a shuddering panic
As would a hard dry carapace
The feel of parchment paper husks
Shifting against the softness
Of a woman’s breast
A coiled tail
Above a beating heart

So while I would gladly provide
Something clean and neat
With thick cardstock
And leveled corners
Bathed under clear slick gloss
I simply have no words
That equal the weight on my chest
This pressure against my form
And a shifting against myself
And frankly I am adverse
To the feeling of pins

Untitled

I am a waterfall
I spill out over
The island of my bed
Which in turn unravels
In sheets and blankets
Cascading onto the floor
A thing which in turn
Is currently represented
By murky pools of black void
The conceit of carpet
Existing only but for
Object permanence
A memory
Of feeling and stability
Beneath my feet
The black out curtains
Consume the rest
Drink up all but a sliver
That bathes my world in blue
Not enough to see by
But enough to be reminded
Of the abyss

Reflections

Standing in a bathroom

The muted notes of horns

Slips through the plywood

Unnoticed

Had I not noticed it anyway

Instead of a mirror

There is a painting of a snake 

A stylized cobra

Dreaming of skateboards

And motorcycle jackets

So instead I stare at this

Pink Himalayan Salt Stone

That could 

In some sense

Provide for a bit of reflection

Just not the kind I need

But mostly

It doesn't really work at all

Nothing here

Is really what was intended

 

It's not really

What anyone wants

In the corner

There next to the door

I see ants

Swarming over something

That I can't quite make out

When I get closer

I see the corn kernel body

Of a dying beetle

Collapsed in a divot in the concrete floor

Shifting one of its remaining legs

Unable to get out

And I want to do something
But I can't seem to move
So instead with one arm

I find the door

Pinnings

They fall for me when I am up

When I am a whirling rapturous thing

A dream they can cling to upon waking

A whispered sense in their depths that suggests

Magic is a thing

That could actually exist

An implied but unspoken promise

Dripping with what might be

Seductive candy coated insinuations

Of things to come

They yearn for something

That can't be pinned down

Or neatly stored in small keepsake boxes

A life outside of the chaste treasured totems

In scrapbooks and photo albums

They want to be brought to flame

For something that inverts their insides

And redeems them

Of their acceptance

Absolves them of settling

And of their resignation

Under the weight of could have beens

But a map is not a doorway

And I am not Atlas

So there will be times

When the world is to much to bear

And I won't have enough light

To ignite the stars

So when reality crashes in

In it's inevitable rising tide  

Carrying routine and disappointment

Rhythm and rote

Then even the afterimage will fade

And in the end they leave me

when I am down