12.16.20
FOX.HYDE
I’m a breath that keeps repeating itself
and I’m okay with that
that’s the tannin in your wine
same polyphenols binding to your proteins
staining your teeth
more proof of white smiles hiding the night before
must be the moonlight who plays tug-o-war with the tides of our animal
capricious, revealing, or playful
your choice
unzipping the human from the palms to feel what voice feels like
same way bare-feet are can be iris and retina
dirt tans a cooling coat
callouses passions’ bicep
Author: admin
12.26.20
FOOL.S.GOLD
the average head weighs 11 pounds.
that’s already enough weight to carry on your shoulders;
surely you must know; it’s okay to
put the other weight down
the world can balance itself without you, I promise
I know this, because I’ve tasted the fruits of your garden
the one you tilled on ground
everyone called barren
you will always be the stubborn piece in her puzzle
and I hope you know
while she sees you missing
I know you’re present unwrapped from the confines of their shame
the piece that doesn’t fit
because it refused to mold
into well formed generational trauma
rejoice every time you re-shape your human
most people only live one life.
imagine that;
using Christmas as a coping mechanism,
wearing holiday sweaters like suits of armor — those who walk the straight line, because they know a round earth will guide them back home; will live a dry and tired plot-line with little to no character development.
Now
Go ahead.
Come at me with those eyes you thought were too much.
Swallow me whole.
12.20.20
GARFIELD
I’m still trying to determine the difference
between different, and unusual
Grey Gardens are unusual
I guess that’s what happens when luxury is your birthright
the weight of so much gold bends the mind
it re-shapes the senses
Like I re-shape her hair
Curls and lipstick
lashes blinking lust into my spine
cracked, wanting to bookmark how her dress
highlights every curve used to hiding behind collar shirts and trousers
this, this I treasure in my my my
memory chest
a different look to the same eyes
unusual would be giving my number to a man with too much nerve
to roll back his car
at our exposed thighs
how fucking dare you
claim right to my attention
tongue hanging out your mouth – more canine than human
unlike you, feline
who wondered in tonight.
different, or unusual?
you turned my home neverland
a place that time forgot
or maybe, a place holding it’s breath,
hoping time wont stumble upon it.
It’s all a question of imagination. Our responsibility begins with the power to imagine. And I try to dream responsibly, but I couldn’t have dreamed you into existence. Because to love, so purely, so quickly the same being that shuts your throat closed sounds more nightmare than dream. Whoever you are; not unusual nor different. The same togetherness of destruction that comes knocking at my door.
You are proof, that sometimes Kismet just happens.
12.19.20
BOOT.S.TRAPS
for someone who holds honesty on such a high shelf
he sure does
a piss poor job at estimating
his own height
I don’t mean this to be puzzling
not like squares your try to fill
wires on your brain cross fire between
shame, math, and impact painted skin
and yes it’s a lie
coloring it with the “pretty” answer
doesn’t make it less un-lie
to illustrate; try telling you’re mirror
you’re “okay.”
the edges of his discomposure give her away
jitterbug mania refusing to make eye contact.
I want to shake the shame out of you.
Fragility, in my opinion, is worn best with a coat of discernment.
You wear yours like a shadow.
Stop for a second and consider how a shadow feels about it. Your own, maybe. It may harbor a bit of an inferiority complex. I know, if I were a shadow, I wouldn’t want to be half of what I should be.
All that too say.
My eyes have seen enough violence, to have you stare at them while speaking half-truths. Especially when you refuse to see, their earnest.
