obvious poetry warning. these all were found in my notes app; i feel miserable and ill so I'm putting them here instead because i think they are (middlingly) good. and vanity, of course. each break is a new poem; no titles as a rule, except one where it makes sense.

reckless feckless and fie
are the sins that float cross mind and
eye
but worry not o friend o mine
i am not to indulgence inclined
i will take a blade to my shame
watching moths flicker to that puttering,
seeping flame
i'll strip the yellow fat from the bones in
my armoire
mixing it into paste, with the sugary
light of a star
and smear it on aching feet and hips
and the moths will flutter to my lips
crawling trusting into my gullet...

the world is a tangle of objectives. i am
a being made of lightning and silence,
tearfully confined
into puddles;
memory of what is,
reflection encased
wet flesh.
i would cry for solidity. let me turn back towards the city
my city in sulfur.

wake up in the morning, lower back
hard candy. the window, the porch;
beautiful grey of mist and turned off
streetlamps. toaster filament -
wonderful toaster filament. the angels
sing the praise of slippers
untouched by room temperature.

when the moon is empty, he looks like
us.
but cut him -- watch the pearls drip,
drop!
grey strange lanky, he holds
an inside all squish shine and splurch,
all opal;
he is filled with
bone-gems you're dying to grind
against your teeth --
oh, you are game, but so is he.

i can plug in numbers and i know the
answers will make sense, even if i mix
up the numbers occasionally. it is a
process, like knitting or washing your
hair. meticulous, full of care. ada
lovelace smiles down from heaven onto
my carpal tunnel. when i start to go off
to dreams, my eyes are projectors; they
cast equations of light upon the dark
walls, and i look at (through)(with) my
problems. solve for want. solve for
flaw. the sleepless soul takes up its
pencil and makes a list of knowns and
unknowns.

july wind. july wind, like the promise of
lovers. redole the air! gird her in gold
and unripe limes! hold the locust swarm
in your hand. you lustful ant, losing
you sincerity amidst the pavement. follow
the smell of jasmine warm on your
skin. follow, flow, flowing, flowering,
lowerin, leering, lying, laying.
rest in the offcast myrtle. let it soak the
sweat, deliquesce in the dirt. passion
can be quiet, bigger than two people, or
even one.

i fix my posture on the kitchen floor. my
spine unrolls, the probosccis of some
heavenly parasite and
into reality i creep. oh monster!
oh puppet!
i let the smell of paprika shake my feet
into dancing; i let the smooth light wash
my shaking hands;
wonderfully warm as a chill; tender as a
terror, a moon beats at the back of my
eyes for release.

god is the lady stinking up the place,
she sweats nicotine. her skin is a vellum
drum without its ring. you look at her,
cover your mouth -- wonder why,
against nature! the bitch doesn't die.
my offering is the bird-sized dress, bright
yellow and seven dollars square.
"tell me how," i say. "how to build a bigger table,
be the low buzz of cicadas when none are there
be hated without hating, not die bitch die,
live on enough and three meals."
and as she stays silent i say "if it's too much, tell me this:
how do i treat life like the hero
treats the unsuspecting lover
like something i will stop by for but never stay,
a door without significance which
appears without applause."
god smacks her dry lips over yellow teeth and tells me if
I know enough to ask, there's no way I'll ever learn.

living in poesies most cannot see
nettle by nettle i feast around the trees
and in my dreams i am learning
(finally!) how to shriek
in loving horror belligerant ecstasy
i can taste the flutter of papery wings i
want to live in that melody
i want some purple, sweetsmoke voice
to whisper me
the swallow's song. the fig rots on the cement
like a kiss and so will i
in honeydewed nasturtiums i will float
like a fish among landlocked lilypads and
the butterflies will betray each other
for a pinch of salt.

i. (looking in)
look at her, that little girl. happy
to sit with family, happy to be
cherished, steal dregs of
soda with impish smiles and hands
barely bigger than the smallest flowers.
she resists loudly what she cannot
tolerate: sitting in lines and orders she
does not understand and meanness.
she looks like one who wanders into
dens of wolves unscathed - little
angelette, hero of every lullaby! she
makes pretend her toes speak amongst
themselves and her back garden is as wide
as love is. i wonder if i will have this
same feeling when i am old, and my
memory is an eft too slippery and
fragile to grasp tightly. i wonder if i will
say, again, look at that girl, she looks so
happy. who is she?
ii. (looking out)
do you have any good stories,
and what are they about
and why?
do you have any dessert?
i want to clean my room again and make it pretty but
i don't want to do it alone. i want
to go on the swings again. i had a bad dream
the world melted like wax under heat,
like pumpkin guts on our biggest
kitchen spoon.
is it nice to be older?
are your friends nice to you?
when people are not nice i want to
run or worse. so they can be nice without me.
i like to laugh, do you?
do you like flowers, or gifts, or other people?
sometimes i feel all by myself. i learned how
to say the difficult words but everyone else
was outside watching the sunset, and i had to go tell them.
they said that's nice.
where is my mom?
where is my dad?
i fell down the stairs in my sleep, i forgot what i was dreaming
do you know where everyone went?
are they playing without me?

transformed into the merry pallbearer,
the leader-away, sole parader
i hold you in the crook of my elbow, flat
on my wrist, obscured in paper
wrappings and
like an infant, you are still warm
i imagine that the pulse of blood shakes
some not yet forgotten
electric memory within your too-soft
bodies;
that while i lead you to the next world,
the supple jaws of the serpent, you are
still alive in my arms.