12.15.20
PANDORA
ive tucked in many my fair share of life-lint
feral moments so valuable you never share them with anybody
i’ve never tucked in shame
my body relating less and less to the body of those i love
afraid of become so raw that
one day ill smile to show the veins in my teeth
it knits the tongue to the palate
my tongue, that it is. She’s a skiddish little thing;
never could get past the neckties they made of her friends
when they gave these monsters words
she knows it also means giving them a voice
spent so long washing that country off my body
to find its city sculpt my heartframe
it’s infrastructure map my memory
etch my eyesight
how i love the passionfruit’s tart almost as much as I love it’s sweet
some people might think it a curse
but I find my country’s lesson a blessing
to refuse to un-love the things that kill you
12.14.20
GARFIELD
and after cleaning the mucus off the walls
cleaning the fallen leaves from the closet
dusting baseboards and throwing away the rot in the fridge
I figured I’d find “my home” again.
Instead, I find new smells, better lighting, less clutter, more calm.
the person I was before the leeches stuck to these walls
is not the same person I am once I finally burned them off
that feels good.
FOX.HYDE
12.13.20
the right choice will never taste bitter
so we shake off debris from our jackets
knowing it’s not new love we’re afraid up
more picking the scars of old wounds
maybe we’re too old too old to wish on shooting stars
but we’re just old enough to fight for the things we care about
doing it in a way
that makes the space we see with our eyes
join the air in our lungs
extending the hand of compassion
forget tolerance
tolerance implies some disgruntled patience
when I sigh
I want the root of our causes to sip in every drop of nuanced complexity we’ve tangled in our hearts
we all have demons making eyes in the mirror
and we live in a word
designed for monsters under the bed
every word ever spoken is made of the same breath I breath
so breath
breath, love, keep looking forward
look madness in the face
let it know
it too has a place in purgatory
GARFIELD
12.12.20
so what did you learn?
trusting the raw before clipping the hedges
turning umbrellas inside out doesn’t summon monsoons
and everyone, including you
can make typhoons out of voice boxes
it’s easy to pity muted gratitude
one could argue,
as easy to justify anger.
accountability goes both ways
if you’re to learn from this
humble yourself
PANDORA
12.6.20
imagine you’re graphite
and you’ve just been graced with erasers fingernails
that’s what it feels like
it feels like anxiety, like worry,
worry which is paralyzing.
Now, worry about paralysis.
Imagine your body becoming foreign, even hostile. Legs you’ve known so long and well are somehow there, but living out their life without you. Poof. Gone. Like magic.
Which… at least in this one instance is far worse than logic. Leave it to magic to re-fracture and re-numb the limbs after a perfect night. A few second’s disruption, and it was unhinged again. Like it had never left at all. That’s magic’s attitude. No harm done. As if it was as simple as a few minutes paralysis.
Shocking? Truth is not fully explosive, but purely electric. You don’t blow the world up with the truth. You shock it into motion. Or in my case, the pleading hope for motion to stay.
I can’t think of anything more alienating.
—
Edit a few days later:
It’s hard not to look back at that with optimism.
I know, old me would scorn my UN-realistic, unsympathetic cheeriness. Hear me out though; I’m a breath that doesn’t mind repeating itself. Living proof that sometimes you plan a funeral, but a birthday party shows up instead.
GARFIELD
12.5.20
linen forts are as much blanket screams of romantic inclination, as they are last ditch efforts to disprove my tendency towards an inherit avoidance for these types of things.
So, wont you do yourself a favor and shut up about it? You, like everything else, will grow, get old, and die. So take your new romantic tendencies in stride. Put them in your pocket, polish them a place on your skin. You either learn to idealize them, or you let them weigh a hole in your pocket.
You’ve changed. It’s okay if you didn’t see it coming. Probably for the best anyway. Pride would have blocked the door to momentum.
Don’t blame pride. She’s the gatekeeper between the world, and our most core. In this scene she’s just doing her job.
Sometimes, however. Growth doesn’t need core’s permission (or acknowledgment for that matter) to mold our new skin. She sneaks in through a window, leaves footprints on the walls, drinks all your tea and leaves the soda behind. It isn’t until we find ourselves picking rose petals from the garden, that we realize there’s been a guest in our heartscapes.
Pride here, can do nothing but look back and guard its new.